The road to Las Vegas is fraught with danger and excitement.
My eyes were glued to the television, viewing the men’s gymnastics at the London Olympics. I watched in awe as the parade of jaw-dropping, beautiful, incredibly buff and ripped athletes performed their routines to perfection. Who knew that the human body could bend into some of those unnatural positions?
Speaking of hunky studs bending their hot bods into unnatural positions, I’m reminded of a road trip a few of my sister queens and I took to Las Vegas. On one adventurous evening, after we had gorged ourselves on good old food porn at the Mirage buffet, we realized we weren’t yet fully satisfied. In the local paper we noticed an advertisement, announcing a new strip club where the hunks would go “full monty.”
“Could it be true?” we asked ourselves and knew we had to investigate.
What self-respecting queen from Utah would pass up a chance to experience such a real life lesson in human anatomy?
Squealing in anxious anticipation, all eight of us piled into Queertanic, my 1975 Buick land yacht, and sped out of the Mirage parking structure so quickly that after clearing a slight rise in the pavement, Queertanic actually caught a little air. Upon landing in a shower of sparks amid the sickening sounds of screaming queens and metal scraping against concrete, we raced toward the Old Boulder Highway to partake of this beefcake buffet. With a street map in one hand, and the advertisement in the other, and everyone else yelling directions all at once, I drove Queertanic like a maniac. We were queens on a lofty mission to advance our education. Shockingly, we arrived at the club without wrecking and oil pan still intact.
Jostling for position, we entered the door with much anxious trepidation, only to find the place was empty because it was still very early in the evening. Since we were the first customers to arrive, we had our pick of seats. There was a small stage at one end of the room. Attached to the stage was a two-foot long runway that bisected the room with chairs located right up against the platform. In the middle of the runway there was an honest to God stripper pole, just like in the movies. I quickly elbowed the other queens aside and plopped my bodus rotundus into the chair closest to the pole. I did not want to miss even a single pubic hair.
Soon, the house lights dimmed. My heart began beating faster. The music began. I began to perspire (glisten). Five totally naked, stunning, handsome, buff, tanned, toned, six pack-packing studs entered the stage one by one, and performed a classic Zoolander runway walk, waving their dangling participles close enough for me to feel the breeze. They all retreated to the stage and began manipulating their mangos, racing to see who could be the first to be Captain Standish and fix his bayonet. With their magic wands firmly in hand, it felt as if they cast a full-body bind spell on me. I could not move.
It was solo time; one by one, the Adonis’ took their turns, demonstrating their strength, agility and beauty on the stripper pole. The most handsome dude, and the object of my lust, came last. He moved effortlessly to the pole. I was close enough that I could see the pores in his skin. A faint musky breeze wafted over me each time he rotated around the pole. His bazooka and cannon balls were well within firing range. Suddenly he quit swinging on the pole and stopped, facing me. I couldn’t breathe. While staring directly into my eyes, he gave me a big wink and then he reached out with one hand and caressed my cheek. Seductively, he slowly traced around my quivering lips with his finger. He began slowly thrusting Mr. Happy and the chestnuts closer to my face as his finger found its way between my lips moving in and out in perfect harmony with each thrust of his divining rod. My heart stopped beating.
In a blur of sudden movement, he spun quickly around the pole and returned having gyrated such that he was now upside down on his shoulders and his smooth as silk full moon and my face were now cheek to cheek to cheek to cheek. I was close enough, that if I was Pinocchio and told a lie, my nose could have done a dive in the dark. I nearly passed out. With seductive tenderness, he inserted his finger, still moist from my mouth, in and out of his “back door” as if he were checking the oil. Having never seen this act of seduction before, I was totally at a loss. After playing the ninth hole for some time, he moved on to the next queen and I was left sitting there a stunned and quivering mess, so much so that I had forgotten to stuff tip money into his stocking.
Like always these events leave us with several eternal questions:
1. In gymnastics, should the name of the men’s high bar event be changed to beefcake on a stick?
2. Should I install rubber bumper pads on the underside of Queertanic?
3. Should I begin carrying a defibrillator in my purse?
4. Do I need to take some defense against the dark parts classes?
5. How many times must you insert the dipstick, in order to properly check your oil?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.