The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear

A tale of flying the friendly skies

The road to the airport is fraught with danger and excitement.

Last week the Salt Lake Men’s Choir, of which I am a member, went to “The Happiest Place on Earth.” Believe it or not the men’s choir lets me be a member, despite the breasticles. They did have reservations about letting me in at first, but after they discovered that my breasticles can double as acoustic baffles in an otherwise less-than-stellar performance venue, they let me stay. They do however keep moving me around the room, to channel the bouncing sound waves.

Our flight leaving Salt Lake was at 6:45 a.m., so I planned on arriving at the airport at 4:30 a.m. so I could make it through security on time. Holy Hell, that’s before First Breakfast. How gawd awful! I always pray for an understanding security team so I have time for Second Breakfast before boarding. For some weird reason I don’t comprehend, I have trouble making it through security. You’d think they somehow suspect that my breasticles are dangerous weapons. Now I must admit that I do have a pair of interchangeable nipples/handguns, but I’m not crazy enough to shoot off my boobies at the airport. I left my guns safely at home in my underwear drawer. Besides, I think they are so clogged with glitter they wouldn’t function.

Of course, security put me through that scanner where they can see you naked. I’m sure that was such a thrill for them. I noticed that two of the men laughed; however, one of the women guards fainted. I can’t imagine why. It beeped. They pulled me out of line and asked me to step aside to be wanded. Well short of little Wingardiam Leviosa action, I’ve never been wanded before. I guess this was a day for new experiences. Well, apparently the aging guy with the wand and his shaking hand didn’t flick and swish his wand properly because it beeped.

I was then asked to step aside for a pat-down inspection. There was a little debate among the security staff as to whether a man or a woman should conduct the inspection. I noticed that they were pushing each other toward me as if they were afraid. Luckily for me, a most handsome tanned, and toned twenty-something dude in a snug-fitting uniform appeared to lose the contest. I got just a little excited. He hesitantly approached me, and I noticed there were some serious muscles underneath his bulletproof vest. He stood there staring for a few moments, as if hypnotized by the sparkling breasticles, glinting in the light.

His name badge read Tad. Oh, how sweet. Tad gingerly raised his arm above my left breasticle, and I readily noticed that this precious boy must work out because he had guns of steel stretching against his straining shirt sleeves. Oh, My! The exceedingly handsome Tad ever-so-slowly and delicately traversed my mountainous heaving breasticles, with his big, strong, and eminently curious hands, which by the way, I noticed were not encumbered by a wedding ring. I became a little light-headed. It was apparent that Tad needed to perform an even deeper inspection. He embarrassingly smiled at me at which point I swear I saw the glint in his gleaming white teeth as if they were diamonds and asked me if he could put his hand inside my shirt. Who am I to resist Tad from putting his hands down my torso to feel for any signs of potential danger? Who knew that a TSA inspection could double as a massage?

It came time for Tad to inspect my “southern regions.” I detected a slight hesitation, and he drew in a deep breath. Somewhere around my Southern Hemisphere, his arm fully enveloped and stubbornly lodged in the Grand Canyon of my Buttockus Rotundus. After Tad tugged rather strongly several times and failed to dislodge his arm, I offered to “vent some plasma” to create a little momentum, but he declined the offer. Rather he braced his feet firmly against my swollen ankles and pulled with all his might. To my chagrin, there was a loud pop, and Tad went flying across the room. I was glad Tad was uninjured but also sad he was finished with me. Tasers and nightsticks and guns, Oh, My! I did get my second breakfast from Wendy’s of all places before it was time to board the plane.

As I waddled onto the plane and made my way down the aisle, I noticed that everyone averted their eyes, a sure sign they hoped not to have me as a seatmate. Finally, I found an empty seat and parked my behemoth behind. I reached for my seat belt and attempted to fasten it. The horror of horrors, more terrible than an engine failure over the ocean, or a broken fingernail, I required a seat belt extender. I SHALL NEVER FLY AGAIN!

This story leaves us with several important questions:

  1. When security put me through the naked X-ray machine, were they just in need of visual aid to study manatee physiology?
  2. Are gym bunnies jealous of my breasticle guns which I don’t even have to lift weights to have?
  3. Is Tad short for tadpole, and is that one of the Bear designations for a wannabe twink?
  4. Was Tad staring at me because he was hypnotized or because he was paralyzed by fear?
  5. Was Tad afraid of me because of my breasticles or because I missed my beauty sleep?

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

Petunia Pap Smear

Petunia Pap Smear was born a boy in a Mormon family in a small Idaho town in the year of the cock. No, really, look it up. As is LDS tradition, at a month old her father blessed the little Petunia in the ward house on the first Sunday in June. The very next day, they tore the church house down. Probably for good reason. Little did parents Jack and Orthea know that their little boy would grow up to be a full-fledged, rainbow flag-waving, high heel-wearing, sheep-tending “Ida-Homo.” The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear follows her life from the sheep-tending Boy Scout of her youth to the full-figured and brash queen she is today. Her adventures in the many Queer-Tanic trips, the Salt Lake Men's Choir, the Matrons of Mayhem, and Utah Prides and Lagoon Days have been canonized the past 15 years in a monthly column in QSaltLake Magazine, Utah's publication for the LGBTQ+ community. These tales and her words of wisdom were corralled into a 355-page book that will become the Quint to the Mormon Quad. See it at

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