The Tale of the Missing Car Cover
A warning to our readers: This month’s Perils of Petunia Pap-Smear is not for those who may be considered prudish by their friends.
The road to the bathhouse is fraught with danger and excitement!
A few years ago, I purchased a 1996 Buick Road Master, me being a considerable “Size Queen” when cars are involved. Oh, did I say only cars? Silly Me!
To christen the car, I thought that the cadre of fellow princesses from Logan and I needed to go on a road trip. It just so happened that it was the same year that the LDS church rebuilt the Nauvoo Temple and, being a cultural Mormon, (you can kick the boy out of the church, but you can’t kick the church out of the boy) I am still interested in the historical stuff.
I thought we could drive the Road Master and the whole “tiara” of queens from Logan (Is tiara the right collective noun?) could visit the temple open house and other church history sights. I’m sure if we had worn our best white frocks, sensible heels, and greatly reduced make-up we could have fit right in with any of the Relief Society sisters.
Of course, it remains without saying that I also expected to be checking out all the bathhouses and porn stores that we could find along the way. After all, I do have my priorities! I thought we could call this road trip, “The Great Midwest Church History and Bathhouse Tour.”
Alas, due to delivery problems with the car, this wonderful trip never materialized, but the concept just makes the imagination race with possibilities doesn’t it?
Several people have asked that I share some of my bathhouse stories. So, in my best Bette Davis impersonation, “Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night.”
A good bathhouse is one of my favorite places on Earth to be. First of all, you can assume that everyone is there for the same reason. You don’t have to spend all that money on drinks to get the object of your desire drunk before last call. Plus there are showers with which to clean up, and mirrors with which any respectable queen can re-apply her make-up. Such an improvement over cruising in the bushes, and you can save months of time over cruising on the internet.
On one occasion, I was visiting the Melrose Baths in West Hollywood, a pleasant neighborhood bathhouse with a variety of guys.
Preppies and Jocks and Bears, OH MY!
I met this very nice handsome gentleman and we decided to adjourn to his room for some privacy in which we could “trade fashion tips” among other things. Well, one thing led to another and he decided he would like to “park his Buick” in my “garage.” I asked him to please drive safely and to cover his “Buick” with a latex “car cover.” Ribbed for pleasure, Oh Joy! Consequently, he did park his “Buick” in my “garage,” repeatedly, for quite some time.
My advice to the novice is to always remember to liberally lube your “car and garage door” for better and longer-lasting performance.
After his “Buick” came to a sudden and erupting halt, spewing its “transmission fluid” he withdrew out of my “garage.” I turned around to help him remove his “car cover” and give his “Buick” a “spit shine,” and low and behold he was no longer wearing one. I panicked and accused him of removing it during the “parking” process. He swore he had not and that it had probably fallen off inside the “garage.” I’ve heard of having “junk in the trunk” before, but this was ridiculous.
So I reached around to my “backyard” and opened my “garage door” with my fingers feeling around in the dark for the missing “car cover.” Where is a pair of salad tongs or even a gerbil that knows how to fetch, when you need them?
Just then I felt something and pulled out my fingers to investigate. To my abject horror, right there in front of god and everybody, especially “Mr. Wonderful,” sticking to my fingers was a sizeable piece of “Brown Play Dough.” Dumbfounded, we both stared at it. The awkward silence was palpable. Miss Manners’ social training has never taught me how to deal with this type of “fecal faux pas.”
Stunned by the “Audacity of Poop”, I suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, Shit!” Never have my words been more literal in meaning, as I suppressed the childish urge to form a sculpture out of the “Play Dough.”
Desperately, I looked around the room for somewhere or something to free my fingers of the brown scourge as all anticipation of preserving any queenly decorum speedily evaporated. Chivalrously, Mr. Wonderful grabbed the garbage can and offered it to me. I quickly flung my fingers into it with much vigor, the queenly parade wave having insufficient centrifugal force for this occasion, letting the proverbial “shit fly.”
In a last-ditch effort to maintain a modicum of dignity, I discretely excused myself and retired in privacy to the restroom. To my great relief, after several minutes of intense Kegel exercises, I was able to extricate the missing “car cover,” replete with its contents of “transmission fluid.”
Of course, as always, this story leaves us with many important questions:
- Are combined Church history and bathhouse tours commercially marketable?
- How would Queen Elizabeth have handled this situation?
- Do they teach these kinds of “parking methods” in Driver’s Ed?
- Do you think that I could star in a German Scheisse video?
- Is there big money to be earned in German Scheisse videos?
- Must I be able to speak German to star in a German Scheisse video?
- Should I start carrying salad tongs in my purse?
- Did Dr. Kegel have this type of situation in mind when he developed his exercises?
These and other eternal questions are to be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap-Smear.