A tale of life on a rollercoaster

BY PETUNIA PAP SMEAR

The road to the amusement park is fraught with danger and excitement.

After having to cancel the annual Q Lagoon Day due to the pandemic last year, I was so excited last month to be able to resume the gay day at the amusement park despite the scorching hot afternoon. Typically, I bring a nice comfortable chair to the picnic pavilion to sit in. Subsequently, the pavilion becomes my temporary throne room, and I am Lagoon’s “Queen for a Day,” where I can “hold court” with my subjects while they attempt to recover between bouts of motion sickness from riding the rollercoasters. Those of you who know me can attest to the fact that this plush-sized sumo-worthy queen does not cope well when the ambient temperature rises above 65 degrees. Consequently, I also bring a box fan so as to blow a breeze up my skirt and keep my breasticles and other private parts well ventilated. The bonus to this is that the blowing air creates the opportunity for me to impersonate the most marvelous Marylin Monroe blowing skirt moment from the “Seven Year Itch.”

One of the perks of being queen is that I get to hold audience with all the cute twink boys flitting about. With just a teeny tiny bit of coaxing, I can often entice them to sit on my lap and pose for a photo, just like Santa Claus at the shopping mall. Of course, one always runs the risk of a sexual molestation charge, but you only live once! On this extremely hot day, however, the fan was just not quite keeping me cool enough to enable my gravity-enhanced buttockus rotundus from becoming uncomfortably moist while ensconced on my throne and fondling the cuties.

Typically, Club Try-Angles Bar owner Gene makes a large vat full of ice-cold delicious adult (about 190-proof) “punch” to share with his staff and friends. On this day, perhaps he could sense my impending heat stroke, or maybe he could see the growing puddle of sweat accumulating beneath my throne. Either way, I was ever-sa-grateful to accept Gene’s kind offer of a red plastic Solo cup filled to the brim with the refreshing elixir. It just so happened that I was between hot flashes, so I thirstily gulped down half the contents. Luckily, my “throne” had a built-in cup holder so that I could conveniently keep sipping the remaining refreshment at my leisure.

The afternoon progressed, with a veritable parade of very cute boys, mincing and prancing before me, and sitting on my sofa-sized lap. Between each boy, I would drink just a small sip of the punch. Each time I took a drink, I was ever-sa proud of my self-control and restraint, noticing that my cup was not empty, thus I was being very conscientious about not becoming a sloppy drunk boozy queen on the spot. For, after all, I wanted desperately to avoid being a drunken queen on the rollercoaster who just might experience an encore presentation of her breakfast, all over the person in front of her. With each small swallow, I also noticed that the drink was remaining rather cold. I quietly wondered to myself, had the Solo Cup Company redesigned their product to include undetectable insulating properties for keeping beverages cool?

All this sipping of punch eventually led to an inevitable result. I had to pee. There was no royal powder room at the pavilion. My need to drain the dragon became very urgent. Now I have learned that a queen should never visit a public restroom un-escorted, lest some common ruffians wish to cause a “disturbance in the force.” So, I asked two very cute boys who were near me to escort me while I “saw a man about a horse.” They excitedly exclaimed that they were amazed that Lagoon had added pony rides.

The closest comfort station was at least 50 yards away. So, with twinks in attendance, I set out on the journey to the loo. I did notice that I was a bit dizzy. It must be the heat affecting me. So, I held onto the very handsome boy’s arm with a vice-like death grip. Along the trek, I heard a child exclaim, “Mom, look at that fancy lady. Where’s she going? Let’s follow her.” Soon a small crowd began to follow us, and thus our journey became a veritable potty parade. I heard an audible cry of disappointment when the child realized our destination was the lavatory. As I entered, I could faintly hear the child question, “Number one or Number two?” A classy queen never tells!

Back at the pavilion, when it was time to begin packing up and getting ready to go home, Gene asked me if I was okay to drive. I responded that I had been very responsible and had only refilled my cup of punch one time, so I should be good to go. Gene confessed that every time my back had been turned, he had secretly been refilling my cup with cold punch. In reality, I had drunk about six glassfuls of the stuff. No wonder I was dizzy.

This story leaves us with several important questions:

1. How much tensile strength does a string of pearls need to enable me to lasso cute boys?

2. Are the lap dances I receive from twinks really their attempt to wiggle free to escape my clutches?

3. In all the photos taken, the cute boys sitting on my lap were sporting broad smiles on their faces. Were those smiles really just grimaces of disgust?

4. Was I really dizzy, or was that just an excuse to hold onto the boy?

5. Should I disguise a portable pee bucket as a purse so that I can discretely relieve pressure beneath my caftan?

These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.