As the pandemic has raged on I’ve lost clients who had been coming to see me for years. I wonder how they’re getting on without their usual dose of Jilly kink and if they are finding ways to feed this need in hobbies or maybe an affair. I imagine that many former clients are taking a break from their normal routines and have gotten used to doing without. There were conventioneers that came back every year to see me when they were here for their annual Farm Bureau Convention or something funkier like “Tales of the Cocktail. I always appreciated that. I would keep track of the conventions in town through the Ernest Morial Convention Center online schedule. I’d even check the company or organization online to see if they had posted coming to New Orleans for their annual gathering and I’d tweet “Welcome to New Orleans” in case a horny conventioneer was reading his company’s tweet and maybe see my response, go to my profile and put two and two together. I’m always thinking of new and interesting ways to be promote Jilly. Also, being in the Lower Garden District is incredibly helpful when you’re on the phone with a gentleman from Omaha and he doesn’t know the lay of the land. He’d say, “I’m on Convention Street Boulevard near the bridge. Where are you little lady?” I’d tell him to just head south, walk under the overpass and he’d be in my neighborhood in five minutes. Sold! Some days it was like throwing a fishing line from my pad to the Convention Center and reeling them in. There’s a lot to be said for having the right location. Last night I drifted off to sleep thinking of these clients who had become regulars and some who in some ways had become my friends. Then I remembered a fairly new client who came to me in the pre-Covid days of 2019. Mr. C was born and raised in New Orleans, and like so many others, moved to the suburbs of Metairie and Kenner in the 60’s. He was a study in what it means to be a “yat!” According to him he had been with his wife since grade school, had a very close knit Italian/Irish family and was not getting any. As a man in his late 60’s he wore stylish clothes which leaned more on the trendier side, but he pulled it off well. His boyish quality paired well with his salt and pepper haircut. I bet he probably never considered dying it and I think that’s adorable. For some men getting older is a right of passage and to be accomplished with grace and patience as each new grandchild arrives. He had that one and only local accent where one says “New Orleans”, but it sounds like they’re saying “New Or-yenz.” He came to my pad one crisp fall day. I remember that he seemed almost in awe of me which was not unflattering, but a little strange. He took both of my hands into his and thanked me so graciously for seeing him at short notice. I had had a cancellation and wanted to fill the slot. So to speak. I guess I thought he was new to this and had no frame of reference. I cannot remember if he told me if I was the only prostitute he’d been with before or not. However, he let me know who he was by being himself and treating me with the upmost respect. He was a local businessman with a “mom and pop” kind of operation that deals in a lot of cash. He endeared himself to me not because he always paid me in fives, but because he was very kind and I saw him as a dying breed in these parts. We’re talking old school New Orleans. I remember my grandmother saying once that a person of his heritage was affectionately called at one time a “New Orleans Charmer.” Well. She was right. I was charmed! Whenever I have an encounter with a local gentleman who may have grown up in my neighborhood they tell me how the landscape has changed and on what corner they played with their friends. What a slice! I love these kinds of stories from real locals who grew up in the New Orleans that I had the privilege of knowing in my childhood only in short visits to shop, eat out and walk the French Quarter. I grew up in a neighboring parish and like a country mouse a visit to the city was always a big deal. Interestingly enough, in the light of all of his other positive attributes, he was quite the lover. He surprised me in a way that was refreshing. I didn’t really see him as the sensual type, but this man who stood only 5’4, with his old fashioned accent and stack of fives really knew his way around a woman. He said “it’s all about you.” Indeed!! How thoughtful! Before we began I informed him that my skin is soft and to use light touches and watch fingernails when caressing my nipples and other goodies. We undressed and he came over to me and planted a big, juicy kiss on my mouth. He used a little tongue and whispered sweet nothings into my ear. I became aroused because he wanted to linger and actually enjoy his time. I felt like a china doll that he was handling very carefully. It was then I reminded myself that you should never judge a book by its cover because you just might be wrong. I was dead wrong about what I thought our time would be. He asked me to lie back onto the bed. Then he crawled on top of me and we began making sweet, passionate love. Good chemistry. Everything about him felt cozy and he was completely devoted to his task of pleasing me. He was the kind of guy that goes down on you and you don’t feel rushed. He lingered a while, just lapping me up and moaning softly. He wanted me to flip over and give me a massage. Woozy and turned on I flipped over as gracefully as I could. His good loving had made me dizzy and I struggled to come back to earth so that he could continue. He purred “lift your pretty little ass” so he could plant his face under my sopping wet pussy and tongue me from that angle. It was a deeply profound and erotic experience. I got used to him coming back. For a time he was consistent and came at least every three weeks. We both enjoyed our sex and I liked that we didn’t waste time with a lot of conversation. We wanted to get into bed together. That was what our hour consisted of. As a man who claims he doesn’t get much from the wife I supposed he wanted to make the most out of me because his opportunities are few and far between. I remember the last time I saw him was right before the quarantine. He had made his way to my place around the usual time. Midday. He was wearing a pair of jeans and grey sweatshirt and sneakers. He looked so cute that I embraced him as he came inside. I wonder how he’s been and I wonder if he’s become one of regulars I’ve had and lost for some reason beyond me. Clients come and go. That’s the name of the game, but I wonder about Mr. C from time to time and muse on what he’s up to and if I’ll see him again some sweet day. Chemistry and connections are sexual in nature if you ask me. I think we made a deep impression on one another. You might even say that we were kindred spirits who genuinely cared only for pleasing the other. So many things in this city have simply faded away like thick fog over the river at sunrise. Mr. C, for me, represents something that is a part of the authentic New Orleans that once was. Sadly, I have to admit to myself that he, like so much more I have loved just “ain’t dere no more.”