The road to Rio is fraught with danger and excitement.
As I sat watching the Olympics in Rio de Janeiro, my mind was flooded with emotions and memories of my own journey to Rio.
Many years ago, during the Cretaceous Period — when I was several tons lighter and my skin was as wrinkle-free as a Tom Daley-stuffed Speedo — I had the opportunity to travel with a choir from Logan to perform a concert in Rio. Our hotel was on Copacabana Beach. I was nearly overcome with joy when I observed that more than 75 percent of the men on the beach were sporting a Speedo.
On the morning after our arrival, I got up early and went for a morning beach stroll. Lo and behold, there came along at least 200 beefy, young Brazilian Army soldiers jogging in formation. Again, their uniform consisted of only a Speedo, nothing else. Heaven, I’m in Heaven.
Of course the choir kept me busy with rehearsals and sightseeing, including trips to Sugar Loaf and Christ the Redeemer statue. Of course I had brought along my well-worn copy of Damron “Men’s Travel Guide,” which I recommend that no queen travel more than 20 miles from home without it.
It listed that there was some sort of gay theater within a couple of blocks of our hotel. I couldn’t wait to ditch my roommate, and explore. Bless my Gay-Dar, I was able to locate the theater after just a short 10-minute search. The poster on the ticket window indicated a male revue show at midnight. Fantastic! I would have time for dinner. I had learned in princess finishing school that it’s not healthy to become excited on an empty stomach.
When I returned to the theater there was a drag queen selling tickets. I was immediately jealous because she had bigger hair and more sequins than me. I entered the auditorium and sat alone in the center of the seats. The lights dimmed, the audience quieted, and the drag queen came into the spotlight. Of course she was speaking Portuguese, so I couldn’t understand very much. But she brought out onto the stage 16 of the most buff, meatiest, hunkiest dudes I had ever seen. They were all barefoot and bare-chested, wearing flowing, filmy, almost transparent pants. Oh my! Then the lights were dimmed and some scenery appeared. At that moment began an hour of pure torment as the men, one-by-one or in small groups, proceeded to perform salacious striptease acts to the music, and just before the big reveal of “Captain Standish” in each dance, the lights would go dark or the scenery would hide “The Goods.” The audience was being slowly driven insane with the torturous taunting. Of course, me being a lady of training, I tried mightily to hide my own raging “Irish Toothache” with my purse.
At intermission time the drag queen performed a musical number and then called all the boys back. This time they lined up on stage just like in “A Chorus Line,” and sweet Jesus, they were all buck naked! I was slightly disappointed because of the fact that none of them were at “Full Salute,” but I did notice that they were all magnificently “manscaped.” Then there was more talk from the queen, gesturing to boys about their obvious attributes. Then she excused the bevy of nakedness from the stage and performed two more musical numbers.
The once again the “Nude Dudes” took to the stage. I wondered what they had been doing during the songs because all 16 had a raging “Bazooka” of Olympic proportion. They stood at attention, ready for the queen’s inspection. She proceeded to walk up and down “The Woody Line,” casually commenting about this “Bayonet” and that “Flag Pole.” Then she called audience members onstage one at a time. She would hand the person an award to give to one of the men.
After about five awards, the queen motioned for me to come up onstage. I shrugged my shoulders, indicating I didn’t understand. Then she said, “parlez vous Francais?” I yelled “no” and shrugged again. By now the rest of the audience was yelling at me and a couple of people near me grabbed my arms and were pulling me out of my seat, thrusting me toward the stage. The queen took me by the hand and led me along the line. I was nearly fainting. Then she told the line to turn around. Obviously I was to choose the best ass. I chose a very nice bum and indicated him. Then I started to leave the stage. The queen caught my arm and held me there. Then she had the hunk I chose go lay face down ass up on a chaise. She pulled me to him, placed my hands on his buxom buttocks, and had me massage them. Then she indicated that I should kiss them. I bent down and placed a peck on each cheek and the audience went wild.
I didn’t wash my face or brush my teeth for the rest of the trip. Everyone in the choir kept asking me why I was smiling so much.
This story leaves us with several important questions:
- Is Spandex the fabric of the gods?
- Do you think Brazilians wear Speedos because they can’t afford more fabric?
- During an obvious taunting, is a queen obligated to hide her “appreciation?”
- Should a queen wait one hour after eating before becoming excited?
- Would it have become an international diplomatic incident if I had licked the bum?
These and other eternal questions shall be answered in future chapters of the Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.