The road to the Pride Festival is fraught with danger and excitement.
Gay Pride Day is one of the biggest highlights of my year. I love all the excitement, of getting ready for the parade. I usually spend six months planning on what to wear. But the Pride Parade and Festival have specific dangers for a drag queen that may not be obvious to the average Muggle.
I usually arrive at the parade assembly area super early. I help put the finishing touches on a float; then I wander around looking at the other floats and, of course, pausing for photos. Many folks come to me offering bottled water or other drinks which I feel I must politely decline. It’s not that I’m not thirsty, it’s because I fear that if I drink anything, I may have to visit one of the many “Gotta-Go Potties” lining the parade route and festival grounds.
Several years ago, while at the festival, I needed to “drain the radiator.” I joined a long line of fellow Pride revelers, impatiently waiting to “shake hands with the vicar.” The line progressed ever so slowly. Consequently, I ended up crossing my legs and hopping about while trying to prevent a premature “tapping of the kidney” only to discover to my dismay that when I reached the door, my beehive hair and breasticles wouldn’t fit. Apparently, the average “Doodie Calls” booth isn’t designed to accommodate a drag queen in her finest pride regalia. OH, SHIT! Hurriedly, I enlisted the assistance of a couple of friends who helped me remove my hair and twirly breasticle nipples, and held them while I did my business.
Upon entering, a wave of heat immediately slammed into me. That “Wizard of Ooze, Ltd” booth had been baking in the hot sun all day. It must have been at least 120 degrees with no air circulation. Instantaneously, I started sweating buckets.
I was wearing a seven-layer crinoline skirt over panties and pantyhose. By facing nine layers of protection, there is no quick access to “Admiral Winky” — only to patiently lift one skirt at a time, counting them, so as not to leave a layer to act as a shower curtain retaining the “squeezing of the lemon juice.” Not only could I barely count to nine, when I realized that with my breasticles in the way, but there was also no possible direct line of sight to “Homo Erectus” nor the target “Tanks A Lot“ urinal. It was only blind faith and my belief in the power of Maybelline waterproof mascara that helped me kind of aim and shoot. Oh, the pain of salt in my eyes.
Once I finished “Sprinkling Holy Water,” it was all I could do to put myself back together enough to open the door. My friends used their bodies as a shield so that I could restore my beehive hair and twirling nipples. We wouldn’t want the Muggles to see how the magic happens, would we?
For the next several years, I didn’t eat or drink anything on Pride, for fear of a repeat. Over the course of the next several years at Pride, I only suffered heat exhaustion three times. One time Michael Aaron took one look at me and led me by the hand to the shade of the VIP section, sat me by the large water dispensers, and left me there for two hours until I regained my senses.
I was always careful when eating food at the festival. One, because the logistics of getting food to my mouth around the breasticles is difficult. Two, the fear of the “Nuclear Poo.” — the kind of poo that comes as a complete surprise at a time that is either inappropriate, i.e., during lovemaking or a root canal or you’re nowhere near pooing facilities.
Therefore, I would triple dose on Imodium on Pride Day because I certainly didn’t want to think about what it would take to “Go Boom Boom.” My worst nightmare is a “Wet Poo” — where you wipe your ass 50 times, and it still feels unwiped. So you end up putting toilet paper between your ass and your underwear to alleviate dreadful skid marks. I’m sure that I was beginning to develop a case of “POOZOPHERENIA.” A fear of pooing — that can be fatal!
It was only two years ago that I was promised that I could, if needed, use the facilities at The Leonardo. Oh my goodness, with this newfound freedom, I drank water along the parade and had lunch at the festival. How cheery was I. Subsequently, I discovered that I could fit into one of the handicap “Plop Jon” portables. Truly a throne fit for a queen.
This story leaves us with several important questions:
1. What do you call a fairy using the toilet? Stinker Bell?
2. What do you call a bathroom Superhero? Flush Gordon?
3. Should I have tipped the friends who held my hair and boobs?
4. Are “Willy Make It” booth accidents the beginning of water sports?
5. Was it because of self-induced constipation that I was sometimes a wee bit cranky?
These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.