Warning: If you are easily offended, or have a weak constitution, you should skip reading this column.
The road to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and it is fraught with danger and excitement.
Many many years ago, way back in the Cretaceous Period when I was still a single adventurous princess about town, I had an occasion to go on vacation to Las Vegas. Everyone who knows me is aware that I am a buffet queen of the highest order. Queertanic, my beloved land yacht, even had a bumper sticker that stated, “I brake for buffets!” I read on a billboard that Caesars Palace had just opened a new buffet, so I put on my “fancy eatin’ dress” and aimed Queertanic in the general direction and she figured out the way there on her own. I was in heaven. Trying to get my money’s worth, I ate and ate until my already “Gravitationally Challenged Physique” became a true “Blubbernaught” of “Bodus Rotundus.”
The next item of my vacation check list was to visit a bathhouse and see if I could, through several quick and dirty sessions of “Bumping Uglies,” find “Mr. Right.” I arrive at Hawk’s Gym, and low and behold it was Leather Night! Harnesses, jockstraps and dildos, oh my! I asked for a private room. The beautiful twink of an attendant said that since I was from out of town he would give me a very special room. With anxious anticipation I unlocked the door to my cubicle. I was dismayed to discover that the room had wall-to-wall mirrors on three sides and the ceiling. No one of my “Heroically Proportioned – Tuba Luba – Aisle Blocker Physique” wants to see himself in a mirror, let alone engaging in naked “Extreme Flirting.” But being taught by Miss Manners in Princess Finishing School not to make waves, I resigned myself to make the best of the situation. Upon entering my room, I quickly shut my eyes to avoid seeing the “Hambeast” times three in motion. I quickly disrobed.
I have learned over time, that a queen must always be prepared to accessorize to meet any occasion. So dressed in a black jockstrap, which I just happened to have in my bathhouse bag, to fit in with all the leather queens.
Within five minutes, miracle of miracles, I attracted the attention of a way-out-of-my-league, porn-star-worthy, super hunky stud in full leather harness. God bless the chubby chasers! He asked to come into my room. He was a take-charge kinda guy so I let him lead. He immediately began a session of “Driving Miss Daisy” by “Checking The Oil” with his “Schlongasaurus Rex.” After some aggressive “Stuffin’ the Muffin,” he reached into my bag and withdrew my dildo with a handle and proceeded to “Churn the Butter.” I needed a short break so I stood up, turned around and looked him in the eyes and gave him a kiss.
Just then, I coughed and the dildo went shooting out of my “Hippoglottamus” with so much force that it ricocheted off a mirror and struck my left ankle. To my immense dismay, the projectile missile was followed by what I can only describe as a “High Pressure Disposal Of Hazardous Waste:” most of the buffet, which now was puree. My body decided it was the proper time to “Clear Out Some Inventory” and “Carpet Bombed Afghanistan” with “Dispensing some Soft-Serve.” Oh the horror! Oh the mess! Oh the stench!
Miss Manners never prepared me how to handle this magnitude of a social faux pas. How does one discretely and politely excuse himself from having created an EPA Super Fund cleanup site? Hastily, I picked up the dildo by the handle and in doing so, some of the “Bloop-Bloop” came with it and was flung up into my hair. My “Gentleman Caller” was totally at a loss for how to behave. Should he help? Should he run? I excused him with a terse “I need to clean up.”
Luckily, there was a bathroom next to my room. It was difficult to unlock and open my door without spreading the contamination to the door knob. Finally I emerged, naked, limping from where the dildo had struck my ankle, holding the dildo in one hand, and my bathroom kit in the other, dripping “Montezuma’s Revenge” from my hair, and ankle and other places. “Frustratingly, the bathroom was occupied and locked. I proceeded to the next one and it was also unavailable. So I proceeded down the hall like a war refugee. Before I could get to the shower room, I was approached by another “Desperate Housewife” and he asked if we could play. (REALLY?) I told him that I was not in a position to entertain a “Gentleman Caller” at the moment. So, the everlasting moral to this story is, never engage in “Romper Room Play” after eating a buffet.
This story leaves us with several important questions:
- Should I have gone back to the twink attendant and demanded a “room without three views?”
- If you place your gentleman caller on top, can it help obscure the reflection in the mirrors?
- Should I begin packing a mop in my bathhouse bag?
- Rather than pausing and cleaning up, should I have announced an impromptu scat party instead?
- Should I have filmed the whole thing and sold it as a German shisa video?
- Would vacation insurance cover the EPA Super Fund cleanup?
- Is this where mothers adapted the rule that you can’t go swimming until at least one hour after you eat?
- WHEN DID I EAT CORN?
These and other eternal questions shall be answered in future chapters of the Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.