The road to Sundance is fraught with danger and excitement. Before the pandemic shut everything down, The Matrons of Mayhem and I traveled to Park City for the Sundance Film Festival.
Anticipating that Park City would be much colder than Salt Lake, I planned my outfit more carefully than an Arctic explorer. Golden glitter snow boots, insulated tights, several thick heavy long skirts, and at least four tops. I chose to wear my lighted breasticles so as to better attract the attention of any wayward and lost Hollywood stars. I couldn’t find a warm coat that could accommodate my lighted breasticles, so I just threw on a fur-lined Christmas Tree Skirt as a cape, and voila! It ended up that I was wearing so many layers that it was difficult to move. Much like the little brother Randy in the movie, “A Christmas Story.”
We arrived in Park City, and after much frustration and many swear words, we finally found a parking space miles away from downtown. We got on the free shuttle bus. I had to crouch low and stay stooped over because my beehive hair was too tall to fit. The bus was crowded. I was pressed up against several people. There was a very attractive gentleman to my left side whom I didn’t mind. However, my attention was focused on trying desperately not to poke some children’s eyes out with my breasticles. In the confusion, I think my buttockus maximus may have been groped by wandering hands. I couldn’t really be sure because of the thickness of all my clothing but hope springs eternal!
The bus arrived downtown. I’m not quite sure what happened, but as I stepped off the bus, my glitter boot missed the curb, and I stumbled, losing my balance and tumbling head over heels. Luckily, because of my gravity-enhanced aisle-blocker physique, I’m basically a ball of blubber and very padded, so I just sort of rolled without much damage. I came to a stop when my breasticles propped against the sidewalk like a couple of bicycle kickstands. My wig had flown off and landed in the gutter about ten feet away. Lying in the snow like a beached walrus, I quickly looked around to determine just how many people had witnessed this unladylike display. Fortunately, the bus and a city map sign were obscuring most of the scene, so only a couple of people noticed.
I expected the Matrons to run to my aid, but they just bent over laughing at me. Bitches! The handsome man had pity for me and graciously helped me up. He then reached into the gutter to retrieve my wig. Luckily, due to the three cans of Aqua Net I used to style it, the hair was undamaged and retained its style. He sheepishly tried to hand my wig to me. In a desperately horny and calculated attempt to retain his attention, I breathlessly (worthy of Marilyn Monroe) exclaimed that since I was wearing gloves, I was unable to place it back on my head (a total lie) and would he please do the honors. Thus, I was able to draw this handsome stud within the valley of my breasticle cleavage almost nose-to-nose with his big strong hands gently caressing my head and neck. I was suddenly feeling warmer.
Once I was all put back together, I thanked him, and we headed to Main Street. We were only able to proceed about five feet at a time between being asked to pose for photos with the people on the street. Now, Main Street in Park City is on a rather steep incline, and this out-of-shape gym-avoiding queen, found it difficult to keep up. Luckily, we were right by the metal bench that has a brass sculpture of a bear seated on it. So, gasping for air, I plunked my ass down beside the bear and asked the Matrons to gather around to pose for photos.
It became colder as darkness fell, and my lighted breasticles became beacons attracting like moths to a flame, passersby including some Hollywood stars. After many, many photos, I became hungry. It was time to eat. My caboose must have gotten wet when I tumbled because when I tried to get up from the metal seat, my ass was frozen solidly to the bench. Again, the Matrons were of no actual assistance due to their laughter. Relying on the kindness of a couple of strangers, they were able to pry my bounteous booty from the bench.
Now upright and mobile, we decided to go to the closest eatery for a snack. And by snack, I mean a full-course meal with appetizers, second helpings, and dessert. The warmth of the restaurant felt good when we first entered, but just as the appetizers arrived at our table, I began to feel the full effects of my warm winter wardrobe. I was dying from the heat. By the time the main course arrived, I was ready to put on a strip show. I was so hot that I actually skipped dessert and rushed outside, back to the bench, and snuggled up to the freezing brass bear to cool down enough to be able to ride the shuttle bus back to Queertanic.
This story leaves us with several important questions:
- Did one of the Matrons trip me on purpose?
- In order to make my tripping look on purpose, should I have remained lying on the sidewalk and made a snow angle?
- Should I reduce the size of my breasticles to accommodate closer intimacy?
- Could my lighted breasticles function as a beacon for folks lost in a blizzard?
- Should I install warmers in my breasticles so hunky stars may stick their hands inside my cleavage to avoid frostbite?
These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear