What I Did On My Summer Vacation

This is one of those posts you make so that the most recent one doesn't include the term "pony tail butt plug". It occurs to me now that the preceding sentence defeats that purpose altogether.

I got so many hits (from Calgary to Phoenix to Belgium - really) from folks who had actually done searches on "pony tail butt plug" that I decided it must be something of a phenomenon. Mine did arrive in time to take to the campout. And that's all the information I'm giving on that topic. Although, it does bear mentioning that these items are not easily purchased with size-certainty. It really takes making a mistake once - or getting very, very lucky - to find out just what size of contraption is right for you. And THAT'S all I'm going to say on that topic.

Except that it was very popular. There. That's all I'm going to say on the topic.

Oh, and if you loop it through the waistband of your chaps, you prevent any projectile mishaps. That did not happen, for the record. I'm just saying. It's a handy idea that occurred to me on the 5th or 6th glass from the Box o' Wine. It was noted, as well, that this particular orientation of the aforementioned device makes it stand out very much like a pony's tail. And THAT is all I'm going to say on the topic.

At the ripe old age of 41 years and 51 weeks, I apparently still look hot in a pair of chaps. That was a nice surprise. I wouldn't have figured as much. I've never worn chaps very much. Thrice, in fact. This was the third time I'd been in public in a pair of chaps. Perhaps I missed a prime presentation opportunity during all those years gone under the bridge. These are things they should tell you when you're 22:

Whether or not your body is fit for a Speedo.

Whether or not you need to consider clothing-optional vacations.

Whether or not you should always wear jeans with your chaps.

And whether shaving your head will increase your dating prospects.

Why we make people figure these things out on their own is beyond me. It might sound cruel to learn that you're not among the Speedo-gifted at a young age. But what a treat to know that you can run, testes to the breeze, whenever the urge strikes. Vacationing with people old enough to have birthed you increases your appeal immensely, I learned. I am the Brad Pitt of the geriatric set, it would seem from last week's comments, pinches, pats and whistles.

Hey, when you're past 40 you take your cat calls where you can get them.

I slept in a tent for 3 nights. It rained the last night. I packed up the next morning. I know a warning sign when I see one. The tent survived nicely in the wind and brief downpour, but I know Kansas. If you get one night, you'll get two. I wasn't tempting fate. I once knew a drag queen who tempted fate and it did not turn out well.

It was a Gay Pride Parade of many moons ago when one of the more famous (and now dead) drag queens had prepared herself for her perch atop a float by consuming a medium-sized helping of cocaine. For the uninitiated, cocaine is frequently cut (mixed with) baby laxative - for the purposes of both fun and profit, I assume.

Having properly be-coked herself, she sat upon her royal perch and commenced to waving at the madding throng for the first several blocks of the parade route. Twenty minutes in (you can set your watch by this), she felt the urge that only baby laxative can give.

Myrna was not a small girl. She was truly round. She was like a globe with red hair, ankles the size of hams...and style. She was the only human who could do eyeshadow four inches up her forehead and make it look like she planned the whole thing. She assumed her perch on a folding chair at the back of the flatbed and commenced to waving to all who would gaze upon her. And, as mentioned, our old girl felt nature's call with an urgency normally reserved for cats in water.

Summoning her Ladies in Wading, she spied a bucket filled with a faux palm tree and, being in a flowing, hooped frock, proceeded to de-plant the palm and mount the bucket on the chair upon which tower she sat herself....to do her bidness, as we say in Chickopee. It took but one sudden lurch forward for our girl to tip just far enough backward on her precarious perch, that she, the bucket and the chair ended up in reverse order at the back of the float. Her gown above her neck, she could not see, but could only feel her public demise.

Her Ladies in Wading being of the entrepreneurial sort, took to shaking bottles of Co-Cola and pointing the spray in her general bottomly direction to relieve her of what most surely would stain. As only a Queen could do, with everything righted upwards, she resumed her perch and finished the Parade with only one block of homosexuals the wiser.

...And that is why I cannot drink Co-Cola at Pride Parades.

...And that is why I do not tempt fate by waiting for the second night of rain.

...And that is why I will never again buy a Pony Tail Butt Plug one size too small.

...And that is what I did on my summer vacation.