The tale of wonderful Weenie World

by Petunia Pap Smear in The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear | 1 comment

The road to The Fruit Loop is fraught with danger and excitement.

Due to the recent travails of Rep. Anthony Weiner, you might say I have weenies on the brain. I was saddened when Weiner felt he had to resign over the so-called Weiner-Gate scandal. He didn’t break any laws. He merely tweeted his “Bald-headed Yogurt Slinger” to a select group of adults who, by all indications, didn’t mind so much. And the media, my God! They should leave the amateur porn critiques to us professional “Willy” worshipers. Upon serious introspection I have come to the realization that my life is one long search for the ultimate “Baloney Pony.” At last count, I have collected 84,563 photos of various impressive and, shall I say, inspirational “Tonsil Ticklers.” In the words of the great Elmira Fudd: “Be vewwy vewwy quiet, I’m hunting weenies!” All this “Tally Whacker” talk reminds me that during the early Jurassic era, before online cruising became all-the-rage, this old queen pursued her “Peter Pecker Peepers” in person.

A long, long time ago, in a canyon far, far away (OK, it was only Logan Canyon, but everyone in Salt Lake believes that Utah ends at Beck Street), there was a legendary cruising area affectionately known as “The Fruit Loop.” It was a little turn-off among a grove of trees and bushes with parking spaces not visible from the highway, complete with a veritable maze of trails and hidey holes that had been beaten down through generations of horny sisters on the prowl for “Pocket Rockets.” Of course the grassy ground cover was in excellent shape due to the constant aeration it received from the incessant tramping of spiked heels. Usually “Bobbing for Boners” is a solitary activity, but this particular area had become so popular that a horny queen sometimes needed to wait in line for her turn at “Trolling for Trouser Tools.”

One especially warm day, I had overexerted myself “Managing Man Muscles” and in order to prevent heatstroke (a true queen should never sweat) I needed a break from the “Cocky Hockey.” As I laid under the shade of the trees — glistening, not sweating — I noticed there were many cars driving through The Fruit Loop without stopping. I thought to myself that I could open up a food stand in the loop and do quite a business. As I pondered what I should offer on my menu, there was of course only one obvious choice: Hot dogs, weenies, tube steaks.

The next evening I brought table and chairs that I used for high tea, and a small, tabletop grill, hot dog buns and soda pop, and I set up to be of service to the weary “Willy Whangers.” I debated serving the foot-long weenies, but then decided they might make some of the boys feel inferior. You know how vicious and judgmental size queens can be. Almost immediately I was joined by a couple of my co-“Joy Stick Jockeys.” They had folding lawn chairs in their cars (it always pays for a queen to be prepared for any possible social occasion), so we set up an impromptu “Relief Society Homo-Making Meeting” right there beside the cruising trails. Very soon we were joined by several other fellow “Salami Seekers” and a party was born.

We decided, in true Relief Society style, that we wanted to repeat it weekly as a potluck. We thought that we might even get some of the other “Dip Stick Divas” to stop long enough that we could learn their names.

Thus the weekly tradition that would come to be known as “Weenie World” was set in motion. Each week, more and more “Love Muscle Maulers” would take a break from “Big Dick and the Twins” to pause and share refreshments and stories with us. We became a community of friends rather than just a group of individual “Noodle Doodlers.” Because there is strength in numbers, we even scared away the fag bashers that would sometimes plague the area. Eventually we began to have a small campfire around which the “Ding-a-ling Diddlers” would swap tales of elusive “One-eyed Trouser Snakes.” Occasionally, one or two of the boys would feel the invisible tug of the “Pink Tractor Beam” and discretely disappear into the bushes only to reappear about 20 minutes later with that unmistakable I’ve-found-“Mr. Winky” look plastered on their faces.

Ultimately we started to domesticate The Fruit Loop. Some of the more enterprising queens took gardening equipment and groomed the trails, cutting back some of the low-hanging branches so that my beehive hair would not get caught in the trees and bushes.

One sister even brought power tools. I know the chain saw was used to clear some fallen trees from the trail, but I can only speculate an imaginative use for the power drill. In order to do the responsible thing and promote safer sex, we made some condom dispensers out of milk bottles and hung them along the trails, along with risk-reduction literature. I had to refill the condom dispensers three times a week. My oh my, what busy and industrious “Heat Seeking Love Missiles” were afoot.

We kept Weenie World going for seven years, until the damned paintballers took over our trails for their war games. For some strange reason, I feel the need for a “Polish Sausage” right now!

Like always these events leave us with several important questions:

1. When it comes to “Beef Bayonets,” which is more important, quantity or quality?

2. How many “Stinky Pickles” would be considered an overdose?

3. How many more euphemisms for penis are there?

These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap-Smear