Picked to Perfection

He was like kissed by the sun perfection lazily leaning on the car cradling an acoustic guitar while gently holding a pick where I longed to be- between his lips. He was a tamer of freely fornicating fillies and I knew that trouble regularly rested on his knee... but still I wanted to be broken. His demeanor was casual as he switched to strumming flamenco while the mouth that once was occupied by a pick now held a cigarette as plumes of smoke clouded his eyes and gave me a moment to breathe, just breathe. Not long after, I was caught inhaling his sex just as the smoke cleared and now we both knew that I would be a willing participant to his every intentions. The notes were clear and plucked with resonate emotion causing my heart to feel weak and my innermost legs to be wet. As dusk fell into night, for the first time I knew these hormones stewing inside me would be satiated by something other than my own hands.

She Misplaced Her Morals At Bourbon and Iberville

Never did Clare imagine that life's twist and turns would see her holding court scantily clad among the soft blues and pinks of in-house Fred Astaire stage lighting.

Like Cinderella before the ball she was a young rogue girl in cut-off jeans and a haphazard ponytail applying the signature smokey eye with precision, dabbing blush and blotting lips with a bit of wild child grace while the stylist rolled and coiffed her hair to make sure her alter ego was ready for the evening's suitors.

A last look in the mirror as she buckled her patent leather Mary Jane heels and headed downstairs to a bustling crowd of beautiful boys who were caught up in bachelor revelry and impatient men wanting to relive the adolescent effervescence that was deeply sedate in their loins.

Night after night she mixed and mingled with clients whose hands were dressed with pretty cocktails as dancer and guest were cloistered together in a dimly lit room that was heavily soaked with idle chatter; all cleverly designed to make your character questionable and the wallet a bit loose.

They put her on a pedestal... for five minutes at a time, where she shook her ass for senators and pretended to listen to the lonely. Good girls get lost all the time they would say... her soul was outside, left on the street, deluged in regret and in search of a viable savior.

I'll Have What He's Having

She decided she would be Evangeline today, Clare mused to herself, as she pulled the chord in the dimly lit street car to request to get off at stop #27 and head toward the river, just a block and a half away from St. Charles Avenue to La Crêpe Nanou - her favorite romantic bistro, which sat quietly close to the corners of Prytania and Robert Streets.

Once she exited, thoughts ran rampant in her cool and calculating mind as she gingerly strolled and perfected her evening's strategy, intent on using her bag of tricks for all matters involved in that night's seduction of her childhood love that she hoped would save her.

She laid out a mental picture of how the events should transpire: he would be there waiting for her, having pre-ordered cocktails that she would in turn acknowledge with appreciation and a cat-shy glance that teased and whispered, favors will be bestowed in the boudoir after dinner for a pre-requisite to desert.

Casual conversation would then lead them through breadsticks and strawberries swimming in fondue as she planned to affix his glance downwards with the haphazard and continuous crossing and re-crossing of her legs, and when he can take no more, the main course should arrive, and as they devoured the cleverly ordered Moules Mariniéres she hoped of reminding him of a texture he longs to taste.

After the table has been cleared of their pre-feast, she would excuse herself momentarily and disappear as his eyes would follow her every move, and with the gentle but hypnotic sway of her hips, she could lure him into her web; indenturing him to her power and graces thus proving to him that the attention she hoped to draw from the masses would be obsolete as he would then see himself as the lucky suitor whose been picked from a pool of powerful potentials.

The opening of the door to the bistro carried her back to the present, and as she passed through the red velvet drapes that hung across the entrance, it was like a curtain rising on the opening act of a play and when the petite frenchman who played the accordion most nights swayed to the left she instantly recognized the face at the bar... when handed the menu of digestifs and cocktails, she knew that it would be in vain — for she knew without a doubt what he would be having....

Do you know what it means...

It seems so surreal... sitting, waiting, contemplating the weather. I am far removed, but still emotionally intoxicated by my city. As a New Orleans favorite blows " It's a Wonderful World", my speakers take me back to cypress knees and the reminder of nature's curiosity. Childhood memories full of vibrant frocks and very colorful people sit heavy on my heart like morning fog too lazy to lift, too stubborn to disappear. All those celebrations that found me perched on the shiny shoes of the men I loved. They hummed a tune that danced on the humid air that lingered above, mixed with laughter and a splash of bourbon.