*I wrote this one during Mardi Gras of this year. Meant to publish it sooner, but sometimes I get lost in the moss here in New Orleans and forget. Hope you all had a good one and maybe I’ll see you marching beside me next year with "La Société de Saint Anne.” This walking parade is also called the Krewe of St. Anne and begins in the morning near the tracks in the Bywater. This parade makes its way towards the French Quarter, taking as long as it takes, glorious with dysfunction and good will, spreading love and acceptance to all who tag along.
I’m having a hard time concentrating with this helicopter oscillating over my house. It’s Carnival and sirens and helicopters have taken over in what is usually a fairly quiet part of our metropolitan. I like Mardi Gras and even take the time to create a costume and march with the walking Krewe of St. Ann. I like to watch wide eyed newbies gush and exclaim as lavishly decorated floats roll by, their faces aglow as the Flambeaux flames fan them with heat and exhilaration. Then there are some fun Krewes like the “Lazy Boyz” which are always full of male bravado, revving their chairs and chewing on their fat cigars. Even a drunk fumbling and teetering on a curb as a band plays “Whip It” can be amusing if not poetic when it’s “Carnival Time.” I get that this is a joyous rite of our Spring season and we need those tourists dollars to keep things balanced. New Orleans tourism props of the rest of our state even though some of the people in our state hate New Orleans and Mardi Gras and don’t care if the reason they have a new City Hall is because of all this revelry. But, at this moment I’m trying to work and write in the middle of mayhem and possibly a few gunshots. I don’t live too far from the St. Charles parade route with its stately homes and the streetcar line that tourists gleefully ride from the Quarter, Uptown, to the river bend and back down to Canal Street. My life is humming along and I’m satisfied with my regulars and the new guys who want to put a face to the words they’ve been reading in my blog. As the sound of the helicopter fades into the ether I think about how fun it is to catch up with a favorite from the years before Covid. This typical thrill seeker or businessman would come to town for business or pleasure on a regular basis. He’d spend time at my pad and then maybe treat himself to a steak afterwards. Once his meetings or partying was done for the day he’d remember our interlude safe in his hotel room drifting off into a state of complete relaxation. I met so many like that in those first years on Terpsichore. It’s only been recently that I’ve connected with some of these classy gentlemen who, only have just now had reasons to come back to our shady little town. Today Mr. B. who loves to immerse himself in whatever New Orleans will gift him is dropping by today. He hasn’t been to town in several years and I can’t wait to hear about where he had dinner and how many parades he’s seen and or been a part of. I think about the masked riders as I apply my eyeliner. So many cocks. I spent a lot of time when I was younger being proud that I could keep all of the men (mostly my husbands) I had had sex with on one hand. I was out of control, but in control. If you know what I mean. Slowly, but surely I filled up both hands with the number of men who were lent my flower. After the age of 41 I was handing it out like a spicy cougar hungry for fresh meat. Exhilarated with my conquests and all of the hard cocks I had endured, I decided that what my mother had told me about sleeping around was right. “If you sleep with one boy it’s easier to sleep with another one.” Too true. Fucking when I needed to was rejuvenating and all of the bad things that are supposed to happen if you are promiscuous didn’t exactly come true. I just needed to be who I am. That’s all. It is easier to fuck one more man when you have already fucked so many. Just like eating a bag of Lay’s Potato Chips, “you just can’t eat one.” And why shouldn’t I? Who gives a damn if I fuck the whole of New Orleans and beyond? In less than one hundred years there will be no one around to remember what I did or even who I was. The client I have been waiting on is here and I run downstairs to greet him. I have always secretly called him the Connoisseur. He is fit and boyish for sixty years old. I’m sure he looks exactly the way he did when he was 21. Sometimes you meet someone who has managed to harness that inner light from youth and they smile freely and often. I think he’s probably aware that he’s dripping with boyish charm, but instead of drawing attention to it he uses this knowledge to gain what he needs in a kind and considerate way rather than fishing for compliments. I’ve seen him since the beginning and every visit is always better than the one before. Also, the bonus is he’s a delicious fuck and knows how to kiss. He’s a lot of fun and he makes me giggle as he tells me about his adventures since he landed. He laughs while remembering when he was having a drink Uptown and all of a sudden a parade appears. Feeling gratitude he sits back and enjoys his luck as if this was all for him. Then he told me about a wonderful meal he had a few days before. He went to Tulane way back and even worked at Commander’s Palace, but isn’t from here. He came here young and just got a taste for New Orleans and can’t stay away too long. I know how he feels. I went on two tours this year and I couldn’t wait to get back to my oak lined streets and the joie de vrie that is complimentary to those who fall in love with her. After a few minutes of catching up we decide to do the deed. He takes off his clothes and wryly smiles at me all soft and knowing because I’m one of his stops on his list for a reason. I push him down onto the bed and ask him “do you want a blow job?” He answers with a contented sigh “I’d love a blow job.” Positioning myself between his tone thighs I begin to nurse his tall and very chewy penis. With his hands he begins playing with my curls and sinks deeper into the mattress. I enjoy giving him pleasure because he deserves it. Sucking and letting his pre-cum tingle on my lips I change up for a minute and place one ball and then the other into my hot and greedy little mouth. He’s more of a quiet lover and although he isn’t making much noise I know he’s getting what he needs. He says he wants to eat me and I roll over and spread my legs wide for him to dive in, get lost momentarily in the feminine, and disappear for as long as he wants. I love a guy who doesn’t use teeth and nails to please me. It’s all in the lips and my client knows exactly how to touch a woman. He comes up at some point grinning and aching to get inside of me. I hate to say it after that setup, but we put on a condom and he gets on top of me and slides home. I love the way he feels and smells and tastes. I love that it’s so good that he returns when he can. He pumps me like an old lover who ran into me unexpectedly, bought me a drink and came back to my place. For old time’s sake. After I lie in his arms and we begin talking about what’s been happening in his life and mine. Eager to give him that second pop I begin sucking him again. He slides his hands across my back and lifts my face up to meet his as he sits up and sticks his tongue far down my throat. He smiles sweetly and tells me “I’m not sure I have another in me today.” I crawl back up towards him and kiss him with all of the passion of a woman who could use another pounding, but knows that I’ll have to wait until next time.
