The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear

The tale of a Missionary Man

The road to Provo is fraught with danger and excitement.

The Matrons of Mayhem are a prideful bunch, so we decided to attend Provo Pride. Before going, we met up at Chateau Pap Smear. Of course, every time the ladies meet at my place the natives are frightened and I catch glimpses of them peeking meekly through their curtains at us. One time a few years ago, on a day after we had met at my place, I was out watering the lawn, and a neighbor sheepishly approached me and said, “I noticed a bunch of fancy ladies here the other day. What was going on?” Thus, came a tender homo-teaching moment to the nature of drag queens.

We carpooled in QueerTanic, my trusty land yacht. No mortal earthly vehicle can contain all that is Petunia. Consequently, it is with great dismay that I find it necessary to remove my stunning beehive hair and place it safely in a six-gallon bucket to fit into a car. And I must recline the driver seat so far that I’m practically looking directly at the dome light to be able to accommodate my breasticles. Oh, the indignity!

We arrived in Provo and were thrilled to realize that the Pride festival was being held directly across the street from the Provo City Center Temple of the organization formerly known as the “Mormon Church” (Puh-Leeezzz!) Inspiration immediately aroused us to perform a pioneer reenactment. Then we posed as four of Brother Brigham’s favorite and most stylish wives for magnificent faith-inspiring portraits in front of the temple.

The Provo Pride celebration was indeed fantastic. After we had many faith-promoting encounters with “The Saints” in Provo, we became as fatigued as if we had indeed pulled a handcart across the plains like the real pioneers, except in high heels. Then we decided to take some respite in a restaurant located across the street from the festival.

Our waiter — let’s call him Todd — was a most adorable return-missionary, fresh off the boat from Central America. I could tell this lunch was going to be eventful, when “Missionary Man” led us to a booth. I usually hate to sit in booths, as they don’t accommodate queen-sized queens. The other Matrons slid effortlessly into the booth, slicker than snot on a doorknob.

Then it came to be my turn. I failed horribly on my first attempt to squeeze my voluptuous blubber naught into the tiny space between the table and the bench. I couldn’t let Elder Wonderful see my generously proportioned bodus rotundus blocking the aisle, so I took a run at it. With a tremendously loud wood splitting and the shaking of the building registering a 6.5 on the Richter scale, I made it into the seat. I was wedged tighter than a twink between two bears.

When Todd came to our table, my jaw dropped right on top of my breasticles and I suddenly couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t tell if it was because of his incredible beauty or that the table like a vice grip held my boobs. He was blond with piercing blue eyes and wearing a pair of well-packed jeans and sporting a body-hugging fitted T-shirt. Even though we were in full wigs and makeup he didn’t even bat an eye. I started to lose consciousness. But I suddenly regained full awareness at the mention of nachos.

Of course, we all were flirting mercilessly with Todd. Since I sat on the end closest to him, I sorely tempted to perform a “laying on of hands.” After we each threw a turn at him, he brought our food which turned out to be as delicious as he. Gratefully, he withstood all our teasing cheerfully and dished a little back.

The place was not busy, so we were his only table. He gave us a lot of personal attention. Two other waiters were serving the tables near us, and they also were incredibly delectable. Surely the hiring manager must have a beauty quotient to fill.

My gaydar has such a difficult time being accurate in Utah County, because there is nothing that turns me on more than a clean-cut college boy, and I can’t seem to even turn around without poking one in the eye with my breasticles.

After gorging on scrumptious Mexican food, it came time to leave. The rest of the Matrons continued to flirt with Todd while I had to call the fire department to cut me out of the booth with the jaws of life.

This story leaves us with several important questions:
1. Do you think our photos in front of the temple will end up in the Church History Museum?
2. If we had posed with a handcart, would it help build strong testimonies among the faithful?
3. Since we posed as sister wives, could we possibly be the new models for Polygamy Ale?
4. If I had performed a “laying on of hands” to the waiter, would it be considered gross indecency or assault?
5. Was the waiter friendly because he wanted a bigger tip, or he wanted us to give him a makeover?
6. If I were to blind a returned missionary with my breasticles, could I take him home until he healed?

These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.

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