A tale of innocence lost

BY PETUNIA PAP SMEAR

The road to cruising is fraught with danger and excitement.

A long, long time ago, in a Ford Galaxy not so far away, I lost my innocence. Way back during the late Cretaceous period, when I was still a princess in training and had yet to acquire my very first wig and breasticles, I was just beginning to explore the big wide world outside of Cache Valley and starting to inch my way out of the closet and explore the big wide world of “self-expression.” In doing so, through much trial, error, embarrassment, and compromising situations, I discovered the world of cruising.

It took me many months/years of careful discrete observation and practice to learn the basic tenets of cruising. The adventure and thrill of discovering a likely cruising location. The skill and subtlety of making the first furtive eye contact, even without mascara. Recognizing his sly grin and ever-so-slight and suggestive head nod towards the nearby bushes or other secluded location. Learning to wear easily accessible clothing. Sadly, due to the introduction of internet dating apps, cruising in person has become somewhat of a lost art these days.

But I digress. For the purposes of this story, let’s go back to my very first time. After discovering the Studio Theater on State Street, which showed porn movies, and the Magazine Shop on Main Street, which marketed a section of adult magazines, I observed that Third South, between Main and State, was an active cruising zone for randy men on the prowl looking for a quick and easy conquest. This particular block was indeed perfect for cruising. One building even had some pillars behind which a shy cruiser could hide if a cop car were approaching. Also, there was a very convenient parking terrace with a nice stairwell that was out of view for more “private assignations.”

In my effort to learn the “secret, not sacred” rules of cruising, I went to the Hardee’s on Second South, which is no longer there (since there was not a buffet located conveniently on Third South) and bought a couple of burgers. Then I drove Queertanic to Third South and parked right beside the drinking fountain to eat my burgers while watching the boys in action. I observed that a car would drive slowly by, circle the block a few times, and then eventually stop. A boy, leaning tantalizingly against the building, would then approach the car. The driver would roll down the window, and the boy might ask, “What time is it?” or “Nice weather, isn’t it?” So, after several sessions of viewing and consuming many, many cheeseburgers, I finally determined that it was my turn.

On this specific occasion, I determined that a caftan and wig might not be the best wardrobe, so I wore my most seductive short shorts and a sleeveless muscle shirt. Please keep in mind, this was many, many buffets ago when I could still pull off a sort of a come-hither look. I leaned against the building as I had observed the other boys do. I noticed a car slowly passing by while the driver was looking intently at the boys on display. He circled the block several times, finally stopping his car in front of me. My heart began racing with anticipation and fear. I finally gathered up all my courage and tentatively approached his car. He rolled down his window. He was pretty handsome, fit, and somewhere in his early forties. I noticed that he was wearing Spandex running tights. Now you all should know that I have a great weakness for Spandex clothing. Spandex IS the patron fabric of the gods! I leaned up against his car and asked if he knew what time it was. Just then, I realized that I was wearing a wristwatch. How foolish of me! So, in a desperate effort to not appear stupid, (too late), I quickly clasped my other hand over my watch. We continued to exchange pleasantries for a couple of minutes, and then he invited me into his car.

He drove us to a secluded area beneath a freeway overpass. We parked. He could tell I was extremely nervous. Ever so gently, he stroked my bare thigh with the back of his hand. He gave my hair a soft tassel, then dropped his hand to caress my chest gently. Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. He then proceeded to tenderly schlob my knob. After about 15 minutes, the sloppy-toppy finished when my yum-yum cannon exploded. “Oh, sweet mystery of life, I’ve finally found you!” I quickly pulled my shorts back up. He wanted to engage in a little post-tonsil-hockey conversation. This being my very first time, I was suddenly overcome with dread, guilt, and regret. I asked him to please just take me back to my car.

He kindly obliged. I sat in visibly distressed silence as he drove back to Third South. He parked beside Queertanic and said a very polite thank you. At this moment, I lost my composure and began an outburst of regret. “I’ve never done this before. I’m Mormon, and I’m going to go to Hell!” I stammered between tearful gasps. He patted me on my thigh calmly and said, “Don’t worry. I’m a bishop, and you’re going to be just fine.”

With that, I exited his car, and he drove away.

This story leaves us with several important questions:

1. Should classes in how to cruise be taught in princess finishing school?

2. Was this a different kind of “priesthood blessing”?

3. Did this bishop ordain me to be gay?

4. Should I create a chain of cruising-themed buffets in cruise-worthy locations?

5. Why can’t all bishop’s interviews be like this one?

6. As I advance in age, can these cruising techniques be adapted to electric mobility scooters?

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