A tale of the last straw
The road to finding companionship is fraught with danger and excitement.
As a geriatric queen from the ancient Cretaceous era, I often find myself regaling some of the younger gurls with stories and escapades from my princess days. Way back before personal computers and cell phones with dating apps, this wrinkled warrior used to meet other gay people the old-fashioned way: cruising.
My story begins at 1 a.m. on a warm summer night at the infamous Lady Bird Park Rest Area in Logan, Utah where I found myself parked in Queertanic, my beloved 1975 Buick Electra land yacht, in an otherwise empty parking lot in front of the restroom, clutching a bag of suspiciously sticky Twizzlers and wondering if there were any other boys out and about that night. While waiting for some possible action, I contemplated the likely effects of fluorescent bathroom lighting washing out the vibrant color of my beehive wig and matching caftan (it’s very important that the curtains match the carpet). To counteract the effects of poor lighting, I donned my fiercest feather boa (usually reserved for emergencies) and marched toward the restroom door, determined to be noticed. I realized that, in the world of cruising, one never truly knows where the adventure might lead or whose phone number might be scrawled on the stall door.
Just as I reached the halfway point between Queertanic and the building, a car full of boys, clearly emboldened by the scent of Twizzlers wafting in the breeze, zoomed into the lot, windows down, faces grimacing with mischief. They hollered, “Hey, nice boa! Does it come in leopard print?” and let out a chorus of cackles that echoed over the parking lot.
Before I could respond with my best withering glare, they began to get out of their car, each boy wielding a baseball bat, and they began to advance toward me while waving their bats menacingly. In my desperation to find companionship, I had foolishly forgotten that it was a Tuesday night, the night that Mormon boys would attend their weekly Boy Scout meetings at the church. After the meetings would finish, the boys would regularly “go hunting” for queers.
Realizing that this was indeed a “Desperate Housewives” moment, I raced back to Queertanic as fast as my high heels would allow and jumped in. Fortunately, I was able to lock the door just before the fastest boy reached it, grabbing onto the handle and trying to yank it open. Angered at my successful survival skills, the boys began to bang their bats on the hood of Queertanic. I clutched my sticky Twizzlers, revved Queertanic’s engine, and launched into a high-speed escape out of the rest area and onto the city streets. In my mirror, I noticed that the boys raced back to their car. They whipped the car around, and I could hear their tires screeching like a drag queen’s heels at midnight. They began to chase me in a manner that would’ve made Mario Kart proud while I tried to maintain my dignity (and my feather boa) through a series of dramatic twists and turns and flooring my engine to its limits. I even turned off my headlights in an attempt to become less visible prey. After what seemed like hours of pursuit, and most likely many gallons of gasoline burned, I eventually found sanctuary behind a darkened Mormon church house on a shadowy side street. I decided to lie low until the danger passed, and the car full of boys sped by in search of their next victim.
After waiting for about thirty minutes, all the while trembling in fear, I remembered being chased and harassed on several other occasions, and then I began to get angry. And as everyone ought to know, nothing is more dangerous than an angry drag queen. I cautiously began the journey home. About halfway there, I approached an intersection and noticed that in front of Queertanic, stopped at the traffic light, was the very same car full of asshole boy scout hunters. My anger suddenly overflowed in epic proportions. They had reached my very last straw! I decided then and there that I was sick and tired of this harassment shit, and it was time for the hunters to become the hunted! I pulled Queertanic behind their car and carefully advanced until my front bumper touched their rear bumper. Then, I floored the accelerator while honking loudly on the horn. Queertanic, being a gigantic land yacht with a huge engine (there is tangible, lifesaving value in being a ‘size queen’), valiantly pushed their much smaller car out into the middle of the intersection.
I heard them screaming in anger as I watched them throw open their car doors and jump out to threaten me again. Meanwhile, I threw Queertanic into reverse, made a near miraculous U-turn, and sped away, before they could even comprehend what happened. This time, I had enough of a head start that I was able to make a clean and speedy getaway. I brushed myself off, adjusted my boa, and made a vow: next time, I’d park closer to the restroom door — and maybe invest in a getaway scooter. After all, adventure waits for no queen.
This story leaves us with several important questions:
- What color wig and caftan look best in fluorescent light?
- Is there a minimum speed limit for drag queen getaways, or does it depend on the boa’s wind resistance?
- Would Queertanic qualify for “Most Fabulous Escape Vehicle” at the annual Pride parade?
- If I invest in a getaway scooter, should it be glitter pink or rainbow-striped for optimal visibility?
- Is there an app for tracking Boy Scout hunting nights, or should I rely on my wig’s sixth sense?
- Does this experience qualify me to be a demolition derby driver?
These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.
