The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear

A tale of Naked Boys

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

A few weeks ago, I was surfing the internet, carefully sorting, categorizing, and collating porn. It’s my stated goal in life to sort all the porn on the internet. When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but an advertisement for the musical revue “Naked Boys Singing.” Naturally, this caught my attention.

After many frenzied minutes of additional searching and the computer frustratingly freezing up twice, I was sad to discover that the show was going to be produced in Las Vegas. Damn! Las Vegas is so far away. I just happened to own the CD soundtrack of the show, so I dug it out and put it on play while I dejectedly went back to sorting photos of hot guys wearing Speedos on Tumblr, all the while grumbling to myself about missing out on all the excitement. Oh, what the Hell! In a moment of carefree disregard, I decided that it was high time for me to strap on my Clark Griswald pants, load up Queertanic, my beloved land yacht, and head to Las Vegas for my own Vegas Vacation. So, I bought tickets to the show. 

As many of you who have ever traveled with me can attest, taking Petunia on the road is no easy endeavor. First of all, Queertanic is not large enough to haul all of my 23 wigs and 72 caftans. Some tough decisions and sacrifices had to be made. Finally, after much-anguished deliberation, I was able to narrow down the wardrobe to the barest of necessities — eight wigs and 27 caftans.

When loading it all into Queertanic it became necessary for me to use great force just to close the car doors. Feeling triumphant, I was glistening (sweating) profusely from all the effort of stuffing 57 cubic feet of wardrobe into 33 cubic feet of space. I carefully squeezed into the car and put the car in gear. I was off to see naked boys.  

As I was backing out of the driveway, I glanced back to make sure the garage door was closed, and there, standing forlornly in front of the garage door as if he were an abandoned orphan, was Mr. Pap Smear, clutching a small overnight bag. Feeling sheepishly guilty for forgetting that I had a husband, my conscience began to get the better of me, and I thought, “Oh, My, Gawd, perhaps I should take him with me?” But I had not left a space in the car for him. So I began to unpack the car and jettison five more wigs and 12 more caftans in order to squeeze him in. 

At long last, after a 7-hour drive, we arrived at the Jewel Box Theater, which was located inside the Erotic Heritage Museum, where “Puppetry of the Penis” and “Naked Boys Singing” were playing. We had one hour to kill before our showtime, so while waiting, we perused the lobby of the sex museum with all its titillating erotic sensual displays. I was sitting in a nice comfy chair, diligently studying a graph that analyzed a breakdown of the sex scenes in “Game of Thrones,” ignoring the mannequins modeling “Muggles” in various sexual positions from the Kama Sutra, when I felt a slight breeze blow past me. I looked up just in time to see a very handsome man’s tanned and firm bare bottom strolling past my chair, his left bun just a tongue’s lick away from my face, heading to the theater entrance. Naturally, I gasped in awe and delight. Apparently, he was an actor in “Puppetry of the Penis,” awaiting his entrance cue. I suddenly began experiencing the vapors and heart palpitations. Penises and puppets and bums, OH MY! 

The beautiful naked man stood outside the theater entrance waiting for his cue for about five minutes. Though I was tired from the long drive, I still had enough energy left to stare, laser-focused on his ass, and dream of him sweeping me off my feet and carrying me away, just like Richard Gere in the movie “Officer and A Gentleman.” My giddy mood quickly turned to disappointment as the naked man heard his cue and entered the theater, leaving me alone with my daydreams of bouncing M&Ms off of his firm, tight buttocks into my mouth.   

Just then, a festive group of hot guys wearing seductively short shorts and form-fitting tank tops entered the lobby and began flirting with the ushers. My spirits began to rise again in hopes that they might sit near me in the theater and I might be able to flirt with them. It was then that I saw him. The longsuffering Mr. Pap Smear, who was waiting patiently in the line, holding my purse and saving my place. Oh yeah, I guiltily remembered. I have a husband. I probably should sit with him.   

I lost track of the beautiful boys in the scramble for good seats close to the naked stage. The lights dimmed, the audience quieted, and the curtain rose. To my astonishment, who should be naked, in all their birthday suit glory, on stage but the flirty boys from the lobby.

Damn, no touching or photography allowed. 

This story leaves us with several important questions:  

  1. Is buying a ticket to see naked boys performing on a stage the same a leaving money on the nightstand for your trick? 
  2. Should I always wear dark glasses to help facilitate discrete staring? 
  3. Should I fasten a bell around Mr. Pap Smear’s neck so I will stop forgetting he’s there? 
  4. Should I devise a hidden camera inside my breasticle for such occasions? 
  5. Would a lasso attached to a winch, capable of capturing hot boys fit into the other breasticle? 

    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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