The road home from bingo is fraught with danger and excitement.
Everybody knows that April showers bring May flowers. So, last month at Third Friday Bingo, I decided that my dress theme needed to be The Lusty Month of May. I wore my most lurid and lustiest floral print caftan, complete with flower-covered breasticles and accompanying floral wrist corsages. Of course, I complemented the outfit with a flaming red beehive wig and a bright red glitter mustache to match the dominant color in the dress. One bingo patron commented that with all of the flowers and glitter I was wearing, I resembled a float in the Tournament of Roses Parade. I had a banging good time at bingo.
You can call me anything you want but late for dinner. Due to my incessant whining, the whole world knows that I enjoy a good buffet and will think nothing of driving my beloved land yacht Queertanic to Las Vegas for a proper feast. Well, bless my soul and pass the salad/massage oil. There, placed before me at bingo, at a table within three breasticle lengths and easily graspable, was a beefcake buffet consisting of eight gorgeous hunks of burnin’ love, who looked like they probably just escaped from being greeters at an Abercrombie and Fitch store, complete with tightly fitted t-shirts and well-packed blue jeans. Obviously, they were bingo virgins, because they had innocent deer-caught-in-the-headlights looks in their eyes.
As soon as I spotted the tableful of breathtaking eye candy, my beehive wig began to overheat as my brain began trying to devise any number of party fouls that would cause these studmuffins to gyrate and wiggle their hips before me while flexing their muscular biceps, gathering money for the charity.
Striving to be the hostess-with-the-mostess or, more accurately, totally hidden predator, I stealthily moved near the table before they could form an escape plan. Just like any other ambush predator about to pounce, I quietly snuck up behind the stud who I determined to be the shyest of the bunch, and placed his head directly between my breasticles. This subtle hunting tactic can often cause dismay or panic among my prey. This time, however, I was caught a touch off guard as this pretty boy quickly spun around, grabbed each of my breasticles with his strong hands, plunged his face deep into my cleavage, and began motorboating my breasticles while the rest of the superstuds at the table cheered him on. To my immense joy, this was just the kind of excuse I needed. I called a party foul on the dreamboat for engaging in watersports without a boat, or even water skis, for heaven’s sake. At my urging, they all quickly got up, put on the party foul hats, and began dancing around the room, gathering tips for the charity. They were dancing around and about me, rather reminiscent of the dance of the seven veils, and I became somewhat overstimulated.
Come what may, I got too caught up in the excitement of the evening and did a little more running around dancing with the hunks than I probably should, considering my advanced age (I’m thirty-nine and counting! That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it!) and the ever-increasing magnitude of my buttockus rotundus. Needless to say, I got just a little bit winded.
After the end of what I considered to be a very successful night of bingo and hunting, I went home and proceeded to begin my glitter removal ritual. As always, every time I wear glitter, it is nigh unto impossible to remove it all. Usually, there is residual glitter clinging to my skin for a couple of days.
As I sat in my recliner, getting ready for bed, I began to feel unwell. I took my blood pressure, and it was extremely high. Mr. Pap Smear nagged me until I relented and let him drive me to the emergency room. I must have been staggering or something because, as I entered the E.R., the nurse at the counter took one look at me and ordered a wheelchair for me. A cute orderly wheeled me into a small room where a beautiful, tanned, and toned male nurse of Polynesian heritage and imposing size began to take my vital statistic readings, etc. Halfway through his observations, he paused, looking closely at my face, and asked, “Just what have you been doing, that you have glitter all over you?” One of my biggest fears in life is to have a medical emergency or be pulled over by the police while in full costume. Thank God I had been able to remove my dress, wig, breasticles, and most of the glitter prior to feeling ill.
Afraid that he just might not be friendly to drag queens and such, I suddenly concocted a cover story. I told him that I had been playing princess tea party with my granddaughter, and she sprinkled me with magic glitter before coming to the hospital. He seemed to accept that version of events. Over the next hour, I received that same question from three other doctors and nurses.
This story leaves us with several important questions:
- Do I need to take some container gardening lessons to accommodate the flowered breasticles?
- In my floral dress, could I blend into the background at the Red Butte Gardens and disappear?
- Could the vibrations from motorboating double as a massage vibrator?
- Could placing a victim’s head between my breasticles be considered entrapment/kidnapping?
- Could motorboating be considered assault?
- Just how many days does residual glitter last?
- Does the emergency room have anything for glitter removal?
These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.