WRAPPED UP IN THE MOMENT

(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 lick me.)

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WRITHE & SHINE

EPISODE II: WRAPPED UP IN THE MOMENT

We napped for a mere two hours before hitting Bourbon Street; Mark had just a bit of steam, sustained by that gluttonous zeal of anxious boys on Christmas Eve—that bloodlust where the blood thrusts and butterflies in the gut. I was even worse, creeped out though I was.

The streets were pregnant with the spawn of every sin…the offspring of abandon, and abandoned hopes and dreams. It’s grotesque brick and concrete belly heaved off every street-curb, proudly bearing its taut stretchmarks of local color and urban myth—everything you’ve heard, and nothing that you’ll ever fully see. And it was exactly as I’d described the time before—even though I’d guessed at the details.

Local vendors offered suspiciously inexpensive beer in cups; the color and the foam content whispered “Don’t buy me, I’m watered down with pee!” And I whispered back, “I hate Bud anyway!”

We hit the stupid tourist traps like the clumsy cheese-mad rats we were; the more tasteless the shop, the more we spent. I found a combination Stoopid T-Shirt/Deadly Hot Sauce shop. I bought some lurid liquid napalm sauce, which I promptly lost before we even made it back. I bought my famous “Jesus” T-Shirt here. The neighboring shop sold carcass-based jewelry of the sort I often wear, or that wear me.

A condom shop offered cover from a bout of rain (an irony I gleamed in retrospect). They sold Meat-Sheaths of Sodom’s every flavor—and a few that even Baskin Robbins claimed… Wrappers for golf-themed Man-Wrap spouting “Fore!”—though a “hole in one” is unlucky, I’d suspect…. Camouflaged Gristle Missiles for times of love and war… Anti-Stork Pork Corks that glowed in the dark or in the dame… Pecker Pleats for beat cops to serve and to protect… While Star-Clusters for cluster-fucks proclaimed “to boldly go where none have gone before.”

Many willie warsuits came with scents, and made scents when you came. Some of them smelled like soap, but it still felt dirty to me. Some smelled like deodorant—strong enough for a man, AVN-rated for a woman. Some green sheaths smelled like fresh pine trees, for the lumberjack in everyone. Some smelled like the rain we came out of, presumably that we may come the way we came; others like generic bubble gum (Double your pleasure! Double your fun! Baby, it’s a Big League Chew!) Others were too fucked up even for me—who could use these things to screw? Little white hoodies for the Ku Klux Klan… Fearsome spikes for tough bitches and tough love… Gender-bending Over-Benders shaped like tits and nipples… Magick Wands for the magus… Sloganeering insults to our intellects, as if drunken passion has the time to read…. And cigar-shaped Ship Dips with disc-shaped ripples, for probing past Uranus—Unidentified Fornicating Objects, seeking entry and gaining ramming speed.

After we had childishly mocked and fondled its entire stock, I found the right Ribbed Raincoat for the trip, that I may dip my wick in style (or taste, if she preferred). I found a box of Goth Condoms. While there was no tell-tale adlines as to what exactly made them such, the package implied that they would at least be black (because if you can’t have a black cock, you can at least damn well pretend).

And they matched my wardrobe!

TO BE CONTINUED...

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