A tale of beach body bingo

BY PETUNIA PAP SMEAR

The road road to achieving a hot summer beach body is fraught with danger and excitement.

I AM IN HEAT!

Now, before ya’ll get all excited/revolted about where I might be in ‘that special time’ of my ‘monthly flow,’ eewww! What the Hell are you thinking? It’s summertime, and the weather is hotter than Satan’s house cat. The extreme summer temperatures that we have been experiencing are beginning to get the upper hand on me, and not in the ‘happy ending hand job’ kinda way we might dream of.

As a general principle, drag queens do not sweat. We glisten. But, and this is a huge butt, as a generously upholstered, comfortably cushioned, fluffy around the edges queen of ample proportions who happens to be carrying a lot of extra cargo in her girdle, I have come to realize that in the heat of the summer, the ‘glistening’ in my panties can approach the flow rate of Niagara Falls, thereby surpassing most, if not all, ‘crimson tides.’ Being a drag queen, and thereby a biological male, I always believed that I was not to be visited by the monthly ‘crimson tide’ or shall we say, ‘attend the red wedding.’

But enough about being a moist queen! Back to our story about getting ready for the beach. A true and proper queen should always endeavor to look her best in public. Therefore, if I was going to appear in swimwear at a pool or beach, I decided that, first and foremost, I needed to get a bikini wax job. Having watched a few waxing tutorial videos on YouTube, I thought I had a grasp of the concept and began the process.

First off, I gathered up a few scented Christmas candles that had been gifted to me over the years, and I popped them in the microwave to melt the wax. With the bowl of hot wax in hand, I laid a towel down on the floor, then I stripped down to my birthday suit, laid on the towel, and prepared to pour the hot wax onto my panty hamster. I screamed in agony as the first dribbles of hot wax reached my junk forest. The burning pain was worse than as if I were trying to pee with a raging case of Gonorrhea. (Not that I may or may not have any firsthand experience with such things.) I stopped. Surely, the people in the videos had not experienced such painful problems. The air was thick with the toxic smell of overcooked Bayberry Christmas Candle and scorched hair from my ‘love rug,’ which was now stained red from the coloring of the wax like a horrible, disfiguring disease. Therefore, I called a cease and desist to this waxing project debacle.

Now, like any other self-respecting Idaho farm potato queen, I had been raised to be self-reliant. My dad taught me that nearly everything on the farm could be fixed with bailing wire and duct tape. So, applying these principles to this situation, I determined that duct tape could serve the same defoliating function as wax. Thus, I headed out to the garage to find some duct tape.

It was one of the many 100-degree days we have endured this summer. As I entered the garage, the thermometer said it was 135 degrees inside. Within seconds, I realized that my panties were getting all moist from the heat. I began to ‘glisten’ voluminously! In fact, it was beginning to feel as if A River Runs Through It. (Where is Brad Pit when you need a river guide?) Oh my God! There’s not a large enough maxi-pad in the world to contain this much glistening. I’d better hurry.

As I was rummaging around the disorganized garage, frantically searching for the last roll of duct tape I knew had to be in there, I was now sweating (way past glistening) buckets. While trying to wipe the hair out of my eyes and feeling around in the dark corners of the garage, Revoltingly, I inadvertently shoved my hand directly into a mouse nest. Oddly enough, I could still smell the faint stench of bayberry candle and burned hair wafting about my person. I was beginning to feel panic in the dark, hotter-than-the devil’s-armpit garage with parts of mouse nest sticking to my sweaty hands. And now my panties had become so swampy that I was feeling like Katherine Hepburn must have when she was trapped in the oppressively hot swamp with Humphry Bogart in “The African Queen.”

Alas, I couldn’t find the roll of duct tape, but as I was dejectedly walking back to the house, I noticed that Queertanic’s bumper was being held on by a large contingent of duct tape. So, I dashed to the car, tore off the bumper and recycled the tape. Viola, I began applying duct tape to my bikini lawn with reckless abandon.

I yanked the tape off quickly. The removed tape resembled about 20 million spiders on their backs with legs in the air.

I have been told that my screams of pain could be heard on the International Space Station and, subsequently, NORAD moved the military threat level to DEFCON 1.

But pool parties, HERE I COME!

This story leaves us with several important questions:

1. Should I install sump pumps in my breasticles to siphon off the excess glisten?

2. Should I capture that liquid and pipe it into the Great Salt Lake to restore it to historical levels?

3. Would this kill all the brine shrimp in the Great Salt Lake?

4. How and where does one responsibly dispose of hair-encrusted duct tape?

5. Could this qualify as an EPA superfund clean-up site?

6. Would it be possible to sew the strips of hair-covered tape into a fur coat?

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