Cruising Bourbon Street Alone, I Met My Sexual Match
She knew how to play the game, "Let’s Get Drunk and Have a Wild One-Night Stand.”
Illustration by Tommy MacMurdo
When walking down Bourbon Street at night, all the lights from the neon bar signs blend, creating a rainbow haze. Or perhaps I was just drunk. Given that I had consumed two slushie yardsticks from Fat Tuesday, it was probably the latter.
I was in New Orleans for the first time, not for a bachelorette party or with my slutty boys. I was with my mother and brother the week of Family Mardi Gras (which is as paradoxical as it sounds). Before arrival, I figured my days would be spent heading to museums with my mom, but my evenings would be spent with my brother, searching Bourbon Street for adventure (i.e., trouble). Only he got injured a few days before the trip and couldn’t be an alcoholic tourist with me.
Luckily, I had no problem being messy all by my lonesome.
I sauntered up and down Burboun solo, sugary drink in hand, and watched as drummers hit their plastic buckets with sticks. The last thing that street needed was more noise. Already, the competing bars were blasting their bass or blaring the eclectic guitar, creating an overwhelming cacophony. Luckily, alcohol dulled the vibrations in my head, making it more tolerable.
It also made me horny.
Well, liquor and the overall vibe of Bourbon Street. Everyone was on the prowl. Gaggles of curvy women had their breasts overflowing from their tops. (The bridesmaid wearing the black “Shot Queen” sash was always the first to have a nip slip. “Maid of Dishonor” was the first to purposefully pull out her tits to get a few colorful beads.)
These women reveled in being five hundred miles away from their homes, where their husbands remained blissfully watching college football with a cheap beer in hand. The bachelorettes thrived no longer under the fat thumb of their man and were fearless, knowing that no person from their local church would see them on top of a bar using a stranger’s hairy ass crack as a luge.
Their newfound freedom led them to be sexually bold. They would make aggressive eye contact without blinking. (I once actually looked behind me before pointing at myself to confirm their gaze was meant for me.) Some forsook gender roles and would approach me, asking, “My deal.” If I weren’t already used to cruising culture (thanks to gay clubs and sex parties), I would have thought I was living in an alternate reality.
In a way, I was. There is no other street like Bourbon on this planet, and with a few exceptions, you’d be hard-pressed to find a public area as devoid of shame.
So, I let my eyes linger a little longer on women than usual. Not in a predatory way—or at least I hope not—but the same way I allow myself to gaze at queer men, longingly and lustfully. If you avoid eye contact or avert quickly, I stop immediately. But I am giving you the opportunity to return and hold my gaze. If you accept, then you’ll be doing a lot more than drinking alcohol from my hairy ass crack.
My third time wandering down Bourbon Street, I saw a group of five women strutting towards me. They owned the street. Everyone in a twenty-foot radius was gawking at them, and these girls were living for the attention.
You can just tell that before going out, while they blasted Megan and Doja in their hotel room, they decided, “We are going to be the baddest bitches on Bourbon Street.” And they were so effortlessly. Every straight man wanted to fuck them. Even the most secure of straight women felt a pang of jealousy. And the bi girls? They would pine after these women silently until the day they died.
Here I was, heading right towards them.
While I found every single one of these women drop-dead gorgeous—I wouldn’t just let each of them shove me into a locker; I’d pay for them to stomp on my nuts with 9-inch stilettos—I locked eyes with only one woman. (In part, because I’m not a spider and cannot simultaneously sustain eye contact with multiple people.)
Her long eyelashes, eyeliner, and light blue mascara accentuated her light brown eyes. Her full lips glistened with bright pink gloss. And her skin did not have a single pore. Undoubtedly, she moisturized day and night, and it paid off.
She had long brown hair that curled down and landed between her cleavage, prominently displayed in her cropped jean jacket, exposing an amethyst belly button ring. She walked like a runway model, her hips hypnotically swaying side-to-side as her ass bounced in her booty shorts.
We not only aggressively stared at each other—our heads turning as we walked by—but we looked back at each other, sustaining eye contact as we continued walking our separate ways.
I had to say something. If I didn’t, I would be in bed next to my mom three hours from now, crying myself to sleep, thinking about how I could have been sharing a bed with a goddess.
Abruptly, I turned my body around, a complete 180, and started jogging towards her.
She stopped as her friends continued walking.
“I’m sorry, but I had to say, you are fucking stunning.”
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