The Glamorous Life: an Ongoing Report


My dear, it’s thrilling to be back in the old country.  I’ve eaten fried chicken, fried shrimp, crawfish and gumbo (twice) and had a tasty treat called a Frozen Irish Coffee that was some kind of Oreo Slurpee for semi-adults comprising as it does liquor, coffee and chocolate in a slush.

Secret Agent Fred and I have also hit the gay bars in the French Quarter a couple of times this weekend.  It was just more sad, sad evidence that queer bars are a dying species.  Here we are, so close to Mardi Gras you have to hold your nose and the old-time gathering places that back in the dinosaur days of my youth would have been packed weren’t as full as they would have been on a regular week night back then, oh so long ago.

The only bright spots were shocking Fred with what a snarky bitch with a thick Southern accent I morphed into the instant I returned to my old haunts (poor Fred.  I assume listening to me evaluate the chances of some skinny drunken twinky boy must be like an evening with Tennessee Williams.  Grisly.) and I found out I have a fan.  Some guy at Lafitte’s called out “Mrpeenee!  I read your blog all the time!”  Fred and I were both astonished and I was immensely gratified.  The idea someone would recognize me from the pictures I post here has always seemed awfully unlikely (in real life I am a lot more glamorous and much more attractive.)  I suppose the fact I had my patented vacant expression probably helped.

Anyway,  I’d like to say “hey” to Mr. Lafitte’s and wish that I had had the presence of mind to be friendlier.  I was just too surprised to be charming.  As a token of my gratitude here’s some muscle pussy:

11 responses »

  1. I know what you mean about the dying out gay bars, Canal (anal) Street in Manchester used to be a thriving gay village, now it's been taken over by the Naffs, and those fucking stupid hen parties, where the bride and friends dress up, the bride will be wearing a tarty wedding dress with customary 'L' plates and her friends will be wearing feather boas and clutching plastic willies and cackling, oh what fun! I would like to take the bride to be and dress her up as a clown, then cut her head off and gun fuck the oozing wound, then poke the others in the eye with a poker before dowsing them in petrol and setting them alight. Perhaps then they would think twice before pointing and laughing at the transsexuals.

    I tried grits once on an American cruise ship, I wasn't very struck, but I enjoyed the succotash.


  2. Women in a queer bar are a sign you are doomed to not scoring any boy butt from there; women in a boa are a sign you should leave immediately. I think your plan is a completely solid one.


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