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)

Number 9 (Part I)

She gives me a long glance from the second step of the stairs. Her left toes point down, dragging the bottom step, and she is swinging her weight against the banister. There’s a playful look in her eyes, and they linger on me, just a second too long. I want to yank her long, dark hair back, and bite right under her jaw line.

But I’m sitting on the couch, holding my beer, and trying to figure out what the hell this look means.

Do I follow her up the stairs? Do I stay on the couch and knot my eyebrows together? Do I pretend like this visual exchange didn’t just happen, and go back to the conversation with her roommate? I take another sip of my beer. I wish sometimes I was better at this game. Damn it. Looks aren’t a credible substitute for communication.

I down the rest of my beer. Here goes nothing. At least it’s a good excuse to leave if there’s nothing at the top of the stairs worth staying for.

I’d love to say that I hate being right, but that’s a big fat lie. The door to her room is cracked open, letting out a soft light into the dark hallway. Downstairs I can hear the echoes of our friends still talking about the game. 

It’s the season after the Saints won the Superbowl, and yet, those boys can still put me on the edge of a heart attack. Last two minutes of the game… and it was anyone’s guess. If Hartley hadn’t pulled it together and kicked a winning field goal in the last two SECONDS of the game, we would have bit the dust to the 49ers in San Francisco. But we didn’t. A thousand miles from home, 35 mile-an-hour winds, and those boys…

My hand falls on the door, and I push it away. She’s standing by her dresser, trying to unclasp her silver necklace, and staring at herself into an oval mirror. She’s wearing nothing but her Saints jersey, black with the gold “9” on the back, and a pair of black strappy heels. I can see the lacy edge of her panties peeking out from underneath her jersey, right where her thighs meet her ass.

I’ve forgotten about the whole game.

She can’t get her necklace to unclasp. I walk up behind her, and she flips her hair to the left side, away from me.

“Can you help me…?” She asks, staring into my eyes again. I can’t even meet them; I’m too focused on the curve of her ass.

“Um. Of course.” I unclasp her necklace, and she pulls the hair tie down, letting her dark curls fall. I step in, an inch too close, and I can feel my hips against her ass. I can’t help myself. I run my fingers over her skin at mid-thigh, sliding both hands just underneath her jersey. I’ve got a firm grip on the high arch of her panties, where the lace falls across her hip bones. I look up and meet her eyes in the mirror. She’s standing strong, watching my hands while hers still clutch her thin silver chain and fleur-de-lis charm.  

“So tell me…” She tilts her head even more to the left, and I run the tip of my nose up from her collarbone to just below her earlobe, and finish off by biting deeply into her earlobe. Her eyes roll back, but she hasn’t moved any other inch of her body.

“So tell me,” I continue, “What is it that you like?” She looks down, pulls open the drawer of a large jewelry box, and trades her silver necklace for a pair of steel handcuffs. I’m not sure if she’s going to cuff me or ask me to cuff her at this moment, but I’m definitely intrigued. She pushes me back with her hips, bends over a dresser to her left, and pulls out a gorgeous glass handle leather whip, a pinwheel, some condoms, a box of gloves, and a bottle of lube. She clicks off the only lamp in the room. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, but the streetlights outside her window are just enough to illuminate her silhouette in the dark of the room.

This is getting more interesting every second.

She’s setting up everything, neatly, on her bedside table. And she still hasn’t said a word while I watched. She finishes and turns back to me.

“Hi.” Her voice is low and sultry.

“Hello?” I’m still not sure what she’s looking for.

She puts her hands on my hips and pushes me toward the bed gently, until I’m falling backward onto  the mattress. She climbs on top of me, resting her hips on mine, and I can feel the four-inch heel of her shoe brush against my legs. She could dig it into my thigh, if she chose, but she doesn’t. She leans over, bracing herself with her arms, until the gold “9” on her jersey has fallen against my chest and her nose is inches from mine.

“Hi.”

She doesn’t give me time to respond, but leans in and kisses me so deeply that I lose my breath. My hands grope for her thighs in the dark, sliding up and up. Under her jersey I can feel the rounded curve of her ass slide into the depth of her lower back and the arch of her shoulders. I can feel the power, the strength in her upper back. She’s got me locked down, and even though I’m a good thirty pounds heavier than her, I’m not going anywhere. Her hair is falling in my face, tickling. Her lips are so soft, almost too soft -- sugar sweet kisses. I can feel the sharp edge of her shoulder blades, and I dig in, deep, fingernails almost to the bone. I don’t want sweet, gentle kisses. I want to do this the hard way.

She lets out a low moan as I finish dragging my fingernails through her skin. Without warning, she grabs both of my arms and pins them above my head. Will she cuff me? But she doesn’t. What does this girl want?

She leans down and bites my neck instead, still pinning my arms. She shifts her hips so she’s holding me down even tighter; I’ve got nowhere to go. Her teeth move up my neck, latch onto my earlobe, and bite down. And then she whispers… “take me.”

So that’s where this is going.

As fast as she clamped down on me, she releases my hands, and I rock my hips up, flipping her deftly onto her back. Her wrought iron headboard provides the perfect hold for cuffing her hands above her head, and I’ve got her pinned and cuffed securely before she can take back her request.

“What do you use for a safeword?” I ask.

“Bacon.”

I can’t help but laugh. Seriously? “All right.” I giggle. “Bacon it is.” It will do the job, I suppose.

I lean back on the bed, lifting my weight off her. I sit back and spread her legs, pushing the tender insides of her thighs apart, until I can see where the lace meets.

I look into her eyes, and my gaze turns hard, taunting. I have my hands on her calves, holding them to the bed. The rest of her body is taunt with expectation. Her jersey has hiked up around her stomach, and her hair has fallen across the pillow. But even in a fully submissive position, her eyes still sparkle; she’s given freely of her body for me to take, but she’ll enjoy every second of it.

“Don’t move. Don’t talk. Don’t moan. If you say a word, I’ll stop. Do you understand?” It’s my turn to give orders.

She opens her mouth to speak, hesitates, and nods.

“You can say ‘more’ or ‘less.’ Those are your choices. But that’s all you get.” She nods again, and her eyes widen.

I pull the pinwheel out, and start at the ankle strap of her heels. The forced curve of her foot accentuates off the muscles in her calves. I’m looking forward to pounding her as she kicks those heels up in the air. But not just yet.

The pinwheel has a diameter of spikes, sharp enough to break skin with some serious pressure. I roll it, up, beginning at her ankle and slowly making my way up to the soft inside of her thighs. When the spikes hit her tender skin, she sucks in a huge breath and arches her back, and I think I can hear a soft “more” escape between breaths.

I slide her jersey up across her breasts. She’s left her bra somewhere, though I’m surprised it took this long for me to notice. I can’t stop myself from sliding my mouth onto her left nipple, catching my teeth on the barbell, and pulling gently as I scrap my teeth over the silk skin. This time I’m not imagining things; she bucks her hips against me and moans loudly.

I let go immediately. “I told you to be quiet.” There’s no joking tone in my voice. “Do you understand? I will stop if you moan or move.”

She lies perfectly still; all I can see is the faint rise and fall of her chest as she breathes.

I run the pinwheel up the side of her body, digging in softly, and roll the spikes underneath the curve of her heavy breasts, across the soft flesh of her stomach. The metal of barbell through her belly button piercing glints in the light, and I catch my teeth on it, biting and twisting. The skin here is less sensitive, and I’m not afraid to apply enough pressure to make the barbell tug on her skin. I’m sure she can feel the nerves firing, a thin line between pleasure and pain.

This is all just a slow build up. 

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If you can't tell, I'm a Saints fan. Who dat. :)