The tale of a baker's dozen

The road to the state capitol is fraught with danger and excitement.

A couple of years ago, I needed some new photos to be able to use in my Pearls of Not-So-Great Price postings on Facebook. I asked my friend David to organize a photo shoot. We thought that it would be fun to recruit a couple of boy-toys to pose with me because I realize that people may not want to look at photos of a has-been exceedingly gravity-enhanced queen, but if there is a touch of eye-candy involved, they just might sneak a peek.

The morning of the shoot I got all dressed up and drove Queertanic to Club Try-Angles, our designated meeting place, to enable us to carpool to the photo shoot location. It turned out to be a bright, shining, cloudless day. I was the first to arrive and I began to wonder if this was going to be a solo mission. After a few minutes, I was relieved when a couple of lovely boys also showed up. Then, to my astonishment, car after car after car began to pull into the lot. David had recruited not two but thirteen incredibly handsome specimens of beefcake to pose with me.

The boys must have been excited to participate because rather than wait until we got on location to strip down, they began peeling off their clothing right there. We decided that the Utah State Capitol Building would serve as our background, so I loaded up all of the speedo-clad boys into my 7-passenger Queertanic. Oh darn, someone had to sit on someone else’s lap. Now, my breasticles make it very difficult to drive under the best of conditions, but with an excess of naked boys fogging up my glasses and rubbing against my stick shift, we were lucky to arrive at Capitol Hill alive.

Breasticles, beefcake, and Speedos, Oh my!

Queertanic must have resembled a circus clown car when we pulled up to the capitol and a rainbow queen with 13 naked boys piled out onto the lawn. We all had much fun as the boys frolicked about posing on the capitol steps. A group of Japanese tourists appeared to be somewhat scandalized at the sight of me posing with this baker’s dozen of spandexual specimens. Their tour guide sheepishly approached and asked what we were doing. I replied that we were working on an advertising campaign to promote Utah as a tourist destination where husbands are cheaper by the dozen. After all, if Brigham Young could have 55 wives, this old queen could certainly have thirteen husbands.

Just then, a stretch limousine drove slowly past. I stood in lustful silent reverence placing right my hand over my left breasticle as I watched the magnificent vehicle pass by. I fervently believe in my heart that my next Queertanic needs to be a stretch limo. My limo fantasy was disturbed when suddenly some drunken ruffians stood up out of the limo’s open sunroof and yelled, “God damned faggots!” and they flipped us the middle finger salute. Due to years and years of princess finishing school training, I reflexively clutched my pearls and gave them one of my best “queenly parade waves” as they proceeded down the hill, out of sight. The boys were so busy playing leapfrog that they barely noticed.

We continued for the next 45 minutes having fun and taking many photos, posing in several different poses. We were just getting ready to wrap up the photo shoot when I noticed the limousine slowly and ominously returning back up the hill towards us. It pulled to a stop, right beside Queertanic. Oh no! We were cut off from our escape vehicle. We couldn’t make a high-speed get-a-way. I thought we might need some defensive weapons, but the boys’ Speedos didn’t have any pockets and couldn’t carry even a small rape whistle. Discretely, I slowly reached into my purse to retrieve my can of Aqua Net hairspray and a lighter. I thought that if worse came to worst, I could create a make-shift flame thrower if we were physically attacked while my naked boy harem escaped.

A wave of relief passed over me when two handsome men dressed in chauffeur uniforms (I have such a weakness for a man in a uniform) got out of the limo and excitedly waved to us, loudly exclaiming that they were sorry for the earlier homophobic incident. They proceeded to explain that they had dropped off the drunken assholes and had returned to extend an apology to us.

My naked boys excitedly began swarming over the limo, exploring its vastness and sparkly gismos like ants discovering a honey-covered chicken nugget. David asked me to sit on the hood of the limo and pose for a photo. I could hear the metal struts inside the hood strain against the force of my Buttockus Maximus. The limo’s suspension system groaned under the strain as the front bumper began touching the pavement. I posed with my face raised to the shining sun and David snapped the photo which can best be described as a demented hood ornament.

While driving us all back to Try-Angles, I was totally amazed that lightning didn’t strike us as a couple of my naked boys proceeded to “moon” the temple as we drove past.

This story leaves us with several important questions:

1. Just how many naked boys can fit into Queertanic?

2. Will the governor (my distant cousin) want to enlist us as official ambassadors for the Utah Tourism Council?

3. Should Utah prepare to receive a horde of Japanese drag queens searching for their own beefcake harems?

4. Would General Motors be willing to have me pose for a line of hood ornaments for their limos?

5. Had I resorted to using the hairspray flame thrower, would I have become a literal “flaming queen?”

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