Another entry in my old 'Intermission' series from the mid/late 1990's, and the second one concerning my time in New Orleans.
Intermission (New Orleans #2) (1996)
“You can stay at my place, and I’ll get you high if you suck my dick.”
“No thanks. I’m okay.”
“New Orleans is a rough place, bro. I’ll take care of you.”
“That’s cool, man, I’m taken care of.”
“C’mon, brother. How about I suck you first?”
“No thanks, man, that ain’t my scene.”
“Alright then. You get cold, you know where to find me.”
“Yeah, see ya.”
And the rest of the night progresses.
A few beers.
A couple of jazz bands, blues bands, rock bands.
The hustlers wanting your money, your lips, your blood, your soul.
The pack on your back is getting heavier by the block.
Up and down those streets you go, kept on your feet by the rain and the fear and the knowledge that around that next corner you may be saved, you may be beaten, you may be left for dead, but it doesn’t matter.
Esplanade. Bourbon. Decatur. Burgundy. Past the gay clubs and the strip joints and the all night bars. It smells like a wet sweater left in a plastic bag for far too long, you can actually taste the city on your tongue, did you know that? You can open your mouth and the city makes it start to water. It tastes of sin and of magic and of power and of things that you are not able to comprehend, so you settle for acceptance, as you curl up in a door stoop. Your head in the shadows, your feet getting wet.