The road to Steam Works is fraught with danger and excitement.
LISTEN, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Petunia Pap-Smear,
On the eighteenth of April, in Ninety-Five;
Hardly a princess is not alive
Who remembers that infamous day and year.
She said to her friend, “If the bath house is open,
You must signal to me, by some common token.
Hang a hankie aloft, in the right rear pocket
Of your 501 jeans, as a signal docket, —
One if it’s closed or two it’s not,
While I wait in Queer-Tanic, my Buick land-yacht.
Ready to ride, and spread my charm,
“Into every middlesex villager’s arm.”
Then we said “Good plan!” with intent hardcore,
We quickly drove to the Berkley shore.
Just as a line was beginning to form,
To enter Steam Works, a bathhouse warm.
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Queer-Tanic moved over the Bay Bridge, yay.
Casting a shadow over the water,
On a quest for sex, could this get any hotter?
Meanwhile, her friend, through the window peers,
Watching and listening with eager ears,
Til in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the bathhouse door,
The sound of excitement, the squeal of a twink,
The boasting of size, and queen on the brink,
Climbing the stairs in search of amour.
Then he climbed the stairs, to the bathhouse front door,
And startled a hunk, while looking for more,
Meanwhile, impatient to enter this year,
Out on the street sat Petunia Pap-Smear.
Anxiously watching for the agreed upon sign,
She hiked up her skirt, to raise her hemline.
But mostly she fixed her eyes in their sockets,
Upon her friend’s 501 jeans’ back pockets.
A flutter, a shimmer and then flowing free
One hanky, then two she spied with glee.
A hurry of heels in the Berkley street,
She moved in the moonlight, a horny monarch,
And beneath, from spiked heels, in passing, a spark
Struck out by Petunia, in search of big meat.
Brighter than lightning, that spark pierced the dark,
That was all! And yet, through the sudden bright light,
The fate of Queer Nation was riding that night;
She entered the door, and stood aghast,
A plethora of naked young men, she beheld
She took a Viagra, so she could last,
And dove into the throng, like a vixen compelled
After undressing and donning a towel,
She started exploring the place, on the prowl.
She entered the steam room and quickly departed,
Moisture causing her big hair to be parted.
She entered the dark room and feeling around,
Encountered a large stud, who felt muscle bound.
He grabbed her and kissed her and spun her around,
And fondled and “probed” in the nicest way found.
Not able to see him, in the absolute dark,
She let him have his way with her, on a lark.
He chewed on her neck, stuck his tongue in her ear
He fondled and poked and played with her rear.
He whispered to her, in his voice just a bit
Of the Queen’s English, “My God he’s a Brit.”
And in a low voice he mumbled, “All is well!”
A moment in which we both felt the spell
As he finished bending her over his wiener,
“Let’s do this again, when I’m recharged and cleaner,”
And he then moved off before she saw what he looked like,
She wondered how she could re-find the tyke.
Undaunted she next went to the glory hole maze,
What a wonderful means for family jewel displays.
She tasted and petted and admired from her knees,
She said through the hole, “Another one please.”
On her way to the hot tub, she encountered her friend,
He asked her if anyone had turned her upend.
She asked him to help her as if she were smitten,
Please aid her, please help her, re-find the Briton.
She said to her friend “If a Briton you sight,
In action again, in this brighter light,
Use your hankies again, as a signal to me,
Of what he looks like, and the positions he be.
Red if he bottoms or blue if he tops,
yellow if handsome and black if he’s not.
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride him and spread the alarm,
The Briton is coming, with his Prince William-like charm.
As she sat in the hot tub, watching hunks shower,
She thought she could sit there alone, by the hour.
Alone and dejected she silently waited,
For a sign from her friend that the British guy rated.
Politely she listened to a cute little twink,
Berating, complaining and making a stink,
About a big troll that would not leave him alone,
She thought to herself, don’t touch his “bone.”
And for heaven’s sake, give this guy a wide birth,
He apparently doesn’t like queens of large girth.
She bumped him and “sorry” she said with great fluster,
The twink purposely backed into her lap with great luster.
He bumped her and ground her and kissed her shocked face,
Wouldn’t you know, he liked chubby chase.
You know the rest. Read between the line.
How the Briton resurfaced, and made a beeline,
To join Petunia and the twink in the pool,
Causing her friend to be jealous and drool.
Through the rest of the night, she rode the Briton,
While kissing the twink, with whom she was smitten.
In hours of darkness and peril and need,
People will waken and listen to hear
The squeals of delight and stories indeed,
Of the midnight rides of Petunia Pap-Smear
Like always these events leave us with several important questions:
1. Is Longfellow rolling over in his grave?
2. Will Steam Works ever let me in again?
3. Should Kate Middleton be jealous?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of:
The Perils of Petunia Pap-Smear.