Once Again, Late


O little lamby eyed children, I meant to post something about the start of Carnival on its actual start date which was Jan 6, but somehow a week has snuck past.  It happens.

So Happy Carnival.  Carnival is the season that leads up to Lent and which finishes with Mardi Gras.  The general idea I was always fed was that it was a chance to get all the wildness out before Lent, a season when you’re supposed to be all pious and godly and pruny faced and give up shit in order to show your neighbors what a good christian you are.  In reality I assume it’s simply one of those pagan holidays the Church gobbled up to get the pagans in the pews.  Surely, at this time of the year, after you’ve been snowed into some hut with a bunch of other stinky vikings, all of whom eat far too much cabbage, you are ready to cut loose and so here we are with some patched together holiday.

I moved to New Orleans in 1980 specifically so that I could live there during Mardi Gras.  I had come to visit during Fat Tuesdays in college and had such a good time, basing my life on the idea of being in town when the holiday hit seemed like a brilliant idea.  And it was.


I always wanted my costume to get me to look like this.


Inevitably it looked more like this.  Minus the striking head piece.  Mostly just a bunch of feathers and construction paper wadded up somewhere around me with some bananas and dirty feet.

I had no idea before I got there that there was an entire season of parties and parades and shenanigans that led up to the actual day of Mardi Gras, but once I found out about Carnival I plunged in with wild enthusiasm.  There is, or was, an air of giddy good times al over New Orleans during Carnival.   Any fuck up is shrugged off with an air of helplessness and the statement “It’s Carnival.”  Of course the street is suddenly closed because of a parade.  It’s Carnival. Of course you can’t get into your favorite restaurant because it’s closed for a party where people wear paper plates on their faces.  It’s Carnival.   Of course some former trick shows up at your doorstep and wants to spend the weekend.  It’s Carnival.

And that was the real thrill of the season for me: a substantial uptick in the amount of sex to be had, and I was already busy with a considerable quantity of boy pussy even without the whole “It’s Carnival” bit added in.


Mens would be so swept up in the Bacchynal of it all, I was able to snag creatures as heavenly as this.  I swear.  And then we would move along to the next one.

When I lived there. I can remember 4 bars, just in the French Quarter, that housed back rooms devoted to anonymous, but high quality, sex.  I would strike out late in the evening confidant I would spend the next four or five hours getting blow jobs and butt fucking strangers and thought nothing of it.  It didn’t seem louche or strange or sordid.  It was Carnival.


Like this.

On one fine Mardi Gras afternoon, I fought my way through the crowd up to the balcony around a bar called Lafittes in Exile.   There was a wall of men hanging over the railing which provided a shield for me to get down on my knees and go to town on this cute, cute boy’s wiener.  I had only really got rolling when an employee tapped me on the shoulder, not to berate me, but to ask that I take it inside.  I was annoyed.  I found out later from friends who worked there, it was simply a duty that got handed out to patrol the balcony and stop nasty business from getting out of  hand.  The job was called Cock Cop.

I don’t know why they bothered, it was never that uncommon to run across a couple of guys engaged in sodomy in some doorway.  Ah, l’amour.


Or this.

Of course all that’s done and gone and I feel sorry for the queers of today who missed it.  But, oh whatever Saint blessed me with the idiotic idea to come live in New Orleans for Mardi Gras, my most sincere thanks.


Saint Buttus Fuckus, we give thanks for your many gifts and for protecting your devout followers from STDS.  Amen/

20 responses »

    • Oh my sweet, I’m so sorry to be the bearer of such tragic news, but all that is long gone. When I went back for Mardi Gras in 2014(?) it was all nothing but tourists and beads. No bounty of anonymous sex. Grindr and the like have done away with it all. So sad.


  1. I recall there used to be a similar thrill about Gay Pride day here in London – I always used to go from the march to a park somewhere for the Pride Party, and the hot, anonymous sex was like a “pick’n’mix” for a slut like moi. All that is no more, more’s the pity – it’s all smug daddy+daddy+child-in-pushchair combos and bored and ageist yoof these days. If there is a party going on in a park, I don’t go to it; the participants would more likely be loving the coke and themselves than blowing each other…

    We do the parade for the fun of dressing up rather than for cruising these days. Jx


  2. Happy Carnival!

    I like the parades, getting dressed up in costumes, and enjoying a good excuse to gorge on rich foods and get drunk with friends. I’ve been to Mardi Gras pre Katrina, and it was wild and fun back then. Went again a few years ago, and you’re right, it’s all changed. It’s toned down a lot, and a lot of the old fun places where you can party til they closed are now family friendly–there are kids with parents there now, so the atmosphere has changed. It’s almost as if they “Disneyfied” the place. I’m not sure if it’s the change in population, the times, or maybe it’s just cyclic in nature, but Mardi Gras, while still fun, isn’t as wild and crazy and freeing as it used to be. I’m still on the fence about whether that’s a good thing or not.

    I remember Las Vegas going thru a similar transformation. From gritty adult playground to kid and family friendly then back to adult and college kids playground again…We’ll see what happens with New Orleans.


  3. I’m not surprised you moved there if these pictures of “boy pussy” are indicative of the quality on offer. Good gods! The be-turbaned beauty in the first picture looks like the kind of exotically majestic muscle that Boris Vallejo would come up with.

    Isn’t it how you feel when you wear the costume that’s the most important thing, rather than how you actually look? Or is it how you feel the man who is wearing the costume…?


  4. Now, Mr. P., really. We know you’re planning to celebrate Mardi Gras there in Sodom-By-The-Bay. Just don’t hit anyone with the beads you throw, whether they be anal beads or otherwise. (P.S.: Model #3 needs a bra, and not on his Porsche.)


  5. What on Eartha has that man in pic two got tattooed on his leg? Grindr has got a lot to answer for and so has my maid of all work who uses my picture to attract men.


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