Wanderlust

I haven’t written anything in a while, and it is not because I don’t have anything to say. Life has taken me in some new directions which I am learning to juggle with being Jilly and working on new projects, which are time consuming and important for the direction I’m heading, but distracting and leaves less time for creativity. As some of you may know I have gone on a few tours this year and while some climates are cooler and there disproportionately more single men in D.C., New Orleans is still my one and only love. Touring gave me perspective and a chance to live somewhere else for a little while, be anonymous and more of an observer rather than a participant as I watch daily life in places with more money, people and opportunities than in the city of my dreams. Funny thing. I always thought this town suited me, even at a very young age. My family and I would drive in from our parish very early and excited about what places we’d have lunch and dessert, pastries and pralines. Sometimes it would be just a mall day, and maybe we’d hit D.H. Holmes department store on Canal Street because it was simply divine. Just like a department store in New York it was the last of the grand stores left in 1970’s New Orleans and to a little girl from the sticks it was the premier place to buy your school clothes. I know it’s true because I’m not the only one who thinks it was fantastic and I’ve been to Fifth Avenue. When the day was won, I would flop into the back of my grandmother’s big Buick Le Sabre, hot, tired and usually not quite ready to go, but pragmatic about leaving only because I knew I would be back. As the car passed the Superdome, I would get up onto my knees backwards and watch the city and the colors of the sky as the sun set until we’d make the curve on I-10 right past Lake Lawn Cemetery and my mother would tell me “sit down.” I’d blow a kiss and whisper “see you soon.” I was always a little heartbroken that I had to leave. I’ve never felt quite like that about any city, but lately D.C. seems to have infiltrated by thoughts in a way I didn’t expect. It feels more alive, and the clients are smart and ambitious men with places to be and things to do. Former generals and captains of industry. You know the type. It’s so busy there. I feel like a country mouse come to the city looking for adventure, wisdom and if I’m honest with myself, a little change of pace. This summer in New Orleans has been the hottest on record and the tourists aren’t flocking here to nest, but catching connecting flights everywhere, but here. I paid attention to the crowds at Louis Armstrong as I came and went on my trips. I had some help from a generous follower who had encouraged me to come to D.C. for years. I’m fearless in some ways, but before Covid the idea of touring was never on my mind. I know how to hustle this in New Orleans and the city, and I are intertwined with her being part of the act. Would it be the same in a moderately priced hotel in the heart of the Foggy Bottom District? To my surprise the neighborhood I stayed in is very similar to the Lower Garden. So, I immediately felt at home. I could see the Watergate Hotel from my hotel and the Kennedy Center brightly lit up on top as a backdrop. As for the men, my very first client was an art lover and he brought me a thoughtful bottle of wine. He walked into my hotel room talking. A whirlwind of thoughts and ideas spilled from his lips. He threw me off guard, as I was halfway expecting to be busted, but I managed to redirect my brain and maintain some control and focus as he scooped me up physically and metaphorically in his tight embrace. He brought two plastic glasses and poured some of the wine, sat on the couch and told me about his life and how much he loved art and why. At some point a marriage goes south was the theme of his marriage and while I sympathized, I thought to myself how many times I’ve heard this old chestnut. I waited for him to make the first move and he did with a little help when I said, “let me suck your cock.” He wasn’t a young man and yet not old either. He was fit and had a booming Northeastern accent which reminded me of true northern gentleman. Think the detention teacher in the “The Breakfast Club” or Jack Nicholson’s clipped and succinct droll in “The Witches of Eastwick.” Maleness, deep voices and how masculine one is or is not fascinates and if I find you interesting, I might giggle and look at your bulge even if you don’t know I’m doing so. He let me give him this pleasure, but in a way, I felt like I had to almost force him to stay still. I got him undressed and onto the bed. He told me he thought I was pretty and how he loved redheads. I believe he told me his wife was similar in coloring and expression as I pulled myself over and on top of him as he lay back and let me wrap my lips around his throbbing shaft. “Don’t go too fast,” he warned as I began sliding with my mouth up and down. It’s always okay when my client asks me to be careful because I know he means he only has one in him, and he doesn’t want to blow it on me or in me too soon. However, he wiggled and seemed like he wanted to get away from me, and I wasn’t sure what he was doing. Ultimately, I understood this was his style and I just had to keep grabbing at him until he stayed put long enough for me to satisfy him. He rolled to one side and then got up onto his knees. He reached down and cupped my head with his hands and jabbered and moaned like a Pentacostal preacher full of God’s holy spirit. I felt dizzy from his chatter and his quick moves as he’d be on his back one minute and then he’d roll me and him to the side of the bed. It was hard to keep a grip onto his cock as he would quickly detach and reattach because he didn’t want to come. Not just yet. At this point, I knew that there would be no fucking. The fact that I really needed to fuck isn’t his problem, but it would have been reassuring being in a new place and all. So, I settled for what he was able to give me in return for assimilating into the whore of his dreams. This client and whore pairing was successful, albeit somewhat a trifle because I don’t think I truly was able to help him relax. He seems like a man who cannot turn it off. I really liked him though, and he told me where I could find some good flower in town. When he completed the act inside my mouth, he dressed and sat back down on the couch. I remember he really lighting up when he recalled where I could find the best local galleries and those all the way to Philly. He was the kind of man I’d like to meet at a restaurant unexpectedly and after some small chit chat, we would decide to have dinner together. He was a great conversationalist and very knowledgeable about so many things. He even intimated that he’d like to return before I flew home, but I didn’t see his email, his preferred way of communicating until my trip was almost over. I have to say that I had so many men contacting me I think I became confused at one point and didn’t realize it was him. I must have talked to, emailed and chatted with at least twenty timewasters before I got to some real clients. In a wonderful act of karma, the Universe did reward me with a regular who used to see me on and off for years, in the time before Covid. He emailed me on P411, the Canadian provider network and told me he’d be in town late. He is originally from D.C. and used to work for previous administrations in a job which brought him to New Orleans a few times a year. Now he lives elsewhere and just happened to be in town on business. We first met at my original Jilly Pad on Terpsichore and he and I fucked like bunnies each time we met. He once said that there was a time after a particularly amazing romp, he bought a steak dinner on St. Charles Avenue. Watching from the restaurant as the streetcars rolled in front of him, while eating his meal, he said he felt like a king. Serendipity united us once more and when he walked into my room within minutes, we were having monkey sex. He stuck his dick so far into me and pounded me for what seemed longer than an hour. but at that point I didn’t care. He and I had what I call familiar sex. We have chemistry and a good report that is comfortable. So, I feel secure letting him drive the bus. He knows what he wants, from licking my pussy and giving me time to warm up and the creative way he eases slowly into my dark wetness when I am ready to receive everything he needs to unload. When he was through with me, I was one step from begging for mercy. I’m glad we stopped when we did because I was inches away from having to take a break. He rose from the bed and began to dress; I watched him pull his wallet from his pants. As he peeled back the hundreds from a wad intended for me, I thought it would be appropriate after the way he had taken me in hand if he just threw the money on me. Instead, he set a thousand dollars down carefully onto the credenza. After he kissed me goodbye and I was alone again, I settled back onto the bed. Taking the sheets and pulling them close up to my nose so that I could smell him on them I exhaled deeply. I really needed that.