The tale of a campy queen
The road to the national forest is fraught with danger and excitement.
It’s summer and time to head for the hills. I love to go camping. I used to organize several camping trips each summer for the gay community. Usually, we would have 30 or 40 people camping with us. It turned into a regular “family reunion.”
To establish a campsite, first and foremost, I wanted to designate our area and create a little corner of pride paradise in the forest. So, when I would initially arrive at any campsite, I would mark our territory in an effort to guide any ditzy queens to the correct spot and also to help keep any stray muggles at arm’s length. I would flit and frolic around the campsite, lifting my skirt and peeing on all the bushes ala “Dances with Wolves.” Sadly, I found that I just couldn’t drink enough Diet Mountain Dew to be able to fully accomplish this fluidic fortification. A less liquid solution needed to be found.
I learned as a boy scout to work smarter not harder. Therefore, I’m a wise old queen, not a lazy-ass bitch! Eventually, at the risk of suffering life-threatening dehydration, I found that the easiest way to mark the perimeter of our compound was to string up a line of used brightly colored car lot pennant flags. Then I would strategically place an entire flock of plastic pink lawn flamingos along the perimeter of our campsite to act as gay sentinels. As the pièce de résistance to this territorial homesteading, I would place several rainbow pride flags around the area. On one occasion, a very handsome 20-something Mr. Ranger showed up just after I had marked the territory and timidly ask if I intended to take all the decorations away with me when we left. I was momentarily stunned by his beauty and by how well he filled out his green ranger uniform. After quite a bit of stammering, I was finally able to spit out, “Of course, we’ll take all this down when we leave,” as I thought to myself, “This shit is way too expensive to just abandon.” I decided to forgive his insolence due to his handsomeness.
Of course, being a modestly high-maintenance queen, in addition to all the flags and flamingos, I demanded that I camp in comfort, so I would insist on bringing along ALL the comforts of home. I would load up Queertanic, my beloved 1975 Buick Electra land yacht, to bursting with all my camping gear and haul it into the forest. Then return home for another load and stuff it again with many wigs, breasticles, make-up, and glitter. Because, you never know when you might need a wardrobe change to impress a passing moose … or even better yet, an amorous bear!
And then Iwould return yet again and load up Queertanic a third time with the most important thing for any camping queen — food, glorious food. After all, just because we are in the majestic forest, there is no reason to let my bootylicious colossus buttockus waste away. Everyone used to tease me that I would bring everything but the kitchen sink camping, until one year for my birthday, Mr. Pap Smear actually gave me a kitchen sink to take camping. Apparently, the way to this queen’s heart/sleeping bag is through dish pan hands.
One year, shortly before camp, I had just had back surgery and was in a great deal of pain, so I needed to lie down most of the time. But being the extreme control queen that I am, I insisted that we take an air mattress and place it in the middle of the camp, so I could lie on it and supervise, giving orders to my minions. Poor Mr. Pap Smear and our friend Wayne bore the brunt of catering to my demands as I lay on my bed shouting instructions. All I lacked was some nearly naked boys to fan me with palm fronds and hand-feed me grapes. I thought to myself, “Oh, this is camping in style.”
In the evening, we ended up telling cruising stories around the campfire and playing card games, while some of the more adventurous boys became slightly inebriated. After some drunken naked fire jumping, where balls were toasted and pubic hair was singed, we all climbed into our tents for the night. At about 3 a.m., lightning flashed, and thunder cracked as the heavens opened, and it began to rain like cats and dogs. Surely, this storm was even greater than the one Noah built the ark for.
After a long and tortuous night, we soggily emerged from our tents in the morning, only to find a herd of cattle stampeding down the canyon. They burst past the flamingo sentinels, knocking half of them over, right through the middle of our campsite. Of course, the cows left a trail of mud and liquid cow pies in their wake. We were all starving for breakfast, but since we were now in a mucky swamp and hungover, no one felt like cooking. We decided to drive down the canyon into town. Covered with mud and muck we entered L.D.’s Café in Richmond, Utah. Eggs and bacon never tasted so good.
Like always, these events leave us with several eternal questions:
- Is peeing on the bushes at camp considered water sports?
- Should we call this territory marking “Dances with Pap Smears?”
- Was Mr. Ranger exhibiting flamingo-phobia?
- Was the rainstorm God’s way of extinguishing flaming pubic hairs?
- Were the cows jealous of my breasticles?
- Should I begin camping at the Holiday Inn?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap-Smear
