The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear

A tale from The Big Gay Fun Bus

The road to Wendover is fraught with danger and excitement.

If you’ve ever driven across the Salt Flats to get to the “forbidden pleasures” of the casinos in West Wendover, Nevada, you know that it can be a long, boring, and tedious trip. As a point of reference, it took the infamous ill-fated Donner party a whole five days to cross the Salt Flats. In the process, several wagons had to be abandoned, contributing to their becoming stranded by snow in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Fifty years later, as a publicity stunt, a bicyclist crossed the flats in 22 hours.

The modern freeway stretching across the Salt Flats is about 40 miles long, as flat as a pancake, or as smooth as my ass before cellulite, and as straight as an arrow. It is said that the area is so flat that you can actually see the curvature of the Earth. I tend not to believe this last one, as I have never been able to see it, but then again, my breasticles always seem to be getting in the way of the view.

So, a few years ago, the very safety-conscious and enterprising Michael Aaron, always on the lookout for a great party, organized The Big Gay Fun Bus to help alleviate the danger and tediousness of trekking across the Salt Flats. I am so very lucky to have been able to help host The Big Gay Fun Bus to Wendover for the past decade or so. The Big Gay Fun Bus is a party on wheels, including Jello shots, bingo, scouting for hot truckers, drinking games, and other raucous revelry.

On one particular trip, I decided that it would be extra fun for me to wear one of those Camelbak hydration backpacks, like serious hikers wear, and fill it with alcohol. I hid the backpack under my caftan and the drinking hose within my right breasticle so that I could then offer to “breastfeed” the riders on the bus. As we gathered in the Club TryAngles parking lot, preparing to board the busses, I was overjoyed to see that a group of suitably cute twinks and stunningly massive hunks were assembled, preparing for a day of debauchery. As we mingled in the parking lot, I overheard many excited conversations. “Will I win fabulous bingo prizes on the bus? I feel lucky today! Do you think I might get drunk from the Jello shots on the bus? Can I score a hottie in the restroom?” There arose many squeals of excitement as we boarded the bus and pulled away from the curb to begin our escapade, while singing “The wheels on the bus go round and round … All the way to Wendoverrrrrrrrrrr.”

As a bingo host on the bus, I am required to make many trips to the rear of the bus, to help serve the Jello shots, pass out bingo cards, and collect garbage. I made my inaugural foray down the aisle to greet the assembled masses and to scout out the cutest boys upon whose laps I could fall as I pretended to lose my balance. On my second trip down the aisle, I decided it was time to offer some “breasticle fresh” libations to the parched and thirsty riders. One after another, the lips of anxious riders latched onto my breasticle, much like a starving baby finding their mother’s boobies for the first time. After the second person, I realized that when they were latched on, I was unable to pull away, thus causing a great delay in my ability to “service” the whole bus. I just gave up on being able to call a bingo game and left that task to the other queens. After “serving” the fifth person, it became apparent to me that I had not properly thought this whole operation through, and I needed some way to sanitize my nipple between suckers. So, I grabbed a wet wipe out of my purse and gave it a wipe-down between guzzlers.

All was going well until I came to a young, innocent, and cute twink, we’ll call him John, who had just barely had his twenty-first birthday and was now able to imbibe legally for the very first time. John seemed to latch on with excess gusto and was sucking with enough force to make any top-of-the-line Hoover blush with envy. Remember, nothing sucks like Electrolux or this guy. After what I thought was a sufficient time for him to get a nice shot, I attempted to pull away, only to be suddenly engulfed as John’s arms quickly reached out to envelope my waist and prevent my departure. He was hugging me tighter than a straight man’s butt cheeks in a prison shower. It might be said that this was a hug that launched a thousand sips. I looked down at his innocent, cherubic face as he continued to guzzle. The Camelbak held three liters of alcohol. And during John’s sucking session, I could actually feel it becoming lighter. I could also see that John was becoming too inebriated to be able to walk straight. Such is the power of the breasticle!

The thought crossed my mind that this was just SICK AND WRONG, and too twisted even for me, and that’s coming from a queen that packs a vibrating “testicle tester” with spinning lights in her purse.

This story leaves us with several important questions:

  1. How long would it take me to cross the Salt Flats on my mobility scooter?
  2. Should I have watered down the alcohol in my breasticle?
  3. Do you think I should install an alcohol meter for my breasticle?
  4. Could
  5. Is this where the term “suckers” comes from?
  6. Is there a market for slightly used Camelbaks?

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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