Listen to this articleThe road to Sugar House Park is fraught with danger and excitement.
Being stuck here at Chateau Pap Smear during a COVID-19 quarantine and social distancing is beginning to drive me a little bit crazier. To help pass the time in lockdown, I have been partaking in that ever so queenly of activities, binge-watching British costume dramas. I had finished binge-watching – Downton Abby, The Crown, and many others, all the while coveting the ball gowns, jewelry, and wigs of queens, duchesses, and all ladies in waiting. I was left wondering what’s next when the Netflix-suggestion list brought up Bridgerton. The Duke in Bridgerton was so hot he made me so moist that my breasticle lights were shorting out.
I decided that since all the society queens in the movies had a herd of ladies-in-waiting to attend to their needs, I also would establish a harem of attendants to cater to my every whim and desire.
Not wanting to surround a bunch of fashionista competitors, I opted for some eye-candy. Plus, I have discovered in these last few months that it would be handy to have a few young, healthy, strapping boys around to lift heavy things for me. Such as my make-up case, glitter, and extra batteries for my breasticles. Furthermore, one glance around Chateau Pap Smear’s floor cluttered with purses, lipsticks, breasticles, and all other items, I may have dropped, and can no longer retrieve would reveal my need for assistants. Thus, I invited some handsome young attendants, and lo-and-behold to my astonishment, a baker’s dozen showed up for the opportunity.
I looked in the dictionary for the collective noun for a ‘group of boys’, and it said “riot.” After the events of the uprising at the U.s. capitol, I thought that “riot” might be an ill-advised choice. Next on the list was “blush” and “leer.” Viola! When others are gazing at them, I will refer to them as a “blush of boys” and when I’m staring at them, they will henceforth and forever be known as my “leer of boys.”
I was getting cabin fever, so I decided I needed to take my leer of boys on an outing to Sugar House Park to feed the ducks. It was a bright sunny day but being wintertime, I dressed for the occasion with my warmest insulated caftan with heated breasticles and a fur-lined girdle.
However, twinks being twinks, many of them were wearing tight booty shorts and sleeveless muscle shirts and upon arriving at the park, tended to squeal and huddle like penguins.
I went to IFA to purchase a bucket of corn seed, especially since I have come to learn that feeding bread to ducks is not good for them.
When we arrived, there were many ducks and geese in the middle of the pond walking on ice. After the boys threw corn in the air, the ducks and geese noticed our activity and waddled in our direction. Eventually, they flocked around us and nibbled at the twinks’ toes, and the boys commenced giggles of delight. The ducks were subsequently joined by a flock of pigeons. I was content to remain in the center of the group and leer at the “buns” picturesquely displayed by the booty shorts. A good time was being had by all.
Subsequently, some seagulls noticed our actions and swooped to get at the food. The gulls became more and more aggressive and dive-bombed the group.
An out-of-control feeding frenzy soon developed.
Immediately, the geese arrived on the scene and chased the twinks and biting their bums. Apparently, booty shorts do not provide much protection from goose bites.
My leer of twinks shrieked in panic and commenced to scattering in all directions, leaving me with the bucket full of corn at the center of the avian assault. I was left to my devices, so I threw corn with great gusto, in hopes that the birds would be distracted; but no, they were more interested in me and my bucket. Picture if you will, the scene of many birds attacking in the Hitchcock movie The Birds.
Eventually, the corn ran out, the sky cleared, and I was left, a defeated, bedraggled, bird shit-covered queen. As the flock dissipated, the twinks returned one by one.
One of the boys noticed a small bird had been caught in my beehive hair. He proceeded to free the trapped creature. A couple of the boys tried in vain to scrape away some of the bird droppings. I threw a quilt over the car seat of Queertanic so as not to contaminate it with bird shit.
This story leaves us with several important questions:
- I know I shouldn’t have favorites, but should I give him the title of “best boy” like on a movie crew?
- Was the bird in my hair trying to set up a nest?
- How big of a bird population could my beehive wig support?
- Should I attach helium balloons to my breasticles to suspend anti-bird nets?
- Or should I install anti-aircraft guns in my breasticles?
- Should I have captured the bird shit and used it to fertilize flowerbeds or convert it into make-up?
These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.
