The tale of a Dairy Queen
The road to a queenly lifestyle is fraught with danger and excitement.
One day last year, I was safely ensconced in the basement of Chateau Pap Smear, with a smoking hot glue gun in my paws, busily bedazzling a new pair of breasticles when Mr. Pap Smear came into my glittery lair to inform me that if I were to continue to purchase glitter and sequins at the current rate, we would soon have to file for bankruptcy. Oh, horror of horrors! How shall I be able to maintain the lifestyle to which I aspire to become accustomed? It was clear that I needed a supplemental source of income, so I started working for one of those food delivery companies.
One night last month I was keeping a relatively close eye on the clock as my scheduled block was about to end at 8 p.m., which was a very good thing because I was feeling the need to pee. The clock read 7:55 when I dropped off what I thought would be my last order of the evening, so I pointed QueerTanic toward home and put the pedal to the metal before my panties became moist.
I had just turned onto my block when I received another order. “Drat,” I thought to myself, “surely, I can hold it in for another 20 minutes.” This order was to pick up some ice cream clear up to Sugar House, so I drove right past my driveway and headed to the restaurant. When I got there, the order was only for a half pint of ice cream and was to be delivered to room #401 in the Holiday Inn clear out past the airport at the International Center. “Holy crap, that’s a long way to go for such a minuscule order.”
I steered onto the freeway on-ramp and began the journey. After I had reached the point of no return on the freeway, a sudden wave of urgency to see a man about a horse hit my bladder.
“Just hold on girl, we’ll be done in 20 minutes.”
It seemed to help me keep from watering the upholstery if I wiggled in the seat and repeatedly slammed my thighs together. I began wishing that I was wearing a catheter so I could hold the hose out of the window, and I could water the wildflowers as I drove. The clock read 8:25 as I pulled into the parking lot of the Holiday Inn. I quickly got out of the car and walked into the hotel, rode the elevator up to the fourth floor, and, of course, wouldn’t you know it — room #401 was at the far end of a very long hallway.
I knocked on the door. No answer. I’m squeezing my legs together holding back the flow. I call the customer on the phone, stating that I’m standing at his door, then hang up and waited. My phone rings, it’s the customer asking which hotel I’m in because he is standing outside #401 and he can’t see me. He informed me that he is in the Comfort Inn not Holiday Inn. WELL SHIT! I hustle back to QueerTanic and set off for the new destination.
I arrived at the Comfort Inn where there was nary a restroom in sight and repeat my ordeal. Of course, room #401 in this hotel was also at the far end of another long hallway and my urgency was now so extreme that, oh sweet Mother of God, it was necessary for me to waddle as if I were wearing a tight pencil skirt, to hold back the river.
Again, no answer to my knock on the door. I phoned him again. “Oh, I’m so embarrassed. I’m actually in the Fairfield Inn,” he said apologetically. “OH, FOR GOD’S SAKE! He had better be damned cute, or I just might have to kill him.”
I’m beginning to sweat now. A very embarrassing incident was about to happen and to top off the occasion, the ice cream was melting.
After getting a little lost and another tense 15 minutes, I entered the third hotel and, of course, another long, torturous walk to the end of the hallway. I knocked on the door. “Please, dear God, let him be here.” A wave of pressure welled up in my nether regions. I could feel a pounding in my temples from the strain. Finally, I could hear a rustling behind the door. I crossed my legs and leaned my arm against the wall to steady myself from falling over. I actually had to hold my breath so as not to disturb the force… The ice cream was beginning to drip out of the bag.
The door opened and an absolutely beautiful specimen of manly gorgeousness opened the door. He apologized for all the confusion as he handed me a one-dollar bill. I stood there mesmerized by his heaving chest and bulging biceps, but I cut him off saying, “Oh it’s no problem at all, I’m happy to do it,” as I totally forgot I was about to engage in impromptu water sports.
The clock read 9:35 when I got home. That one order took 95 minutes and 18 miles for a $1 tip.
This story leaves us with several important questions:
- Should I begin carrying a catheter in my purse?
- Would it be painful if I bedazzled the catheter?
- If one empties their bladder via a catheter hose while driving on the freeway, will the “draining of the dragon” end up sprinkling onto the windshields of following cars?
- If I had performed water sports would I have earned a larger tip?
- If a queen was to yell “Wee, wee, wee” all the way home, would she get a traffic ticket?
These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.