The road to the Pride Parade is fraught with danger and excitement.
Sometimes even the simple things in life can be a challenge. I had a very good time on Pride Day this year. In fact, I had the best Pride Day in years. The rest of the Matrons of Mayhem and I were hanging about in the shade of Washington Square posing for photographs with passersby. I make it a point to try to pose with as many nearly naked boys as possible.
This year, as we noticed prime pieces of beef walking along, we would send Sparkles Del Tassel to fetch them and drag them over for a photo op. Of course, when we are posing with these perfect specimens of manhood, some buns might get squeezed. I usually ask permission from the hunk’s girlfriend, and she always gives an enthusiastic “yes,” despite protest from the stud. Someone who was behind us said the scene from behind, of the fondling of bums was much more entertaining than the view from the front. Another reason my Pride Day was so pleasant was in part because I now live in Salt Lake City, so the logistics of attending Pride are much less complicated than when I was living in Logan and Kaysville.
Four years ago, when I lived in Kaysville, I was preparing for the celebrations. First of all, the night before, I went to the driveway and turned QueerTanic, my 1975 Buick Electra land yacht, around so that it was facing the street for an easy and quick getaway. Getting in the car was my first obstacle. The logistics of fitting my size 75 — quadruple G – electrical breasticles and a beehive hairdo that would give any Texan with a 10-gallon hat a size complex in a regular car is quite complicated.
To begin with, I don’t even try to drive while wearing my beehive hair. It just won’t fit. So I carry it in a five-gallon pickle bucket. You will notice that when I drive I have on the seat beside me, my purse and a pickle bucket. I put the seat as far back as it would go to fit the breasticles. My fingertips barely reach the steering wheel and my feet barely reach the gas and brake pedals.
As I got in the car, I immediately shut my crinoline petticoats in the door. It took five minutes and four tries before I succeeded. I couldn’t see the key, so I started the engine by braille. Of course, I need to turn on the air conditioning full bore because of the intense heat generated inside the brazier. Then it was time to hit the road. I pulled out onto the street and into the blazing sunlit morning. My dress was covered in bright shiny sequins and the reflecting glare in the mirror momentarily blinded me.
As I drove down Interstate 15, and passed other cars, the drivers would notice the bright colors or the reflecting sequins and would stare. I’d speed up and they would match my speed. So I would slow down and they would slow down too. Sometimes it can become quite a little parade of its own.
Nighttime driving is even worse. Sometimes, after Third Friday Bingo is over, I would go to Club Try-Angles for a while before calling it a night. Once again, I remove the beehive hair and place it in the bucket and stuff the crinoline inside the car door. The battery pack for the lighted breasticles usually are not reachable, without totally disrobing, so I drive with the lights blinking.
One time a friend was driving in front of me and saw the reflection of the breasticle lights in his rear view mirror, and he said he that he was being pulled over by the police. On another occasion, they attracted the attention of a very loud low rider filled with Hispanic men. They pulled up to the side of my car, pointed and cat called. I could hear the deep thump-thump of their stereo. I was a little worried. I slowed down and they also slowed. I sped up and they sped up. Okay, I was frightened. Then I stopped at the light on State Street and they pulled up next to me. I even felt the thump-thump of the music. Oh crap! I pressed the electric door locks. I sat staring ahead, not wanting to acknowledge their attention. They rolled down their windows and yelled over the thump-thumping. Oh gawd, I’m in big trouble! Then I heard, “Where’s the party? We wanna come to the party!” I rolled down my window and told them the party was over and I was heading home. Then I sped off, so that they couldn’t follow me.
My nightmare is that I would be pulled over by the police and ticketed for “Driving While Illuminated.” Because of this fear, I have begun draping a blanket over the breasticles to cover the lights when driving at night.
This story leaves us with several important questions:
- Is carrying a wig in a bucket how Hyacinth Bucket got her name?
- Can people near me still smell the pickles?
- Since my skirts will get pressed in the car door anyway, can I forgo ironing them?
- Should I begin marketing a line of breasticle piñatas?
These and other eternal questions shall be answered in future chapters of the Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.