A Night of Bliss! Or Was It?


I am confused. The story I am about to write is as true to me as anything in my life has ever been. It started on a Saturday morning and what a glorious day that was! I was in New Orleans and I had some time to spare. Don’s wedding, the reason behind my trip, was scheduled for four o’clock in the afternoon and at the time it was only about ten in the morning. I walked out from the lobby of the Fairmont Hotel, a very beautiful and ornate establishment, onto Canal Street on my way to the French Quarter. Keith, another buddy, and I were on our way to meet a girl he met on the plane-ride into town. Her name was Pam.

The walk in it of itself was very colorful and rich in texture. The sweet smell of roses and the refreshing look of live ferns somehow meshed into the foul odor of trash and the stench from motor oil. The sidewalk in front of traditional two-story homes adorned with wrought iron arches and time-honored southern-looking windows was bordered with empty beer cans, banana peels, and grease-stained asphalt. The walk, overall, probably took about twenty to thirty minutes. Once we got to Le Richelieu, her hotel, which was also the hotel where the wedding party resided, we called her down.

Once Pam joined us, off to a bar we went. Its name was Napoleon House Bar and Cafe. We started with a great tasting yellowish drink whose name escapes me at the moment. We had their infamous Muffaletta to go with it, which is a big round Italian sandwich dressed with Olive oil. A few more drinks followed before we decided to head out to other spots in town. We walked through Jackson Square where I almost got bird droppings splashed on my bare left foot, I say bare because I was only wearing sandals. Street performers, painters, and human statues decorated the plaza. Birds, of course, flocked everywhere. We walked and talked for a while. Eventually, Pam had to leave us for an appointment with a masseuse.

"When will you be done with the wedding?" She asked.

"I don’t really know but we can meet somewhere at eleven thirty in the evening!"

"Lets do that, how about Le Pittsbsst on Bourbon and ??? Street?"

"That sounds great!"

It was now right about two thirty and we happened to stand right in front of Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville. Storyville was the name of the bar, within Margaritaville that is, where we parked our mouths to drink some Margaritas. A piano player sang his heart out while we drank freely. Funky Jazzy tunes flowed through the bar like ripples propagate in a still pond. People’s voices could be distinguished over the music but the words sounded like mere gibberish. It was after a while of admiring beautiful women, drinking Margaritas, and listening to great Jazz that we realized we had to go back and get ready for the wedding.

We got to the hotel about twenty minutes after three in the afternoon. We were all sweaty and sticky from our long exposure to the sun. It must have been at least ninety degrees Fahrenheit. Since the wedding started at four, we had no time to take a shower. In fact, we barely had time to clean up and suit up. Well, we made it to the wedding right at four o’clock. The ceremony finished quickly and at about a quarter before five we were already celebrating with Champagne in the Paul McCartney Room. While drinking, we made plans to go to Pat O’Brien’s Bar on St. Peter Street to drink and party some more.

Well, we got to Pat O’s after we changed into more comfortable clothing and started to drink again. I started off this time with a Cuba Libre. Some of the others started with Hurricanes, the infamous drink from Pat O’s. Eventually, I too had hurricanes. We were seated, unfortunately, in a drink-only area, which meant that we could not order food. Oh well, hard liquor sufficed for the moment. It was about time to meet Pam when we decided to venture out with most of the wedding crew to another bar, the bar where Pam was to wait for us. It was past eleven o’clock. On our way there, the streets were in party chaos. It was the Southern Decadence, which is the weekend where gays come together and celebrate. They were barely dressed, I must say. One guy dressed up with only a condom on his penis, a leather hat, and a pair of boots. Other guys walked hand in hand wearing nothing but thong leather underwear or string bikinis.

Bourbon Street was insane! People lined up all over the street and throughout a second-story porch to scream, drink, and celebrate. This all happened by Oz, a dance club. The minority of the bunch, a few other folks and us, were straight heterosexuals walking through an otherwise gay affair while observing and, of course, drinking beer and hard liquor out of our "take-out cups." I have never seen so much bare yet decorated male flesh all in one place. None of them, however, bothered us nor did we them.

Within a block’s distance, we were back in "straightville." Women again glorified the streets with their voluptuous presence. Strip joints and band-filled bars were now everywhere. All of a sudden, we saw Pam walk by and we stopped her to chat. She was with some other guy and was already in a party mood. During this encounter, we inadvertently broke off from the wedding crew and lost contact. We talked with Pam for a while but eventually headed our own way.

We did not walk long before we encountered another exciting spot. As with the gays, a corner filled with people from all walks of life partied like it was 1999! AND 1999 IT WAS! Women on the porch of the second floor flashed their perfectly round milky-white breasts for a collar of beads. Some women were pretty enough to negotiate the type of beads they would get as well as the quantity. Some of the others, however, were not and thus revealed their bosom at the slightest sign of a request. Others reveled in teasing the crowd by negotiating a bead price but never settling.

"Show us them t_ts!" the crowd yelled while pointing to a gorgeous blond.

She would eventually give in by pulling up her blouse for two to three seconds. When she actually did this coveted act, someone, out of nowhere, shone a spotlight of some sort on her showing the crowd the diva that she was. Horns, whistles, and sighs were heard during this momentous occasion. Needless to say, Keith and I camped out to enjoy the festivities. Drunks, perverts, winos, college kids, suits, and party animals were all pretty much the same. After a while, the women were mostly teasing and part of the hard-core crowd subsided. Well, on to the next stop we went.

We ended up catching the end of a concert at the House of Blues on Decatur Street. What a concert! We ordered beers and enjoyed the music. It was raunchy Jazz in a somewhat intimate environment, a dark concert stage surrounded by bar stools and tables on two levels. There was a dance floor right in front of the stage filled with people dancing. Most of them paraded with a drink in their hand. To hold a conversation was futile and out of place. Bodies could barely stand still. The music could not help but inspire the very roots of anybody’s soul. After listening to the last songs and walking around for a quick tour, we left and continued our pointless and aimless journey through time.

As we walked past a couple of strip joints, we saw a bar filled to the rim with patrons. A band was playing Jazz and holding some sort of contest that drowned everybody’s attention. Not lacking in party spirits, we joined to partake in the event. In walking through the crowd, I could hear the musician yell out:


When I finally got sufficiently close, I saw a perfectly fit girl, from the crowd, in tight black spandex pants shaking her booty on center stage. She reached under her skin-tight blouse to expose a beautiful black embroidered bra. After lifting her blouse just above her breasts, she clenched the underwire of her double-D bra and pulled it up to reveal her priceless jewels. Then, she turned around and pulled down her black pair of spandex pants. She gave the rest of the crowd, including myself, a full view of her bare behind with only a thin string riding up the creased river of love. Remember that this was just a girl from the crowd! She must have been twenty years old.

Soon after, the singer said:

"Mom! It’s your turn honey!"

A woman in her early forties walked up the stage and started to dance sensually. The previous girl then walked up to the stage again and lifted up the other woman’s short one-piece dress. They embraced while their breasts smashed against one another. That was the girl’s mom! She was also very pretty. "Mom" gave each of the musicians a private dance full of friction in all the sensitive spots. Like the daughter, she showed the crowd her boobs as well as her white but.

Among the other contestants, there were two women in their mid thirties that took the stage by storm. They were at the bar with their husbands and told the musicians they had small children at home. In any case, the brunette pulled up her red hot dress and the blond pulled up her short black skirt to show their goodies while dancing to a funky beat filled with sexual undertones. They danced back-to-back rubbing each other’s buts while showing the crowd their pleasing panties. It was wild! The crowd cheered and the contestants were simply having a blast! In the end, a girl that claimed to be from Istanbul won the contest. She had beautiful breasts with perfectly tanned skin and curly dark brown hair. Had I been the only judge, I would have given the price to the mom and daughter tag-team duo.

We stopped at a couple of other bars that also had music and impromptu beauty pageants. The only violence we witnessed along the way was the beating of a red bearded man. He was drinking beer when a black sport-utility vehicle drove by. Somehow the beer spilled as a result. "Red" decided to take revenge and threw an empty beer bottle at the car. He missed! He was in no shape to hit any target. Well, he pursued the car until he caught up and kicked it so hard that the echo reverberated throughout the block. The car abruptly stopped and three black men flashed out running around the car and converging on the frail assailant. They kicked him and punched him senseless. It was all over in less than ten seconds. All for a dollar’s worth of beer and a stupid sense of pride! Yes, beer was sold for a dollar a cup on the street!

At this point is where my memory fades and images blur. Keith and I finally got back to Canal Street. There were many people dressed up in costumes with red and blue highlights. The music heard on the street became incoherent and muffled. Next thing I knew, I woke up in a small room with a television set on a long table and a Bible on a small nightstand by a dimly lit lamp. I was obviously in a motel. As I moved to get out of bed, I felt tremendous pain in my stomach. I pulled up the torn white tee shirt I was wearing and I saw bruises all over my abdomen. I could barely move without causing a great deal of agonizing pain. I dragged myself to the door across the worn-out carpet and walked out to the lobby of the motel. I felt my feet tight and saw that they were red and swollen. My arms also felt sticky. I had dried old beer all over my arms and legs.

"Where am I?" I asked.

"This is The Will___ Motel on Route 12."

"Is this New Orleans?"

"Nope, we are about two hundred miles from there."

"How did I get here anyway? Did someone bring me?"

"I don’t know. It wasn’t my shift when you checked in. All I know is someone signed the guest book at eleven o’clock this morning."

After talking with the clerk, I took a shower, paid my bill, caught a taxi back to New Orleans and flew back home. A few days later, I asked Keith if he knew what transpired towards the end of that eventful night but his memory was even shadier than mine was. All he said was:

"I woke up on a bench by a bus stop on Canal Street. I was very hung over! I went to the hotel after that and packed to go to the airport! I figured you had already left."

It is a week after and my body is still aching all over. I am going to get checked out by the doctor tomorrow. I am afraid.



Gabriel Alfonso