SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT

(What is all this? This is the continuing saga of my real New Orleans adventure of spring 2001.

A fictionalized account was written and presented as Peaceful Sleazy Feeling.

This is the real story, as compiled from my filthy, muck-stained journals of days gone by, and girls done worse.

Enjoy. If you're new, then check out the last two posts...oh, and get bent.)
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EPISODE III: SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT.

“One should try everything once, except incest and folk-dancing.”
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,—Arnold Bax, Farewell To My Youth.

After the storm, the streets flooded with flesh again—girls flashed their personalities, while drunken men revealed their lack thereof. After a good three hours of naked flesh, repulsive beer, and spicy food, we retreated to the first strip joint we saw. That would be the Bourbon Street Burlesque.

The clientele seemed sent from hell—mohawked punks with tattered clothes, lesbians in overalls and ball-crusher glares, nodding track-marked trainspotters with hypodermic stares, 400lb black men eating buckets of whatever between girls, and even worse. Mark and I looked like fresh genes in Arkansas—we really couldn’t lose. Being a good tipper and a bad man, I managed to monopolize the better of the dancers. Mark was slowly growing tired and tipsy. He was ready to go; he promised to leave the door unlocked if I wished to stay this out. Feeling the tender Braille of my dancer’s aureole, I would comply.

One certain comely starlet gave me the oddest look when she walked into the hall. It was a light startle, followed by a coy wink.

She acted like she knew me, or needed my attention in some way. She danced in my direction before I even tipped; when I did, she stayed the course of her routine. Some of my fellow pervs surrounding me seemed miffed over the attention I obtained. The other stripper was furious.

After the show, she sat down next to me, introduced herself as “Cherry,” and explained that I was her first non-troglodyte all night. She was truly beautiful—long dark auburn hair and almond eyes, high cheekbones and nice breasts, pouty lips and perfect hips…and she didn’t smell like crack or heroin. We carried conversation near ‘til dawn; we somehow managed this between the numerous free lap dances she gave me. The management had been drinking, and seemed not to notice that she’d spent most of the night with me. She invited me to the backroom—the “private dance” area where the hookers screw their johns. Naturally, I accepted—we even made plans for breakfast after “work.” This was rapidly, with fervent speed, turning into a Penthouse Forum letter.

“What do you need from me?” I asked. “Oh, this will be my pleasure,” she replied. I pinched myself. And then I pinched her. Then I pinched her one more time, because…Sweet Pickled Jesus, this kicked ass.

And upon the thirteenth step, indeed my ass was duly kicked by God’s Own Boot. The manager was not too drunk to greet us at the door.

He was not alone. Cherry seemed more angered than afraid. He asked if I’d “paid for this privelege” yet. Naturally, I had not (but offered to). He insisted that my funds were insufficient, and that the large orbiting mass with the food bucket had paid a good $250 for Cherry’s “private time.” It was now time for her to offer up the goods. It was then explained—after he finished yelling at Cherry—that even if I had enough, I was still second in line. He then opened the vivid red whore-corner door, and escorted Cherry and The Blob inside. The bouncer asked me to wait beside the bar.

I waited. I actually waited.

I had no desire for sloppy seconds—and undoubtedly, they were quite sloppy indeed—but I wanted to at least tell her goodbye. At least two hours passed, as I drank shot after shot, wishing each and every one could be another fired at my temple. Finally, a sad-looking server told me that the Walking Greasetrap had paid for another session, and suggested that I come some other night. “I might as well,” I sneered, “as I won’t be cumming anywhere tonight.”

I sighed and headed back to #23.

As I struggled to fall asleep, I felt like this all meant something…and if it didn’t, then it should. There was something wrong with the world, I thought; there was something wrong with me. There was something wrong…with my world. And as I drifted off, it wouldn’t drift away.

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TO BE CONTINUED...

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