A tale of studs

BY PETUNIA PAP SMEAR

The road to the hot springs is fraught with danger and excitement.

As many of you may know, I co-host an outing to Crystal Hot Springs in Honeyville, Utah, every New Year’s Day. There are only a few things in life that I enjoy more (pizza, tacos, chocolate, porn) than soaking in the warm mineral water. At least that’s my official story, and I’m sticking to it.

After the relatively short but torturously bone-chilling slog across the icy pavement to get into the hot pool, upon entering the steaming hot water, much like the Titanic being launched from dry dock but after the resulting tsunami has subsided, I experience a euphoria that has become more addictive to me than heroin is to a street junkie. But the honest to God truth is that I have three main reasons I like to go to the springs.

First: the cloud of steam rising from the hot pools envelopes me enough to help camouflage my ever-present waist stretching onboard storage of two years’ supply of tacos and pizza (I blame my Mormon food storage preparedness indoctrination) from the eyes of innocent bystanders.

Second: Unlike most people who claim the hot mineral water helps relieve the pain in their joints, I experience the greatest sense of relief as I enter the water, and my immense buttockus rotundus and bulkitudinously ponderous potbelly become somewhat buoyant. When coupled with the added effect of my special flotation breasticles, my legs are then left supporting what everyone else would consider a normal load. At this point, I can re-enact plate tectonics continental drift.

Third and perhaps most importantly: There are usually several if not many hunky university frat boys bobbing about in the water. On rare occasions, I’m lucky enough that they are slightly drunk. Tipsy enough to be frolicking, much like dolphins engaged in a frenzied game of herd the herring. With some careful and strategic planning, I’m able to place my bulkitude in their midst requiring the bevy of hot boys to circumnavigate my hippopotamic landmass.

On one delightful outing, a group of frisky Speedo-clad frat boys decided that they would compete to see who could hold their breath long enough to swim between my legs, just like Shelly Winters in “The Poseidon Adventure.” Oh, darn! Somehow, most of the swimmers got caught while squeezing through the very narrow space between my blue whale-esque thighs. I was pleasantly surprised when the prettiest boy decided to show off after he negotiated my watery obstacle course. As he emerged from between my gigantic underwater nutcracker, he performed a handstand resulting in his ample package being very prominently displayed about six inches in front of my lips. Frat boys and spandex and bulges, OH! MY!

Sometimes, in years past, New Year’s Day has been accompanied by a snowstorm, and Queertanic, my beloved 1975 Buick land yacht, has gotten stuck in the parking lot, requiring a small army of bystanders to help push it out. Not wanting to repeat this trauma, I went to the tire store to purchase some snow tires in preparation for this year. The store was quite crowded with many other customers also buying snow tires. There was one clerk, whose name tag said Dax, who stood out from the rest because of his exceptionally good looks. It was necessary for me to do some discrete yet deliberate maneuvering among the other buyers so that I would end up being served by Mr. Cutie. It took me an extra ten minutes, but I consider that time well spent.

Dax helped me choose some very nice tires. I was mesmerized watching this beautiful man tap the keyboard while arranging to “get me mounted,” Er, I mean, have the tires installed on Queertanic. I was daydreaming about Dax and I driving off together into the sunset when I was suddenly jerked back to reality when I realized that Dax had asked me a question. “What?” I said. Dax patiently repeated, “Would you like studs?” I thought, “Well, of course I want studs. What self-respecting drag queen would not want as many studs as she can trap?” Then I realized he was speaking about studs in snow tires and not bodybuilders. Sheepishly I answered, “yes please.”

After waiting one hour, Dax called my name and said, “Your car is ready.” Rather than just tossing my keys to me like many of the other clerks were doing, Dax made it a point to hand them to me carefully. He gave me a wide smile and a slight wink of his beautiful blue eye. My heart skipped a beat as his hand brushed mine, and I could swear that he paused for just an extra millisecond before releasing my keys.

While I was driving home, I marveled at how quiet these studded snow tires were while I dreamed about Dax and I moving to California and living together in a beach house. When I arrived home and got out of the car, I bent over to examine the new treads. Low, and behold, I couldn’t see any studs. I paid $60 extra for studs. Where the hell are the studs? So, I drove back to the tire store. Dax saw me return and gave me a quizzical smile. I explained that even though I paid for them, I couldn’t find any studs, anywhere! Sheepishly, he refunded my stud fee.

This story leaves us with several important questions:

1. Should the game of swimming between my legs be called Pap Smear Pool Party or The Poop-Side-Down Adventure?

2. Would the frat boys describe swimming between my legs as like being keel hauled?

3. Since he was already wet, would the frat boy have noticed if I had licked his “basket?”

4. Are studs worth all this trouble?

5. Should I embroider “Kobayashi Maru: The search for studs” on a T-shirt?”

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