Friday, November 18, 2016

The Foot-Long of Bourbon Street

New Orleans, March 1985

When my Grandma Davis died in 1975, she left $5,000 to each of her 12 grandchildren, as a "wedding present," to be bestowed upon them on their wedding day.

In the spring of 1985, I was telling my mother about my difficulties making ends meet in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, and she said, "It doesn't look like a wedding is going to happen, so why don't we give you your Grandma's money now?"

The check came in February. The $5000 had become  $12,428, the equivalent of $28,000 today.  Enough to pay my rent for the next six months, get my car repaired, visit Europe, move to Los Angeles next summer -- and, right now, Spring Break to New Orleans!

The minute my last class ended, I got into my car and drove the six hours to New Orleans, and I didn't get back until an hour before my first class began.


Years later, after living in the gay neighborhoods of West Hollywood, San Francisco, and New York, I found the French Quarter inadequately gay, but in 1985 I loved the old French architecure of the Vieux Carre, the Voodoo Museum, and the bright, cheery gay bars, especially Cafe Lafitte in Exile (great name!).

 It wasn't Mardi Gras, so guys weren't flashing their equipment to the crowd, but I still saw my fair share of penises.

On my first night, I went home with a hairy, muscular bear in his 40s.  While I was going down on him, he talked nonstop about New Orleans' ghosts and hauntings.

On my second night, I went home with a short, compact University of Michigan undergrad on spring break, who loved the "fact" that I was from Texas.

On my third night, I somehow attracted the attention of a Cute Young Thing. I don't remember his name, so I'll call him Jasper.

Jasper was cute: fuzz-headed, blue eyes, long tan muscles, wearing a yellow t-shirt and tight jeans.  He had a soft Southern accent that I found attractive.  But I was 24 years old, too old for him.

Besides, he had a dopey, dazed expression, his shirt was dirty, and he had a weird-looking sore on his hand that was an immediate turn-off in the first days of the AIDS crisis.

He started talking to me at the bar, when I was cruising someone else.   The other guy soon scrammed.

"Let me buy you a beer!"  Jasper said.

"I don't drink."

"Two beers!" he yelled at the bartender, ignoring me. When they came, he reached in his pocket.  "Whoops, I left my wallet at home. Can you cover me?"

I refused.  The bartender took the drinks away.

When I left the bar, Jasper followed me out onto the street, talking nonstop.  He was from a small town in Arkansas.  When his family found out that he was gay, they kicked him out.  Now he was living with friends and planning to enroll at Tulane University.

"That's very interesting," I said.  'Well, bye!"

I turned into Dante's Pizza.  Jasper followed me in.

"Bedtime snack for your boyfriend?" he asked.

"You're not my boyfriend."

"Trick, then.  You have no idea how good in bed I am.  Give you a hint -- I call it my one-eyed monster!"  He giggled.

Jasper didn't get a pizza slice.

Next I went to a little convenience store, where I selected a bottle of mouthwash and an ice cream sandwich.  Jasper appeared at the check-out counter with a foot-long hot dog and a bottle of a vile blue liquid that looked like Windex but was labeled curacao. The clerk started ringing us up together.

"No, I'm not with him," I protested.  "I just want the mouthwash and ice cream."

"And the hot dog and curacao!" Jasper exclaimed.  "Curacao is the best!"

"I'm not buying you booze!  Ok, the hot dog."

Pouting, he returned the curacao.

We walked out into the street.  Jasper wrapped his arm around my waist and offered me a bite of his hot dog.  I refused.

"Don't you like eating hot dogs?  This one isn't as big as my hot dog, of course."

"I like hot dogs, but I just had pizza."

His hand moved down to my butt.  "Well, we'll just have to go home so you can eat something else.  Which way to your place?"

"I'm not bringing you home!" I exclaimed.

Jasper stopped us and started fondling my crotch, right in the street!  I backed away.

"Come on, you're not going to leave me hanging after all we've been through together!"

Well, it was late, he was cute...

"Come on!  You've never been with a guy as big as me, guaranteed!  And I know how to use it.  Greek, French, you name it, I'm up for it!"

Well...a big one...and if it was the only way I was going to get rid of this guy....

I agreed to bring Jasper back to my hotel room.

We didn't kiss much -- his breath smelled of alcohol.

We took off our clothes and fell down onto the bed.

Jasper was, indeed, enormous, a Kovbasa++++.  When he was aroused, you could rub it against his pecs.

But he wouldn't stay aroused.  He softened and hardened intermittently, no matter what I tried with my hands and mouth.   It was like going down on a very big, very limp garden hose that occasionally stiffened.

Eventually I heard snoring -- Jasper had fallen asleep while receiving oral sex?

I pushed his arm around me so we could cuddle, and fell asleep myself.

I awoke a couple of hours later to see Jasper getting dressed.

"It's been fun," he said, "But I gotta go. Could you spot me a fiver?"

I spent the next week looking over my shoulder to see if Jasper was approaching, with his hot dogs and curacao and limp garden hose.

See also: Marco, the Gay Cannibal of Colombia; My Sausage List

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