The road to the hot spring is fraught with danger and excitement.
I love soaking in hot springs. I enjoy going to Crystal Hot Springs in Honeyville, Utah on New Year’s Day to celebrate the new year. It eases the strain in my lower back from the bulk of my breasticles weighing me down. Gravity is such a bitch!
Last year, when I went to the resort, I had several near-death experiences. Upon arriving at the resort, the first near-fatal event was in the dressing room. I felt it necessary to change into my bathing suit in one of the changing cubicles, lest I shock and frighten the children. My God! Who designed these? They obviously have never witnessed a full-figured girl’s wardrobe-changing needs. I bent over to take off my shoe, and my buttockus maximus pressed firmly against the side of the booth, while my breasticles became solidly wedged against the other side. Because my multiple chins were solidly jammed against the wall, I had great difficulty calling for help. Apparently, I’m not the first plus-sized queen that this has happened to because a very handsome employee came to my rescue with a large plastic shoehorn-like device that he used as a pry bar to force me loose. The screeching of the breasticles scraping against the wall was indeed chilling. Oh, the indignity! On the bright side, I was able to get his name — Kevin — from this employee name tag and I was able to cyberstalk him after I got home.
After the actual changing indignity came a second dilemma. The lockers are very small, it became necessary for me to have three separate lockers. One to safely store my beehive wig, lest some snotty-nosed little kid splash some water on it and ruin its structural integrity. Three cans of Aqua Net can only hold so much.
The second locker was for my breasticles. I had lighted ones on this occasion, powered by 4 D-cell batteries, and I didn’t want to electrocute myself or any other hapless fellow bathers. Just imagine what the police report for that would look like. “Drag queen’s breasticles electrocute several small children.”
The third locker was for my towel and my caftan. Because of the smallness of the locker, I was forced to wad up the caftan into a ball, sure to become wrinkled beyond recognition. One of the greatest fashion faux pas that any queen worth her rhinestones should avoid.
Once my possessions were safely locked away, I grabbed my pool noodle and headed outside into the sub-freezing weather to get to the pools. The moment I stepped outside the door, I began shivering violently as if on the Richter Scale. It was almost impossible to move because of the quaking. There was so much steam rising from the pools that it was virtually impossible to see more than two feet ahead. Luckily, I was able to use the pool noodle like a cane for the blind.
The walkway was totally encased in a thick layer of ice lubricated with water dripping from the other bathers. It was slicker than if I had spread Astroglide on the bottom of my feet. I turfed it once, only knocking over three small children. I’m sure they deserved it. To my delight, Kevin was there to help me back to my feet and helped escort me to the pool. Such a gentleman!
It was such a great relief to enter the hot water. My God! I shall never leave this place. After quite some time in the water, I was bobbing about while straddling my pool noodle, conversing with friends, and having a very lovely time. Slowly, I sensed the buildup of a large quantity of methane in my Pap Smear regions which was in great need of being relieved. Note to self, it’s probably not wise to eat at a Mexican restaurant immediately before swimming. In an effort to not become the subject of embarrassment, I discretely moved away from my friends and prepared to pass the gas, as it were. Praying all the while that it would only be a gaseous emission and not solid or worse yet liquid. That is one of the main lessons I learned in drag queen finishing school. Never trust a fart.
So, when I was what I considered a safe distance from the people who knew me, I “let her rip.” Oh, what a relief! To my shock and horror, the magnitude of the fart was much greater than I had anticipated. Thank goodness, it turned out to be just gas, but it was in such a large quantity that it actually propelled me forward in the water like a jet ski. A couple of nearby kids noticed the bubbles and laughed. I didn’t care. But then the toxic smell hit.
Oh no! Kevin was making his lifeguard rounds and walked right through the noxious cloud. He became alarmed. I tried to assure him that it was probably just a sulfur smell from the springs. He was not convinced. Fearing a dangerous gas leak, he quickly raised the alarm and evacuated the pool. Pandemonium ensued as mothers grabbed their children and hunky men pretended to not be alarmed, and ran to the dressing rooms, leaving me alone and forlorn in the pool.
This story leaves us with several important questions:
1. Should I develop a buoyant waterproof set of breasticles for such occasions?
2. Would collapsible breasticles solve the problem of getting wedged in the changing booth?
3. Could I develop some sort of curtain to hang from my breasticles to provide some extra coverage, and thus shield the innocent public from my Pillsbury Dough Girl-esque visage?
4. Would it be considered bad form for a queen to use the crowded confusion in the locker room to “accidentally” brush up against a hunky object of desire?
These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.