May 8, 2016

March 1985: The Footlong of Bourbon Street

New Orleans, March 1985

When my Grandma Davis died in 1975, she left $5,000 to each of her 12 grandchildren, as a "wedding present," to be bestowed upon them on their wedding day.

In the spring of 1985, I was telling my mother about my difficulties making ends meet in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, and she said, "It doesn't look like a wedding is going to happen, so why don't we give you your Grandma's money now?"

The check came in February. The $5000 had become  $12,428, the equivalent of $28,000 today.  Enough to pay my rent for the next six months, get my car repaired, visit Europe, move to Los Angeles next summer -- and, right now, Spring Break to New Orleans!

The minute my last class ended, I got into my car and drove the six hours to New Orleans, and I didn't get back until an hour before my first class began.

Years later, after living in the gay neighborhoods of West Hollywood, San Francisco, and New York, I found the French Quarter inadequately gay, but in 1985 I loved the old French architecure of the Vieux Carre, the Voodoo Museum, and the bright, cheery gay bars, especially Cafe Lafitte in Exile (great name!).

 It wasn't Mardi Gras, so guys weren't flashing their equipment to the crowd, but I still saw my fair share of penises.

On my first night, I went home with a hairy, muscular bear in his 40s.  While I was going down on him, he talked nonstop about New Orleans' ghosts and hauntings.

On my second night, I went home with a short, compact University of Michigan undergrad on spring break, who loved the "fact" that I was from Texas.

On my third night, I somehow attracted the attention of a Cute Young Thing. I don't remember his name, so I'll call him Jasper.

Jasper was cute: fuzz-headed, blue eyes, long tan muscles, wearing a yellow t-shirt and tight jeans.  He had a soft Southern accent that I found attractive.  But I was 24 years old, too old for him.

"Bedtime snack for your boyfriend?" he asked.

"You're not my boyfriend."

"Trick, then.  You have no idea how good in bed I am.  Give you a hint -- I call it my one-eyed monster!"  He giggled.

The rest of the story is too explicit for Boomer Beefcake and Bonding.  Read it on Tales of West Hollywood.