On my layover in Dallas (I booked tickets last-minute), I noticed a shocking amount of sweat-making-caliber hotties of the serviceman variety holding hands with some panting dogs dressed in women's clothing. What the fuck is in the water in Dallas? And was it being sold in duty-free?
I also saw this adorable little mom/daughter/daughter trio wandering up and down the terminal hallways, killing time looking at the airport art. Really looking at it. They would gather in front of a shitty low-budget mosaic of a hot dog vendor or something, link their six arms behind their three waists, and contemplate the piece in silence. Then they would talk about the bad art as though it were serious art. I was kind of in love with them.
For the first night in New Orleans we wore feathered masks. They were pretty and garnered lot of attention,
despite the fact that they served as a catch-all for drink splash, and wet
feathers smell a lot like dead birds.
On Sunday night we spent a long time street socializing with
a group of guys on a Bachelor Party. First off, we were totally stunned that they were even there. What woman in her right mind sends her
husband-to-be to a place called “The Big Easy” just before a wedding? Well her trusting nature (read: unbelievable
stupidity) was my fortune, because within a few minutes of meeting them I had
introduced my tongue to the back of one of the groomsmen’s throats.
My foreign roommate was wearing a pale lime green camisole
beneath her sweater on Sunday night. In
the dim, booze-hazy glow of Bourbon Street
it looked a lot like skin color. Lots of
men on lots of balconies threw her some pretty great beads for sexily posing
and showing nothing more than a triangle of silky tank top. Suckers.
Some Canadian boys from Newfoundland latched onto us at one point in the night. Latched specifically onto my foreign roommate’s tonsils. They bought our entrance into the Cat’s Meow,
they escorted us into the sex store (and then back out when I got removed for
exclaiming that a dildo was too sticky), and then they bought us water when I
almost ralphed after drinking a Hand Grenade. They only left after my foreign roommate confessed to her propositioning
Canuck that she wasn’t allowed to leave our sides and that we weren’t the orgy
types. Not even for flashing beads.
I didn't even tell my girls about this, but inside the Cat's Meow I struck up a conversation with a cute guy at a bar. I was complaining about the lack of bathrooms on Bourbon Street, and the percentage among the bathrooms that weren't caked in vomit and feces by 8pm. That guy gave me his entire set of his keys and his card (with address) and told me that I was welcome to use his French Quarter apartment "at any point during Mardi Gras, for any number of things." He winked at me and touched my butt and for some vindictive reason I pursed his keys. So if a Cajun boy is reading this and wants his keys back, I have them. I'd mail them to you, but, well, your mailbox key is on here. (P.S. If you're wondering, I couldn't tell the girls because the offer of a bathroom probably would have been too good for them to pass up, even if it put me in danger of having sex with a local with or without my consent.)
A woman flashed her downstairs for some beads. At first it was hard to tell what was going
on, because of the huge crowd around her. But then it was hard to tell because she had these weird boyish no-shape
hips, and this weird boyish no-lips vagina. It was just like a man downstairs with a slash in the middle. It was so nasty that I competed with like 20
perverts to take a picture.
I hate to admit it, because nobody likes to admit anything
that paints them in the “Raging Racist” light, but the Krewe Zulu (black)
Parade was so ghetto. The floats were
literally made from pick-up trucks and plywood. Most of them were empty by the time they got down Canal
Street, and the ones that were still manned were
full of drunk people pitching entire bags full of beads directly at my face.
I love how everyone in the South ends each sentence with “baby.”
Monday afternoon we went shopping on Royal and Decatur
Streets, which toss-up for being my favorites in the French Quarter. We bought glittery makeup in a store
specifically for drag queens, and were completely out-fabulous’ed by
40-year-old men wearing chicken cutlets in their push-up bras.
We wandered by the water and got leather masks from the mask
maker stalls. Nobody cared that we tried
on every single thing before settling on one apiece. It’s no problem, baby. We bought around the ones that seemed most
obviously tailored toward kinks and fetishes.
Then we stood on the banks and took photos up at the river. So weird.
We had lunch at Coop’s, possibly my favorite restaurant in
the French Quarter. While they were
cooking our rabbit jambalaya, I went out back to wait in line for the bathroom. I saw a very cute half black/half white
looking waiter boy skinning shrimp into an enormous bucket. I don’t know what turned me on about the
scene, but there was something. A deep former
blue blood slave owner lust clicked inside me and screamed, “Hit on the hired
boy!” So I did. I pulled up a stool and flirted with that
shrimp skinner while at least ten girls cycled in and out of the bathroom
behind him. He told me a dozen places
off Bourbon to go to to escape the Mardi Gras crush, but I forgot them all just
staring at him. Shrimp skinner, I love you. I want to have sex with you in a cotton field
and have your mixed race baby and protect you from my angry whitebread husband
when he tries to kill you in a jealous rage. Call me!
Monday night our major flirtation was a trio of Brazilian
boys who were taking a break from their hometown Carnivale to take in the Mardi
Gras madness. Since two thirds of them
were named Rafael and I’m a drunk close-minded white trash whore, I called them
all Rafael. And then made out with two
of them in quick succession. Don’t
worry, it’s not a big deal; only one of them was a good kisser.
By Monday (Lundi Gras), the crowds were getting out of
control. Cops were present, but there
was lots of arm-crossing and not much law-enforcing. We were getting grabbed pretty much
everywhere. To catch a break, we ducked
into the Penthouse Club. We figured if
prettier girls than us were already naked and gyrating somewhere, we’d be left
alone. We were right. We made friends with the bartender in the
front room and got served some pretty stiff drinks along with a story about how
she’s being haunted by her dead dad. Then she let us use the (clean!) back room bathroom for free, and we got
to pretend to be high-class strippers on a break when we strutted back out.
After playing at rich, we needed to slum it again in a big
way. We slid into Big Daddy’s, the
famous strip club of “swinging leg” fame and ordered some overpriced cans of
light beer. We made friends with a
stripper on break, and fell in love with a dreadlocked girl wearing nothing but
tattoos and leg warmers. Our
stripper-friend showed us how her shoes work, which is basically like a wallet
for girls who don’t carry purses or wear clothes with pockets (or any clothes
at all). Then our stripper went off
break and we came to realize that she had no boobs but lots of nipple and we
got really uncomfortable and had to leave. We threw some dollars at her as we left, but really, how does that
happen? Babies? Nipple pump? Do I really want to know?
My foreign roommate hit an especially hazardous patch of beads piled in the street and went down. This is amazing because I ALWAYS fall when I go on vacation, and she's always the first to rag on me. It's even more amazing because she fell in a split. She didn't rip her pants (which would have been the crown jewel of falls), but she DID manage to keep her drink fully upright the entire way down, which earns her a gold star of alcoholism.
Fat Tuesday was madness from the second we woke up. Everyone was dressed up, except for those
people who were dressed down. I’m
talking everything from ball gowns to ass-less chaps before noon. On four hours
of sleep, we were feeling pretty rough. We caught the Krewe Rex Parade but it was more about gawking at the
other parade-watchers than actually catching beads. I think I dodged more than I went for.
Walking in the Quarter we met a group of guys wearing
nothing but underwear and beer boxes. They had cowboy hats made out of beer boxes. They had a beer box each slung around their
hips, and from that box jutted sets of beer can penises and testicles. God, I love beer.
On Mardi Gras, all the ladies were getting topless and
getting body painted. Even those ladies
who should never be topless, not even to shower. That means you, Grenade Lady. Every time this woman took a step those
things could have gone off and sprayed everyone with rotten milk and mammary
gore. Fuck.
Mardi Gras night my girlfriend, my foreign roommate, and I
were all standing in the middle of this massive bead-grubbing crowd beneath a
balcony. All of a sudden I hear my
girlfriend screaming and I look over. There is an open circle around her, and she is the tallest (at 5’6”)
person in her immediate vicinity. A
group of Mexicans is cowering in a circle in front of her, and she is latched
into the forearm of one of them by the fingernails. “Fuck you! Who the fuck do you think you are!”
she screamed. And then she hauled off and decked him in the fucking eye!!!
TWICE!!! Amazing.
It was rowdy, I’m not going to lie. Thomas warned me that I would have my boobs
grabbed on Bourbon during Mardi Gras. He
did not warn that I would have my actual vagina grabbed. Multiple times.We stopped back into the Penthouse Club to see our bartender
friend and found out that she was actually a stripper. Oh.
In looking for a bathroom, we encountered a drink minimum. A light was flashing and the sign in the middle
said, “Island Shots $1 When Flashing.” We ordered the shots, and the chick went to get them. While she was gone, another bartender asked
if we were alright. We said that we had
ordered the island shots from someone else. Within a minute, both bartenders came back with rounds of shots for us. They didn’t specify what was in them. We didn’t ask. They were all different colors, and we downed
them. The bathroom we had paid in shots
to use was smeared in actual human shit. We passed on that one.
A friend of mine who moved down to New Orleans to rebuild and volunteer with AmeriCorps had passed on a rumor that she heard about the police shutting down Bourbon Street at midnight. I brushed that right off because seriously, when does Bourbon Street ever shut? We had spent the last two days walking that stretch until 5am without harassment by pigs (in uniform). Well, midnight rolled around and guess what? Police parade. At first we didn't know what was going on and before long we were the three drunken girls holding hands inadvertently taking part in the police parade. People threw so many beads, and then the cops glared us off.
We found refuge in Pat O's, where the dueling pianos were still playing and the hurricanes were still flowing. You know what else was going on? Dancing Beer Box Boys. It was an amazing reunion with make-out sessions for both my foreign roommate and I. The best part was that they had to swing their beer can dicks around on their hips to pull us in for kisses. Sounds less sexy than it was. Or maybe not.
At one point my foreign roommate was sitting on her Beer Box Boy's lap, and she peeled herself up to go to the bathroom. Her BBB turned to me and my BBB and slurs, "Oh my god, I'm so hard right now." Now, the guy was only wearing underwear. I could see everything, which is to say, nothing. I responded, "You're not hard, you're just really really shitfaced bro." His friend loved that. Maybe you had to be there. Or maybe you had to be really drunk.
My BBB had bad cigarette breath so I stopped kissing him pretty quickly. When I turned back to my girlfriend's side of the table, a very cute Denver boy was talking to her. Soon he was talking to her and touching my leg. Then he was talking to me and I was touching his leg. Then tonsil hockey. Sorry, girlfriend. I know you forgive me. Plus, those kisses from Denver were my best ones maybe all year. The guy thought so, too. And that never happens, that you like someone's kissing style that much right off the bat. Usually you have to train them a little. Offer some boob rub action for some pliancy in the lips. This guy? Right there with me from the get-go. I should have kept with him a little longer.
But instead we ran away as soon as the Beer Box Boys went for drink refills. They were getting clingy and the requests to "Go fuck in our hot tub" were even less appealing than they sound here in type.
Beignets at Cafe Beignet - girlfriend kept saying they were "too eggy this time." I couldn't concentrate on getting fatter on fried southern food with her running her yap. They're deep-fried dough sitting in a literal PILE of powdered sugar - not exactly high gourmet. Shut up and eat donuts, gosh.
We ended up at Oz, a gay bar where we got called "fabulous" over and over and weren't touched sexually at all. My girlfriend was in denial about the sexuality of the gay go-go bar dancers (she thought they were straight and "just doing it for the money") and kept trying to get them to break character.
Then a guy wearing a Brazilian t-shirt who clearly didn't get the whole "gay" thing rocked up to us, Night at the Roxbury style. We walked away. He came back, this time with his hand raised up to his face in the Backhand Ready Position. Oh my god! I shoved the shit out of him on both shoulders and he toppled over drunkenly backwards and literally crawled for the door. The gays laughed him out.
Walking home in the rain I was worried about my mask paint running but it didn't. We ran into a group of 3 black guys who I thought were going to do terrible things to us. Not because they were black, but because one kept touching me and changed his course to follow us back to the hotel. And said that he wanted to have sex with me.
Then, in the hotel lobby, a white boy from Jersey with a big group of male friends screamed at us, "Yo babies, you know any Russians? These are my Russian friends, and you can fuck them all tonight!" My foreign roommate screamed back, "I'm half Russian and let me tell you, that's not the half where I get my fucking skills from!" The Jersey boy laughed. The Russians did not.
We woke up, checked out of the hotel, and went to the Garden District to check in to my girlfriend's upscale timeshare. We spent our last two days kicking around the classy portion of New Orleans, detoxing. There was lots of shoe shopping and I almost got a tattoo. We saw all these fabulous antiques and crazy gorgeous estate jewelry pieces. We didn't see Angelina Jolie, but if we had, I would have thrown my boobs in her face. I had a whole plan worked out.
Anyway, now I'm all sick. I probably have the clap from making out with too many dudes. Oh well, better to be a young dead slut than an old living virgin. Wait...Right? I might have to rethink that one.
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