A tale of helium heels
The road to Crystal Hot Springs is fraught with danger and excitement.
I do not own a hot tub. My personal belief is that they require too much upkeep and raise the power bills. Not to mention that you tend to get a lot of folks inviting themselves over when you’re really not prepared for or desirous of entertaining visitors. The first telltale sign that someone wants to soak in your tub is if they say, “I think I can feel a storm coming in my joints.” Then they begin hinting that they have various aches and pains in many body parts, which should remain unmentioned. Occasionally, some less discrete folk will try and expose their various unmentionable parts to demonstrate how swollen they are, in a bid to solicit an invitation to soak.
Now, I have plenty of aches and pains of my own. My back is all messed up on account of the elastic in my girdle unexpectedly giving way. The momentum of such a sudden release of my belly’s bountiful blubber threw my back out. Not to mention that in the rebound, my left breasticle flew up and dislocated my shoulder. To add insult to injury, when the girdle’s waistband gave way, it became like a deadly bullwhip and took out my right knee with an ear-shattering snap, crackle, and pop. Therefore, I was overjoyed when a couple of folks hinted to my friend Terry that they wanted him to organize a group outing to Crystal Hot Springs in Honeyville, Utah.
Oh, I do enjoy a good hot spring outing for a good warm soak, especially in the winter. I do not, however, appreciate those undeveloped steaming holes in the ground with muddy banks, covered with prickly weeds, where you have to carefully dodge the occasional cow pie and climb past a NO TRESPASSING sign and through a barbed wire fence. Not to mention undressing in front of an audience of cows watching your every move with their big, sad eyes. Especially the pools where you can’t see or feel the bottom, because this queen, with my size 75 triple-Z breasticles and Sumo-size tummy, does not float. I only enjoy fully developed springs equipped with changing rooms, showers, and a full buffet. Oh, and lifeguards are also a bonus. Sadly, hardly any pools fulfill my buffet desires, but Crystal Springs does at least have a vending machine.
So, Terry assembled a lovely bunch of twinks, twunks, and hunks to accompany this geriatric hag, armed with a purple pool noodle as my queenly scepter to rejuvenate in the magical mineral waters. No sooner had we entered the large soaking pool than I straddled my pool noodle and began to bob around in the water with steam rising about my face. I inadvertently bumped into one of the twinks. He quickly spun around and looked at me suspiciously, asking, “Was that your noodle, or are you just happy to see me?”
Suddenly, the younger members of our entourage were enticed away to try their luck on the water slide. As they scurried away to the slide, disappearing into the cloud of steam rising from the pool, I remained alone, forlornly bobbing unaccompanied in the warm water. Like the Titanic, right before she went under. I swear I heard a foghorn in the distance.
As I listened to distant shrieks and squeals from the slide, I recalled an ancient trauma from a different outing a long time ago to a hot spring far, far away. I was with a large group attempting to make a daisy chain on a water slide. On that occasion, I ended up being the final link in a chain of fifteen people. I was especially excited because the guy directly in front of me, Trent, who was designated to hold onto my ankles was, how shall I say, a highly desirous hunk-a-hunk of burnin’ love. I had been secretly lusting over him all day. Trent grasped my ankles with strong hands. I could see the muscles in his arms and shoulders ripple with intensity. I could barely contain my excitement at his touch.
Off we went down the slide. Trent had hold of my ankles, and I thought I was in heaven. As we picked up speed, the water was splashing in my face. I could not see anything. As we came to the first turn, like a slingshot, I was flung up to the top of the hydro tube and then violently and painfully crashed down. On the next turn, it happened again. Despite my hormonal urge to remain being touched by Trent, I yelled for him to let me go for self-preservation. He didn’t respond to my plea. A third turn and another crash. I thought I was gonna die. I began to kick Trent’s head to get him to release me, but to no avail. I was receiving the beating of my life. Justice finally prevailed, though, at the bottom of the slide when I landed squarely on top of Trent. His head ended up lodged firmly between my thighs. I squeezed his head tighter than a blacksmith’s vice holding a horseshoe. I think the pressure even popped a pimple on his nose.
This story leaves us with several important questions:
- What kind of material can I install in my breasticles so they can be flotation devices?
- Do they make girdles with safety release latches to prevent catastrophic discharge?
- How does one restrain a wayward pool noodle?
- Are hunks grasping ankles in water slides where the term Helium Heels comes from?
- Did I squeeze Trent’s head as punishment or just so he couldn’t get away from me so I could get his number?
- Would that kind of be like a Kathy Bates in “Misery” kind of hostage situation?
These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.
