Oh, When the Saints

In August 2009, after months  years of planning to move, I left north Louisiana. I quit a job I loved (even if my boss was fucking insane, I really loved my job), I packed up our huge apartment, I kissed my last salary check goodbye, and I got in a car and moved everything I owned to New Orleans.

I wasn't really sure I wanted to live here; I wanted to move to San Francisco, and New Orleans was a second-best, much more affordable, option. I had deep-seated regrets about leaving my job; I knew I'd miss my clients. The possibility of evacuating scared me shitless. I feared what leaving a great job only seven months in would do; would I find another job I actually liked again, much less one that paid me well? I had never lived anywhere else as an adult. Hell, I'd been in the same town in north Louisiana for eight years. I wasn't sure if I knew how to adjust to a new culture, make new friends, and create new life. I thought I'd lost all my marbles, but damn it, I was dead set on moving.

It took me two months to find a job. I went back into the restaurant industry, which I always knew was a possibility, but without knowing anyone here, I couldn't find work in a higher-end restaurant. (It truly is all about making connections in this town.) I took a massive pay cut -- around 50% -- and my rent and utilities almost doubled over night. I made enough to pay rent and utilities and to buy food and gas, but only barely. I ate through a lot of what I had saved at my last job, just trying to survive. Tensions ran very high in my house, and the severe lack of income was a huge part of it.

I went back to asking my mother for help, which did much more than dent my pride -- it put me in a personal debt to her which made me feel disparagingly guilty. My family, myself included, has plenty of issues about control and money. It's enough to send me over the edge on any good day. I jumped around jobs, grabbing at anything on the side that would make me some extra money to travel, to go out, to have a life beyond my house. I applied for everything under the sun, hoping someday I would pull the right straw. I took contract work that paid well, but left me back at the same questions every few months -- what now? where will my next pay check come from?

And the whole time, the same nagging possibility sat at the back of my brain -- here I am creating a life in NOLA, a life I'm really enjoying, new friends and new connections and a history and a future here, but what if  I'm forced to choose between finding a job I actually enjoy and that can sustain me and staying in New Orleans? Do I love this city enough to put aside the work I've done in school, my interests, and work in the restaurant industry for the rest of my life? Do I love this city enough to give up other jobs, better possibilities in other cities, to stay here?

I kept coming back to a resounding, "no." Why? Well, life is about compromises, yes. But I'm super, insanely, driven. So much so. And I've put aside a lot of dreams, a lot of possibilities, for relationships, for women, for family, for fear. I've been reserved. I haven't chased what I really wanted -- the only huge risk I've taken was to move here. So I didn't want to follow that path again. I knew I would come back. Hell, I knew I never wanted to leave in the first place. But if it came down to it, I would do it.

Anyway. That was all crazy back story.

You know that job I left in north Louisiana, the one I loved? Yeah, that one. Well, out of the blue, the same position opened up in New Orleans about two weeks ago. And at the urging of a close friend, I applied. I really, really feared what it would feel like not to get it -- to face that rejection again. But I applied anyway.

And wow. I got it.

While money isn't everything, it's necessary for my peace of mind -- it's necessary for my sustainability, to stay here, to thrive here.

While loving a job isn't necessary, and neither is school, it's why I went to school -- to be able to qualify for a job I actually enjoyed.

And while having benefits isn't a requirement of life, I must say, not having to face the prospect and fear of ending up in the hospital on a fluke ever again without health insurance... yeah, that sounds fantastic.

All of these are blessings. I wish everyone had them, and God knows, if I had the ability, I'd provide that for everyone. (I believe in a society that does support and assist in providing those opportunities for everyone.) I am insanely blessed to live in a city I love, to have stumbled (fallen?) into this job, to not have to worry if my salary will sustain me.

Point is, I can stay in NOLA.

I can create a career here, and I truly hope that I end up in this job for at least the next 5-6 years, if not more.

I don't have to fear leaving anymore.

I don't have to half-ass my existence here out of that fear.

I feel like a huge weight has lifted off my shoulders.

So, New Orleans, if you'll have me, I'd really like to stay. Please. I'd like to create some roots, because this feels like home.

Sex-Positive, Part I: HIV Testing, Counseling, and Referral

I'm working on getting HIV Counseling, Testing, and Referral (CTR) certified by Louisiana so that I can conduct HIV testing. I've completed the training, and now I have to observe several individuals conduct HIV CTR before I can conduct the testing and receive my certification approval from the Regional Coordinator.

Tonight was my first observation. I watched three counselors provide the test for walk-in clients. In all honesty, I was a bit shocked by what I saw. Not because the counselors didn't follow the correct procedures and protocols -- they did. Not because of the results. Not because of the individuals who were tested or anything they said.

Let me back up.

It used to be, when you went in for an HIV test, the staff member would explain confidentiality and informed consent, take your blood or swab your mouth, and send you back to the waiting room (or, before the quick tests, on your way). After the test came back, a staff member would notify you with the results. Then, if you were lucky enough to test at an HIV service organization and not a doctor's office, the staff member would refer you for services if your results were positive.

Then someone intelligent dreamed up the concept of CTR. In CTR, you are tested. But while you're waiting the 20 minutes for the results to come back, the staff member ("counselor") has a one-shot chance at counseling and educating you on HIV. In other words, while you're nervous and captive and scared, the counselor asks you about why you came in, what your risk factors are, explains HIV transmission, helps you create a risk-reduction plan, explains how to use a condom and other barriers, and gives other information on prevention, where to get STD tested, and referrals for any other social services you may need. Considering the very minimal education most people in Louisiana receive on HIV and STDs, this method is kind of smart.

As a counselor, you're given a small window to talk with someone you've never met about their most intimate sexual habits, their drug use, their sex work, etc. You get a few minutes to get someone to trust you, listen to you, and most importantly, talk to you. You're often confronting all kinds of barriers -- social stigma about sex, homophobia, identity issues, gender, class gaps, race gaps, fear, misinformation, etc.

The most important lesson in CTR is that counseling is client-driven. It's not about the counselor. It's about empowering the client, helping him or her to identify their risks and identify ways to reduce those risks. It's about listening. It's about working in a partnership with the client, and making sure to meet the client on his or her level -- not above, not below. It's about leaving assumptions, values, and beliefs at the door as much as possible.

CTR takes some serious finesse.

So what shocked me the most about this process?

How incredibly negative the counselors were. Ugh.

One counselor would say, "You're negative, so that's good." The flip side of this, of course, is that people with HIV are "bad."

Another was telling me over and over again how he couldn't understand  why some clients will come in every month for testing. He was complaining that they obviously need to recognize and change their behavior instead of not using condoms and getting tested. Except... testing is a form of action toward prevention and knowledge. So while behavioral change is more pro-active, testing should not be condemned.

Another was clearly berating a client for not using a condom once. I could tell the client felt shamed.

One counselor doesn't ask the person's gender identity because he "can tell" if someone is trans. I'm sure I have several friends who could pass, and he would never know.

One counselor stated that "knowing the person you're having sex with" is a method of prevention. Not asking status, not asking about if they've been tested. But "knowing" them, which made really no sense to me.

Not one counselor talked about sex toys, BDSM, rimming, or any form of sex except oral and vaginal (for heterosexuals) and oral and anal (for gay men). Obviously, these sexual behaviors are common. They need to be discussed.

Two of the counselors did a half decent job talking about oral, but both treated the men as always receiving, never giving.

There was no mention or discussion of anal sex with a straight male client.

There was no mention of any barrier methods but condoms.

One counselor went on a tangent about how going out often is "bad." -- as if this somehow prevents HIV? Or helps a client feel anything but chastised...?

None of the counselors asked their clients to explain what they knew about HIV -- all of them assumed their clients knew basically nothing, and gave them only a cheap shot version.

All the language was gender-based around the partners the clients identified in the last 12 months -- which isn't always indicative of an individual's sexual actions.

All of the counselors quoted some form of inaccurate facts -- two counselors told clients that "New Orleans is #1 in new HIV cases in the country" and one counselor said "New Orleans is #1 in new HIV, gonorrhea, and chlamydia cases in the state." Nope.

(In 2009, Baton Rouge was #1 nationally in AIDS cases per 100,000 people. New Orleans was #3. 39% of people with HIV in Louisiana live in New Orleans. An estimated 4,500 people in Louisiana have HIV and are unaware of their status.)

Not one counselor used open-ended questions or allowed the clients to identify their own ideas on how to protect themselves.

There was a ton of value-based language -- that's "good" or that's "really bad." There is a place for this kind of language -- but "risky" is what should be used, not "bad." There's enough stigma around sex. Why put more?

I left the organization thinking a lot about what "sex-positive" means to me, and how clearly, the counselors whom I observed were not sex-positive. I felt like all of the clients left feeling like they'd just been given a verbal whipping on how bad they were at protecting themselves. It was definitely not about empowerment, nor was it about creating a space where clients could speak openly about any form of sexual behavior.


***************

It's incredibly difficult to get a stranger to open up about their sexuality and sexual practices. Stigma and fear can be insurmountable barriers, and that doesn't begin to crack the list of reasons why someone might not talk.

How can anyone counsel and educate about HIV without being completely, honestly open and nonjudgmental about sexuality and sexual practices?

Every time a counselor quoted a false statistic, I questioned the validity of every other statement he or she said.

Assumptions about gender and sexual practices create barriers and limitations.

Omitting questions about sexual practices that aren't vanilla and omitting questions because of assumptions linking sexual orientation and sexual practice means that conversation is never started -- and no information is shared or learned.

Making value judgments about individuals' actions shuts a client down faster than anything.


I watched these failures in language use, in education, in judgment, and in assumption create walls which prevented the counselors from successfully helping the clients assess and reduce their risk for HIV. I came to a conclusion.


I strongly believe that in HIV Counseling, Testing and Referral -- and in any sex education environment -- sex-positivity is vital. 

I Put On For My City

There's a section of I-10, the interstate that runs through New Orleans, that's raised up on the east side of the city. I usually drive it on my way home from night class, because there's nothing like seeing the Crescent City Connection bridge, the skyscrapers, and the glint of light off the river reflecting in the moonlight. Tonight, after watching "When the Levees Broke" for class, I hit the accelerator in my car, ramped up the interstate, and saw the city spread out before me -- the treetops over the shotguns of Treme, the tip of St. Louis Cathedral in the Quarter, the blocks of houses in MidCity, the skyscrapers rising out of the business district, the interstate split leading to Metairie, the West Bank, and Uptown. I almost cried passing the Superdome, thinking of the thousands of people trapped there during Katrina, the thousands more who flooded those doors for the Saints' games leading up to the Superbowl win, and the deep pockets and crooked politics of the Benson family who own the Dome. Oh, New Orleans. You've got a history like nowhere else. You shelter some of the deepest, darkest secrets -- a prison rate higher than anywhere else in the world, a culture of poverty, a host of class and race divides that cut to the core, harming all of us.

And yet.



I was born in Kansas City, Kansas. We moved when I was two. I was never given a distinct reason, but years later the truth slipped out -- my father lost yet another job, and unable (unwilling?) to support my family, he goaded my mother into moving to small town Mississippi, where he grew up. I spent the next ten years of my life there. It's a shithole of a town. There's more people living below the poverty line than above it. I grew up wandering cotton fields and eating fried catfish and never fitting in. Even as a kid, I couldn't handle the inequality around me. I couldn't understand why some people had everything and most people had nothing. In Mississippi, I was a child of my father's family, never an individual. Labeled by those who loved or hated him, as he always left a strong impression. I dreamt of nothing but when I would get out. When I was little and my mom was angry at the town, upset for being treated like an outsider because she wasn't born there, she used to call me Dorothy. She'd tell me to click my heels and take us back to Kansas. It became a distant dream for me, a Mecca. I thought maybe I would belong there. I have some good memories, some ties in Mississippi. I return to see family, to prove to myself that the city is still there. But mostly, it's a place I passed through.

When Mississippi (and my father) finally chewed us up and spit us out, my mom ran home to northern Louisiana. We moved into an neighborhood of mostly older couples, and I started public school (finally!). But the other kids saw me as a Mississippi kid with a twangy accent and horrible taste in country music. I was all wrong. North Louisiana never was home. It was a pit stop. I outgrew it quickly -- I became too radical, too queer, too artistic. I have ties, there, too, and oh, so many memories. I have exes and friends and ex-friends. I have family, too, but my mother and her relatives will probably never accept that my queerness and my outspoken activism are vital ingredients in my life. I couldn't get out of their shadow, and I couldn't find what I wanted in a town so restrictive. So eight years later, on the same day I arrived in north Louisiana, I left.

By providence and love and economics, I ended up in NOLA.

For a long time, I wasn't so sure I wanted to be here. Or rather, I wasn't so sure I was ready to stay. But I adore this city, from the way the pavement in the Quarter glints after a rainstorm to the stars rising over the Ponchartrain. I adore that people let me put my shit in their baskets at the Wal-Mart. I love the festivals, the music, the way people say hello on the streets. I love that art is a priority here; creation is a way of life. I love the people who put their lives and their time on the line to fight against the structures that make them crazy. I love that community building is part activism, part sharing a meal, part conflict, part politics, and all passion. I love when the stage lights up on Tuesday nights at the Pub, and I love the explosion of naked gay men at Bourbon and St. Anne at Decadence. I love beers on porches and red beans and rice on Monday nights. I love that people put roots here; they set down like the Oak trees in City Park. I love the transience of the hippies, the strength of families who have lived on the same block for generations. I love that this city is deeply Southern in a way that makes me feel like I'm enveloped by the familiar. I love that it's small enough I still run into people I know at the grocery store, and yet, large enough that I can still retain my anonymity on most days.

I will always wander. I will always need space to explore. I want to see too much, do too much. But, oh, New Orleans, you're the first and only place I can truly call home. I can't claim to be "from here" when someone in town asks -- it's a sin to claim heritage here if you weren't born here. But when I'm in Chicago or New York, when I'm on a plane headed to God knows where, and someone asks that inevitable question, my heart always skips a beat when I say, "I'm from New Orleans." And then I find myself launching into an often one-sided conversation about Katrina, about Mardi Gras and and neighborhood arts markets and trout almondine. I find myself repeating the stories of friends and queer family, and even telling tales of my own. I came here the first time when I was too young to remember. I came here in 2001 for Thanksgiving, right after my father left, because my mother didn't want to face her family. I came in 2005, two months before Katrina, and again in February 2006, Sept 2006, May 2007, August 2007, January 2008, March 2008, February 2009, May, June, and July 2009, and finally, permanently, August 2009. I felt drawn here, and it became hard to stay away for more than three or four months at a time. I still feel drawn here, connected, when I'm hundreds of miles away.

I'd marry this city, if I could. I hear that's not legal yet, thank God, since commitment never was one of my virtues. I still worry about finding a way to support myself after school here. I worry about floods and hurricanes. I worry about staying in Louisiana. But when I'm driving that stretch of I-10, and I round the curve where the city lays itself out before me... I can't help but know that I don't want to be anywhere else.

Chris Rose said it best, when he spoke of being a New Orleanian... "We dance when there is no music. We drink at funerals. We talk too much, and we live too large and, frankly, we're suspicious of those who don't."

(view of downtown and the Crescent City Connection from the West Bank) 

(view of downtown from the west side of the city, coming in from Metairie)

The City That Care (Didn't) Forget

So, I should be studying for this massive test I have Monday. Ugh. I have been, truthfully, and I won’t dull you with the details of school. But it should be said that most of my thoughts bubbles under the surface until a big bout of procrastination forces me to find something else to focus on – like cleaning my kitchen. Or writing blogs. :)

***********

Mardi Gras is rapidly approaching. Technically, it’s been Mardi Gras since Epiphany – January 6^th. But the crest, the climax, of the season is next weekend. The parades began last weekend, and there are quite a number this weekend, though I’m sitting them out for now to focus on school and work. Next weekend is the big weekend – from Thursday night through Tuesday evening, the city will be a mad mess of drinking in the streets, beads, and thousands of locals and tourists indulging in their every desire before Lent. I’ve seen it as a child, as a college student, as a rider on a float (in north Louisiana, anyway), and now, as an adult. It’s much more than simply drunk college students who try to flash for beads, but if you haven’t been here, then I’ll suffice to say you won’t understand without experiencing it.

Anyway.

Mardi Gras last year was pretty fucking miserable for me.

I’m just going to put that out there.

The parades were fun, yes. I had a great time at Muses and the handful of others that I attended. Actually, the best part of the weekend for me was the walk to and from my house, crossing St. Charles, seeing families and groups of friends, children running in circles, fences draped with beads.

Last year, at this time, my life felt like a crash course. I was working two jobs, and I had no money to show for it, because I was paying for my girlfriend’s share of utilities and rent and groceries. I would lie awake at night, trying to figure out how to stop my money from flying out of my hands before I could make it. It felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest, all the time. I was working one job at a restaurant, and though my bosses and the restaurant itself were really cool, I felt like I was going into a coma for hours just to make it through the day. Mardi Gras weekend I worked every day, eight to ten hours a day, in a state of constant chaos – hundreds of people, two hour waits, drunks, kids, stumbling over other staff members. It was great money, but the whole weekend was an exhausting blur. My other job I enjoyed, but the board member who controlled my employment was constantly trying to get me to do immoral and ridiculously stupid things, like lying on grants. I felt like I was constantly fighting him at that job, and it was wearing thin what little sanity I had left.

I was in school that semester three nights a week, which meant my days lasted eleven to twelve hours – wake up at 9am, go to work, go to school, pick up my girlfriend from work downtown, get home by 11pm or midnight, sleep, rinse, repeat. My classes weren’t going very well. I felt like the program wasn’t anywhere as high as my expectations, and I felt cheated because the reality wasn’t what I had been told.  

But really, I could have handled all of that. I can survive being broke and the stress of school, and Lord knows I’ve worked some jobs that made me want to pull my hair out. The tipping point was my girlfriend. Three and a half years in, and it was really, ridiculously clear that things were unraveling. We weren’t getting along, and I was feeling really trapped. I loved her, I cared about her. I honestly thought (at that point) things could work, or I was just too scared to admit to myself that I knew better. I’m not sure. But everything cracked to hell at Mardi Gras. We went to Muses and had a great time – it’s my favorite parade. Afterward, I agreed to go to a party at her coworker’s house, where we both proceeded to get trashed, well beyond my comfort zone, and in front of all her friends and coworkers, she flirted the whole night with the girl she was cheating on me with. Maybe ‘cheating’ is the wrong word, but it’s the best I’ve got right now. Fucking with my knowledge but without my consent or approval. 

Hm. That’s about right.

I couldn’t handle it. I left, got in my car when I was well beyond the capacity to drive (thankfully, I hit nothing), went home, and passed out on the couch. She fucked the girl, came home the next morning, and told me. And then asked me to pay her rent the next week. I remember so clearly, driving my car as we left Zotz, when she told me she didn’t have the money for rent. I wanted more than anything to drive my car through a wall, but I wasn’t stupid enough to wreck my car and put myself in an even shittier place.

I ran into the girl she was sleeping with at least once a week back then, and I vacillated from wanting to tell her off to just feeling really sorry for her. It was obvious she cared, obvious she was getting invested. She was young and sweet and naïve, and I wanted to warn her that she was going to get hurt. She would be collateral damage. But I wanted no responsibility for that, so I kept my distance. I told my girlfriend to think through this, to realize what she was doing. But as it became increasingly clear over the next few months, either she didn’t realize or didn’t care, and everything and anything became collateral damage.

Most of that weekend is a blur. I remember driving on Claiborne, stuck in traffic, and we were both crying. I wanted to be around her – I wanted the person I used to know, not the one that was there – and yet I wished she would just disappear. I hid at home or ran from the house, depending on the moment. I cried three, four, five times a day, at the drop of a pin. I had so much pent up sexual tension (on top of the stress), that I was a fucking emotional wreck. If I wasn’t crying, I was pissy and annoying.

I’d only been living in NOLA for a few months, and I knew almost no one. The few people I knew well were in the same boat as me – so busy they didn’t see the light of day often. It was isolating and miserable, and I felt extremely lonely. I realize now, looking back, that I had so much anxiety and sadness and anger at the time that I didn’t want to be around anyone. Social situations were overwhelming. Most everyone I had met knew me as a part of a couple, and they adored my girlfriend – she was charming and sweet and funny, she’s easy to love the first time you meet her. I shy away from many of the people who met me during those months. It wasn’t me. I was ashamed of how miserable I was, ashamed that I didn’t know how to tell my girlfriend “no” as much as I wanted to when she asked for money. I was ashamed that many of my friends felt like I had a great relationship, when they simply didn’t know the truth. I didn’t want my friends to hate her, to “take sides.” I didn’t know how to tell people how fucking bad things had gotten – especially when I couldn’t even admit it to myself yet. I didn’t want to be a burden.

*************

A year later, looking back, it’s like I stepped out of a haze.

I feel like I have put so much of this behind me, and it’s an amazing feeling to have some distance. So much has changed, and all of it has been for the better. I can’t even fathom it.

I have a job I love. Adore. I mean, like anyone, I have days where I’m frustrated, where I make mistakes, where I feel incompetent or unheard. But the truth is, I’m doing something that plays to my strengths, my interests. My boss is fantastic. I count him as a friend as much as a coworker, and I respect him immensely.

I’m making money doing something I love. Fuck. That blows my mind. I know that might not happen again for the rest of my life, so I’m definitely enjoying it while I can.

I have an awesome roommate. No, she can’t change the toilet paper roll, and she’s not big on taking out the trash. But we have so much fun hanging out that I don’t really care. We get along great. She contributes for her share, and I never have to worry she’ll be unreliable or late on rent. Even when we’re stressed, we don’t take it out on each other. My house feels like a home, a place I can be comfortable, again. It’s the best roommate relationship I’ve possibly ever had.

I have a woman in my life whose company I genuinely enjoy, who doesn’t expect anything I can’t or won’t give, and who is incredibly fun to experiment with sexually. I don’t feel like I have much to give after four years in a relationship. I’m gunshy and anxious at times, and I’m grateful to walk instead of jumping into something I can’t handle.

I love this city. Adore it. There’s so much here that I can’t do it all, can’t see it all. I’m finding friends again – old and new –who I enjoy spending time with. I can laugh again, and it’s honest and raw. It feels good.

I’m healthy. I’m financially stable. I don’t stay up at night anymore freaking out about money, wake up crying. My anxiety has dropped dramatically. I actually look forward to meeting new people. I don’t run the other way at the thought of new social situations. I’m learning to talk about things again when I have a problem, instead of internalizing everything. 

It’s really... good.

***********

I’ve spoken to so many of my friends from high school and college in the last year, and I’ve often heard the same story. They’re not happy. They hate their job, or they’re in a dead-end relationship, or they’re struggling with school. They hate that they’re still living at home. They’re broke or in debt or overwhelmed by stress. I began saying – believing – that many of us were idealizing what our lives should be, harping on the one or two things that we didn’t have instead of the many things we do have.

It comes down to this: the majority of the people I know have one of these: a great job, a city they love, great friends/family who live close by, or great partner. To have two is awesome. To have three or four – a fucking miracle.

In some ways, I rationalized that I was doing ok because I had a city I wanted to live in. I had at least one job I sort of liked, even if it was stressful and frustrating. And the rest – well, I was doing ok.

Looking back, I wasn’t ok. It's true I can't all go through life focusing on all the things I don't have -- there will always be more things I want than things I have. But I do think it is ok to say "no." It's ok to ask for more. It's ok to want more, to strive for more, to demand more. You'll never get what you didn't ask for. It's about striking a balance between desire and acceptance. 

Now – I’m a lot more than ok. I’m ridiculously blessed. I can’t really believe this is my life. I have more than I know what to do with. I can't believe that there's really nothing major I would change in my life right now. I mean, I could always use better health insurance, a better paying job, more time in the week. But that's all pretty minor considering how much is going right. :)

I’m so very much looking forward to this Mardi Gras – getting dressed up, hosting a house full of people, celebrating my roommate’s birthday, taking some time off work and school, possibly getting laid.  Parades and beads and beer and friends. Fuck yes. 

Laissez le bon temps roulez. 

Gender Me Queer

“You should have come with me.” He sits down and takes off his jacket, placing it gingerly across the back of his desk chair.

“Why? Did everything go ok?”

“Because the manager was a lesbian. I didn’t expect that.”

I’m confused. I’m not sure what he’s getting at. “What did you expect?”

“Well, I was walking over there, thinking that when I asked for the manager, I’d probably be talking to a gay man…maybe a straight man? I don’t know. I didn’t expect for it to be a lesbian.”

I don’t miss a beat. “Sounds like you need to examine your gender assumptions.”

The guy in the desk next to me looks up sharply at me and coughs like he’s choking. He’s got a smirk on his face, and his eyes are dancing. I’ve only known him ten minutes, but I think this is a sign he likes me. Or he just finds this conversation fascinating.

I look back to him. I can see the wheels turning. He’s not sure if that was a challenge, a reprimand, or a simple statement.

I break his silence. “You’re sure she was a lesbian?” I’m curious to see how deep his gender assumptions run.

“I think so…” He looks hesitant now. He doesn’t want to get called out again.

“What was she wearing? What did she look like?”

“Short, cropped hair. She was short, I guess. Shorter than me. Had a nose ring.”

“Did she have on a polo?” I smile. I’m sorta fucking with him now.

“Yeah…”

“Probably a dyke.” 

He is not at all sure what to do with my use of that word. “Well, I mean, I think so. At least, that was my first impression…” He trails off, but picks back up quickly. “But I try not to assume. I never can tell down here, because people don’t seem to  fit gay or straight when I think they do, and I just mess it up. New Orleans is so confusing.”

I laugh. I don’t find it so difficult, but I like it when people don’t fit in boxes.

“Like you.” He looks down at his desk. “I mean, I never would have thought you were a lesbian. Or queer, whatever you identify as.” His statement is simple, almost exploratory. It’s not an insult. It’s not personal. I’m not going to shoot him down, because I’ve already challenged his understanding twice – once with my own identity, once by calling him out. This is a form of education, and I want to be careful with the lesson.

“Yeah. I know. I’ve heard that at least three times this week.” Eye roll. “Sometimes I just have to tell them. Ask me in a bar, and I'll get vulgar about it. But that's my life. You know, someone told me once that feminine women are often more vocal because they can't be visible, and butch women will always be more visible, because they don't get an option.”

He looks at me, cocks his head to the right side, thinks about this. “I guess that makes sense.”

I want to add, "But that would change if people would stop conflating gender, sex, and sexuality long enough to realize how you look has little to do with whom you fuck,” but instead, I put my headphones back on, pull up my window with fifteen tabs, and go back to work compiling LGBT resources in Louisiana. Must be nice to be skinny and cute and white and male, where all you have to do is flip a pinky and walk in a gay bar and no one questions the legitimacy of your sexuality. 

Parts and Pieces

***********

Your skin radiates warmth, and my first thought is that I’m glad I let you sleep over, simply for this sensation. The morning light is flooding in, and I’m fighting the obligation to get out of bed and stumble into the shower. You’re still breathing, heavy, uneven. I want to curl up to you, bury in your skin, but strangely, cuddling is one of the few things I’m unsure about with you. It's not an emotional activity for me, but for some people, cuddling is intensely personal in a way sex simply isn't. I find myself mulling over how we've discussed and navigated so much, and yet, never this. I roll up against you, instead, pull the comforter back over my head, and shut out the light. I’m lulled back to sleep before I can even count to ten.

**********

The heat of the water almost burns as I step in. Having a heated pool at a gay bar, in the middle of the city, in the middle of the night? Only in New Orleans. I slip underwater, pulling myself forward, deeper, and though the Chlorine burns my eyes, I want to be swallowed into the water, I want to float weightless, I want to escape. As I child, I used to pretend I was a mermaid, a whale, a fish, or some combination… swimming deep into the depths, holding the air in my lungs until the pressure rose, expanding, forcing me upward. I feel free in water, unencumbered by the parts of my body that are awkward, heavy, uneven. I feel graceful.

When I come up for air, fifteen feet away, I can hear the echo of voices and laughter from the other end of the pool. The sounds bring life to the cold January night air. There’s no one here but us, and it’s the perfect place to be at two in the morning – a bit of familiar and a bit of unexpected, but mostly just a whole lot of ridiculous antics, bad inside jokes, and easy conversation. Behind me, our beer cans line the edge of the pool, and nipples rise and fall above the water line. It’s my first time being topless in public since Pensacola Pride in May 2007, and the water is beautiful against my skin.

***********

I can feel the weight of your head falling on my shoulder, cushioned by my hoodie. I want to pull you in. I want to bury in you. You make me want to be vulnerable, in a way no one has in a very long time. But I can’t. I won’t. I… I have a million reasons, and while sometimes they sound like excuses, at other times they’re perfectly valid.

“That one, there,” I’m pointing up into the night sky, “is that the big dipper?”

“Yep. And look across, there,” You point to the left of the constellation, “It’s the north star. It’s like it fell out 

of the dipper. You can always find them together.”

I have a vague recollection of my father telling me this same fact, as I stood on our driveway in Mississippi on a summer night, a thousand years ago. The Pontchartrain stretches out into the darkness, watercolor waves for as far as I can see. Fog is still rising from the surface of the water, eclipsing the horizon so that the starry sky and the lake almost blend together. I sink into the bench, looking up across the bowl of sky. I feel infinitely small, and yet full to the brim.

“I can barely see the horizon. It’s such a thin line.” I can barely see your face in the dark, but I know you’re squinting, trying to decide which line.

“If I were painting it, I probably wouldn’t paint a horizon line.” I can picture the paintbrush in my hand, bleeding black onto the canvas.

I hear the surprise in your voice when you respond. “If I were painting it, I would make the horizon line thick.” 

For a moment I’m tempted to analyze what this says about us. Not that I haven’t already thought about our differences, in so many other situations. But I put that thought away. Instead I lean back toward you, take a really deep breath, and let the night sky overwhelm me.

***********

I roll over again, restless, unsure of what I want. I see your eyes start to peek open. Outside my bedroom door, I hear my roommate talking to her friend who is crashing in the guest room for the night. I hold my breath as their footsteps echo in the hall. You stumble out, pulling my bathrobe around you, heading for the bathroom. “Good morning,” I hear from the hallway. Mass giggling ensues. I can’t help but smile.

***********

It’s three in the afternoon on a Tuesday, and I’m not really sure what I’m doing with my life right now, but damn, it feels right. There’s a half-empty Abita in front of me, and outside the late sun is bouncing off the exposed brick of a French Quarter home.

***********

I'm trying to think of a 1940's actress, but no one is coming to mind. Too late for Mae West (my favorite), too early for Audrey Hepburn or Marilyn Monroe. Hell, I can't even think of a 1940's movie. I stumble, my heel catching into the uneven brick, and you reach out to catch me. You put your arm out for me to hold as I walk, and I brush away the thousand memories that simple gesture brings to my mind. You weren't around for those moments, and I don't wish to burden you, or the night, with them. Seconds later my passing thoughts are silenced as you pull an arm around my waist and kiss me. I lean back, lean it, letting go. Momentarily. You smile (or is it a smirk?) and I push against you, resisting, flexing. You catch my wrists and pin me to my car, but I'm still reaching forward to kiss you, letting my lips beg without words. Your lips travel down my neck, around the heavy black cross, a relic that somehow always ends up around my neck when I'm in compromising positions. I gasp, and when the air leaves my lips, there's a smoky outline of my breath under the streetlight. You've let go by now, never dominant for long, and I push my hips forward, swinging to catch you by surprise. I want to pin you, but you've got a couple pounds and more muscle than me. We struggle as you fight back, pushing me deeper against the car, and you're laughing at me. I'm defiant, as always. Stubborn. I lift my leg and curl it around your thigh, bringing the heel between the back of your legs. 

Your hand slides up the inside of my thigh, bare under my black dress, but seconds later, you're pulling away. You're serious. Well, as serious as drunkenly possible. "You're better than this."

"Better than what?" I mentally note to ask you later, when you're more sober. 

"This." You gesture down the street, pulling me into you as a car's headlights fall on us, climb closer, speed by.

Having sex in a public place? Hardly, I've been there. Having a quick fuck when I'd rather take you to bed for a few hours? Yes, probably, but sometimes I'm willing to settle. Sleeping with someone who is drunk? Well, no, as long as you're capable of giving and withdrawing consent, and I know you well enough to know that neither of us takes that lightly. Nor would you say something only to please me. 

I table it. I want to argue; it's bubbling up in me. I feel like you've made a judgment call on what I should and shouldn't do with my body, and though I doubt that's what you mean, I'm drunk enough to take it that way and put up a defensive wall. Not worth it. 

You're still staring at me. Something else is coming. "I don't know how I feel about fucking my friends. I don't want anyone to get hurt."

And God knows, I respect you so much for that, probably more than you'll ever know. "I understand." I reach up to kiss you on the cheek, because I'm going to walk away now. But you turn, and my lips find yours instead. 

"Not that you've given me any reason not think that you can't handle it." You're right, I haven't.

"That's true. But still. If you hesitate, I respect that. I'll back off." 

No matter what I say, you can't see my heart. 

**********

“I like the idea of control. But the truth, as a friend so vividly pointed out to me today, is that's an illusion. Not having control makes me vulnerable. And while I do really enjoy that place, it can be hard to let go. It can be hard not to plan.”

**********

I know what I want, but I hesitate. All of the circumstances are shaky: we’re sober, it’s morning, we both have places to be and things to do. The harsh sunlight is bouncing around my room; a part of me becomes shy, embarrassed of the imperfections of my body which are so easy to find in the light. But you’re in my bed, in my house, in my morning, naked. I pull closer, kissing the nape of your neck very softly. I begin to trace my fingers down your back, slowly, carefully, dancing across your curves. Oh. so. very. slowly. My touch is exploratory at first, gentle. You’re not responding, but not pulling away, either. I slide my hand down, across your hip bone, circling, my palm across the inside of your thigh. I’m waiting for you to let me in, asking the question with my hands. You shift inches, rolling from your side, putting the weight of your thigh onto me. I can feel the arch in your back, involuntary, almost imperceptible to the eye. My fingers wander up, around, across, and I find your nipple, circle the areola, and twist the ring softly between my thumb and forefinger. A gasp escapes from your lips. That’s the answer I’m looking for.  I bite hard into your neck, and your hips roll toward me, opening, and you pull me in for a kiss.

***********

“I don't want promises. I don't want guarantees, and if you hurt me -- or I put myself in a place to be hurt, which is always a possibility, too -- then it happens, and I'll deal then. I want your honesty, and I want you to know why I hesitate in talking, sometimes, and why there will be things you can't push or pull out of me at this point. Past that, I don't expect you to do anything but be you.”

***********

namaste.

Rebirth

Rebirth Brass Band is one of the most well-known brass bands in NOLA. They can bring anyone to the dance floor -- yo mama, yo girlfriend who don't dance, yo second cousin twice removed you haven't seen in ten years. This is exactly how I feel about being back in NOLA today :)

Sometimes, it doesn't hit me that I live here until I'm driving down St. Charles or Louisiana and I'm struck by the majesty of the oak trees... or I'm walking through the Quarter, or headed to a Saints game, or dancing in the streets at a festival, and then, it's like lightening strikes -- how could I want to live anywhere else?

Trouble.

The ribbed texture of the concrete wall grates on my upper back. “Does it hurt?” you ask. I want to tell you that the resistance feels good. I want to tell you how much I love being pushed. But even if you’re trouble, you’re still new. There’s much to learn about me, and that side will come out in due time.

In my heels I almost look down to you. Almost, but not quite. I’d look down if I wasn’t rolling my eyes up, around, uncontrollably, because you’ve bit down into the muscle up the side of my neck. I want to resist, but I can’t. You bite down harder, harder, into the thin layers of my epidermis and then suck the heat off as you release me. A breath of air slips out between my lips; I had no idea I was holding it in. I hear the moan as it escapes, and my ribs expand to fill my corset.

I knew you were trouble when I met you. All right….all I had was a hunch. But my intuition is good, even if I don’t listen to the feelings often enough.

I looked down and there you were, climbing up the winding staircase, my fantasy reversed. In my head it’s me coming down, the train of my dress lingering on the previous step, hand on the rail for balance. That fantasy doesn’t belong to us – never will. But there you were, skinny tie in hand, climbing slowly toward me. I looked down on you. I swirled the wine in my glass and for a moment, I froze. Your smile caught me, the grin of the cheshire cat, curling up at the edges. That’s when I was sure that you were trouble.

“What do you want to do tonight, after we leave here?”

My answer came, simple and unassuming. “Whatever you’d like. We could get a drink or go dance. What are you thinking?”

Your eyes sparkled, but I heard the tease in your voice. “No. What do you really want to do?”

I looked directly into your eyes, unflinching. I wish I could say it was the five glasses of wine talking, but the truth is, even sober I’m direct.

“If I had my way, I’d take you home and fuck you right now.”

The warmth of the Quarter rushed at me as we walked down the cobblestone streets. Even in fall, the heat lingered, almost unfazed. You took my fingers in yours, and I realized the heat didn’t belong to New Orleans, but to us. You stepped ahead, and I stopped, pulled your hand taunt, twirling you into me. Your laugh bounced off eighteenth century windowpanes, across iron balconies. We were steps away from where twenty-seven men died in a gay bar arson. We stumbled on streets marked by duels, once filled with Spanish women heading to market and Creole aristocrats vying for the hands of ladies in parlors. Now this block was marked by tourist bars and purse-snatchings, backroom massage parlors and girls earning their tips dancing on the bar. Our past, our reality, for better or worse. The steps of thousands of couples tread here before ours. The driver of an SUV honked and whistled at us. I pulled you in closer, wrapped your arms around my waist. You pushed the falling hairs away from my face. I worried, I worried, I worried – would we get jumped? Harassed? You kissed me – and the cars, the drunken frat boy crowds, the tour buses and stumbling tourists –

disappeared.

I could feel only the parting of your lips.

We grabbed beers and put them in go cups. Sloshed them on the streets, though I was careful not to let my heels and newly painted toenails get wet. Music came from every open door, not the roar of big, live jazz, but the overplayed moans of top 40 and rap. We were on the wrong side of the Quarter. She is a goddess of many faces, but I strayed from these cisgender, homophobic, privileged, tourist traps and their drunken unpredictability. I pulled you through the streets, pausing to cross, to kiss, to spin, to laugh. Pausing to look into your eyes again and remember that you are Trouble. To remember to forget to remember.

We slinked into a back alley, shuttered by the hotels and office towers of the Business District, and I pulled you into me, you pushed me into the wall, I felt the defiance, physically, emotionally, sexually, but I found your mouth just the same. Open. Messy. A bare hint of hops. Eyes closed, I wrapped your tie around my wrist and pulled you in, closer. Your hands fell against my thighs and I resisted, slightly, as you pushed my hips back into the concrete. The breaths came fast and hard, now, harder when you bit, louder when you tugged my hair, pulling my head to once side to better sink your teeth deep into my neck. My moans came louder, faster. A single car sped by, lights flashing across us for a split second, glancing off the black silk of my dress.

I slid my fingers down, deep, into your back pockets, pulling you down into your center of gravity. I found your earlobe with my tongue, bit down, clawed my nails into the triangle of your shoulder blades. A lone man walked across the nearby intersection, and my eyes darted away from him. I clutched you tight, hoped he didn’t see our shadows wrestling. You buried into my chest, breathing the thin layer of sweat across my chest, and I felt your fingers dancing up the inside of my thigh, spreading my legs ever so gently. The man passed out of sight, and you pulled my lace thong to the side. Your two fingers slid in, deep, fast, sharp, and I sucked in a huge moan. My silk dress grated on the concrete. I felt my knees give in, weight falling in to my heels. Your fingers curled, lighting up each nerve ending, twirling in, out, the soft calluses on your thumb rubbing circles around my clit. When you bit down, hard, on my bottom lip, I started to beg, whimpering “more” as my hips shook, ribcage almost expanding out of the corset with each breath, moans sticking in my throat until the air leapt out. 

More. More. More.

Your fingers picked up a pulse and I felt the muscular wall of my cunt straining tighter. In. Out. Around. Deeper. Reaching in, hard, pushing my g-spot, twirling, in, slipping out, open, closed, around, in. In. My breaths came fast. I held the loudest moans in, but even the soft ones bounced off the concrete and steel. You bit down, once more, teeth catching on the thin line between pleasure and pain. My eyes rolled up, closed, cunt clenched, and electricity connected every nerve ending in my body.

The breath came out slow. Your eyes shined, almost too bright, caught in the glare of the streetlamp down the block. I slid my hands between your pants and your skin, dipping tentatively into your sides, and pulled your 

hips into mine hard. My gaze came thick, spread like fog across the streets. Yours came tentative, cocky, unassuming, unsure, wound up, all at once. 

“Why do you cause me so much trouble?” 

Carre Me Home

I don't often make it to the Vieux Carre on Saturday afternoons. I should make it a point to do so -- even with the masses of tourists, it's my favorite day to go downtown. I met with a friend today at Cafe Envie, an open-air coffee shop on a corner, and I'm so very thankful we chose to meet downtown. There was a small festival across the street at the old U.S. Mint, and the salsa and merengue music was infectious. I wanted to dance in the streets! It was a gorgeous, cool, breezy day, and after our meeting we wandered through a few thrift stores and down to Jackson Square to visit a friend who was selling his art. All the artists, street performers, and psychics were spread around the Square walkways, and I was grateful that I only had $3 in my wallet or else I would have purchased several pieces. I wish I could put the Quarter into words. It's old worlde and new, artistic and messy, all structured by the simplicity of a grid. It's a charming place. I love that I can't go two blocks there without experiencing live music, the smells of fresh seafood, and puppy kisses.

Once upon a time, I fell in love with this city. I fell in love with a girl, simultaneously, and for a long time I think I confused the two. I thought of this city as hers -- or ours -- in a lot of ways. When we broke up, I grieved that attachment. But part of the challenge (and the delight) of the last few months has been my own process of rediscovery. I'm finding that fried plantains are just as good without her. The streets shine just as much in the wake of an afternoon rainstorm. The Pontchartrain still calls to me when I'm feeling lost and lonely. I love a beer at three in the morning -- maybe even more so than I did before -- on the porch surrounded by friends.

I have a nasty tendency to nest and hole up at home when I'm in relationships. Partially, that's because I keep so busy -- always going with work and school and volunteer projects and queer events and... -- that when I get a free moment, I want to spend it with whomever I'm dating. When I'm single, my priorities change, and I redirect that energy toward a social life. I look outward, instead of inward. I've met so many amazing people in NOLA because I'm taking chances, spending time building relationships, and connecting into the people that have become a transient, local family to me. I've had several people ask if I'm "dating" -- but the truth is, I don't want to. I don't want a partner. I don't want to pour energy into looking for one. I want to wander, dance in the streets, and enjoy what it means to wake up alone. I want to touch on each museum, each festival. I want to try all the foods (!) and I want to paint in the park. I want to dance on the bar and drink in alleyways. As a friend (or her mother) says, "being alone doesn't mean being lonely." It just means... being.

as is

School. School. School. So much chaos. Came home from New York and jumped straight in – I’m so far behind! It’s crunch time, and I’m signing on for 16 hours next semester (!). Feels like I’m looking down the barrel of a whole lot more madness. But it’s time to set that aside for a moment and reminisce on the last week.

New York City was a whirlwind. So much fun to see friends from high school and college. I fell head over heels for Central Park. I love the contradictions of New York. I love that the city is full of nuance. There are a million cracks and crannies, hidden stories, pieces of art and ironwork, cafes, corners. I love the distinctions of the neighborhoods, and how even, in a city of 8 million people, a neighborhood can feel small.

I feel like we had a quick fuck, when it should have been a much longer affair. I’ll be back, I promise. It won’t be another seven years. I’m thinking two years, at the maximum, and honestly, I’d love to go back next year, while I still have friends I want to see and free places to crash. In my wildest dreams, I want to live there, for a minute really – a few months, a year or two tops.

Strangely, leaving town really cemented for me how much I belong to NOLA right now. I found myself constantly expounding on the beauty of the city, the diversity of people, and my experiences here. I found references to NOLA hiding everywhere, often in the most bizarre of places. I’m very drawn here, right now. Maybe that will change, or maybe I’ll wander away and find my way back. Who knows? Maybe I’ll forever be polyamorous – drawn across the country by my loves for New York, San Francisco, and New Orleans, along with many smaller destinations in between. I don’t think I could ever fully give my heart, soul, and mind to one city – instead, my heart is in San Fran, my mind in NYC, and my soul in NOLA. I don’t believe that I must only have one love, thankfully.

I want to talk about the erotic energy retreat, but I’m exhausted. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. I must make more time to blog tomorrow…

Sleep to Dream

It's almost bedtime, and my thoughts are running wild and chaotic. What a strange last few days. I have much to say here, but neither the focus or the will to really do it. I'm determined to finish writing Number 9, but after the Saints defeat on Sunday, I simply haven't had the motivation. I tell myself tomorrow, but the truth is tomorrow doesn't seem to ever come.

A friend mentioned Written on the Body by Winterson this weekend, and the book seems to have gotten stuck in my head. It's been years and years since I read it, or really anything by her, though once upon a time she was my favorite author. I credit Written on the Body as a big part of my coming out process. The book is written from a first person perspective, though the protagonist has no defined sex/gender identity. At the time I read it, I wasn't comfortable with the idea of being sexual (or even romantic) with another woman. But reading the book forced me to explore my own feelings and thoughts about gender roles, sexuality, and sex in very mind-blowing ways. Granted, I was fifteen. But it was most definitely what I needed at the time. Ironic that this has all popped up around National Coming Out Day (today).

I cried this morning, when I woke up before my alarm and read the FB and twitter updates of many of my friends. I have some friends on FB I didn't even know where queer -- old camp friends, etc. -- and seeing these people who grew up in small town Mississippi, Texas, Louisiana, proudly proclaim to 300+ people online that they're here and queer still blows my mind. I spoke with two close friends last week about the LGBTQ community in NOLA, in Louisiana, about the struggles we face and the challenges that hold back this community. On a microcosm, many are small and yet so pervasive -- one or two family members who hold someone back from being out, a boss that might or might not be accepting, a fear of the those who lurk in the French Quarter streets at night, etc. But the macrocosm is devastating in a different way -- the pay gap for women (and especially gender non-normative women), the racial and class divides in this town, the lack of a LGBTQ infrastructure through organizations and groups, the lack of venues for queer women, the lack of everything from healthcare to social support for trans people, pervasive (and often school-sanctioned) discrimination and bullying, etc.

I don't know why this year has hit hard -- I always wax poetic on LGBTQ holidays, but I guess the rash of suicides has just hit home. It's 2010, and groups like HRC and (our local) Forum For Equality and Gay, Inc, have put marriage and adoption at the top of the agenda, while teens are blowing their brains out. I get that it's not an either-or thing; nothing is that simple. But money is power, and the issues we choose to support with our time and money are the ones which get the most press and recognition. Thousands of people in California came out against Prop 8. In the last few weeks, five kids (that we know of) have committed suicide and where is outcry? It's coming, but it's not as well funded. This movement doesn't have the PR machine. But I'm grateful to see things like the "It Gets Better" Project. I'm glad people are reading, listening, hearing, and asking questions -- What can we do? What are we doing wrong? How can we give these kids hope?

I don't know. But we've got to start talking and listening. We've got to find a way to hear the stories of these kids, and not the post-mortem version. We've got to build a support system, an infrastructure, and we've got to start yesterday.

The suicides also brought up two of my own friends, both from high school, who've committed suicide. I'm certain neither of their deaths had anything to do with their sexual orientation or gender identity. But to think they both cut their lives off at 19. Argh. I wonder often who they would be if they were still here. If I'd still run into them from time to time. If they would find happiness. Death always leaves a hole, but suicide leaves a different kind of missing. It's been over three years, but damn, I still think about them. 19 is too young.

What are we doing? Not enough. Never enough, if this is still happening. Social change is slow, yes. But just as women found that Edna Pontillier's escape hatch was not the only one -- Nora Helmer was onto something -- LGBTQ teens have to discover the same. Death isn't a solution. There's so much more to find in Door #2.

Come out, come out, where ever you are. I'm grateful today, especially, for my "family." I'm grateful for my ex-boyfriend, Steven, the first person I came out to -- and a friend who gave me the support I really needed. I'm grateful to the psychiatrist who told me, contrary to my mother's wishes, that my being queer was just fine. I'm grateful to the straight allies, to groups like the ACLU and SPLC, to parents and family members of queers, to advocates, to those who love quietly and those who fight out loud. There's so much gold on this end of the rainbow.

an evening at the fly

There’s a place down here in New Orleans we call “the fly,” a strip of public park along the Mississippi River. Any local will tell you it’s the best place to be during sunset; you can see the sun fall inch by inch into the West Bank. I met her there on a lazy Sunday, right as summer was turning into fall.

I pulled up just as she was climbing out of the car, picnic basket and blankets in hand. Only girl I knew with a damn picnic basket. She sauntered when she walked, and I watched the silhouette of her hips swing as she made her way down to the river. She’s got short cropped hair and these silver sunglasses that make her look fierce, but one look in her eyes gives it all away.

I followed her down, where she’d stopped almost at the edge of the grass, and curled my arms around her waist.

“Hey!”

“It’s good to see you.” I nuzzled into her neck, right under her ear. “It’s been too long.”

“I know.”

“How’s it feel to be back in NOLA?”

“Good. Damn good. Hot. But I missed this city like mad.”

“I missed you like mad.”

“Feeling randy, hm? You could say hello first.”

“I did. And I’m not hitting on you, just being honest…”

She turned to stare me down. “Ok. So I’m hitting on you a little bit. But you look good.”

“Thanks.” She gave me a peck on the cheek. “Now sit down and tell me what you’ve been doing for two years. Surely you haven’t gone through every girl in NOLA.”

“Quite the contrary. Well, the Saints won the Superbowl… and there was an oil spill… and yeah. That’s about all I remember from the last year. What girls?”

She laughed, and I pushed her sunglasses up from her eyes. Blue. Clear, clear blue.

We ate and talked, made fun of the raw food vegans in Portland and relived bad memories of running into ex’s in the bars. The usual. We cleaned out the six pack of Abita I brought and the loose beers she had hidden from her roommate. I found myself melting into the hillside next to a woman who would always be more than a friend but never as much as a lover, someone who I could laugh with. The sun fell, and we were still talking. I sat up to take another drink of my beer and noticed that she was shivering in her thin t-shirt. I shifted my legs out and pulled her over toward me, into my lap where I could wrap my arms around her. She grabbed the extra blanket she’d brought, and wrapped it over herself.

“So tell me, did you miss me?” I was fishing. Slowly.

“Sure. Of course.” She pulled me in tighter.

“How much did you miss me?”

“Enough,” she said playfully.

The sun had fallen behind the shadows of the West Bank, and twilight was closing in quickly. I could feel the darkness creeping up from behind us, hedged by soft purple clouds. I slid my hand under the blanket and down her thigh. I kissed her neck, softly, then again, this time biting down just enough to feel her tense up.

“May I?”

“May you what?” she taunted.

“May I?” This time I punctuated my question by sliding my hand at the edge of her shorts, right across her hipbone, and biting gingerly on her neck.

She let out the quietest gasp. “Yes.”

I rubbed my hands down her sides and across her thighs, digging my nails through her loose t-shirt and cargo shorts. She leaned her head back, and I caught onto her earlobe with my teeth. Under the blanket I could feel the heat radiating from her body. I bit into her neck, sucking her soft skin, and she curled her back into me, deeper, arching her chest up. I slid my hand up her shirt, under her bra, and pinched her pierced nipple. Her nipple hardened under the steel ring. If I could have thrown her down in the grass, I would have. Instead I bit deeper into her neck, grazing my teeth and sucking the edge of her collarbone.  I pressed the tips of my fingers across her hips, pulling her shorts down, sliding my fingers right down the edge of her hip bones. I reached for the edge of her panties, and she moaned right into my ear. I unzipped her shorts; I could feel her soaking wet through her panties. I dipped my finger into her cunt, teasing her with a light touch.

“Please,” she whispered.

“Please, what?”

I pulled my finger up to my mouth and licked the tips, reached back down, and rubbed her clit between my index finger and thumb. Her whole body shook uncontrollably.

“Please?”

“Tell me what you want.”

“You know…” She gasped as I flicked her clit mid-sentence. “You know what I want.”

“Show me.”

“How?” I found her hand under the blanket and guided her fingers toward her own cunt. She touched herself and moaned, and I let a giggle escape.

“Just like that.”

I pulled her thighs further apart, slipping my hands inside her shorts and drawing my fingernails up the sensitive insides of her thighs. Her hamstring muscles were tense, and I could feel the muscular cut defining her inner thigh. I wanted to run my tongue up along that definition, all the way to her cunt. But instead I pulled her closer into me. She had sunk her fingers deeper inside, letting out quiet moans as she began to slowly grind her hips in rhythm to her fingers. I moved my hands across her body, cupping her breasts under her bra, right where the curve began. She closed her eyes and fucked deeper, harder. It was intensely hot to feel her grinding against me. Her moans became deeper, and she began to breathe harder, almost gasping for air.

“Show me how you like it, baby. Don’t stop.” I bit into her neck once again, deep enough that she yelped, but it quickly turned into a moan. “Don’t. Stop.”

Her moan became almost guttural, and her whole body froze, except her fingers, still rubbing up against her g-spot, vibrating her cunt as her body tensed. I felt the orgasm when it hit her, felt her back tighten as she arched up and out. She grabbed my hand and squeezed until I couldn’t feel the blood in my fingertips. As suddenly as she came, her body relaxed, melting into a heap.

I leaned back into the grass, and she rested her head on my thigh. I was almost too turned on to handle her there, but I tried to force my body to relax, under the pretext that I could finish what I’d started later. The grass felt good against my bare shoulders. She was still breathing hard, and I watched her chest rise and fall.

“Is that what you wanted?” I asked when she had caught her breath. The sky had turned indigo blue, and I could see a few stars beginning to peek through.

She laughed. “Is that what you wanted?”

“I just wanted this.” I spread my hands out to embrace the night sky. She pulled her body up on the grass next to mine, and we lie on our backs under the stars. I could hear the whistle of a tugboat plowing down the river in the distance.