Today is Mardi Gras. Once again, it has come and gone without me. There was a wonderful time when I would have been deep, deep in the middle of it. I was young, impoverished, and slutty; it was the perfect match.
If you’re in New Orleans at Mardi Gras, you can spend thousands of dollars on your costume, carefully plan out the day, and have a pretty great time. Or if you’re like me, you can staple together whatever rags you found around your house, hurl yourself out into the middle of the madness, and wind up letting Mr. $1,000 Costume suck your dick. It would also be a great time, maybe even a better one. I certainly liked it.
The first Mardi Gras lived in New Orleans, I scraped up a piece of cardboard and some elastic and made what I adamantly claimed was a mask that was supposed to be a flamingo beak. Amazingly, I wound up on a balcony in the Pontalba apartments, the absolute fanciest housing you could have in the French Quarter. I had started off the morning with a rather generous dose of LSD, but the friends I was with on that balcony had not imbibed anything stronger than a few dozen beers. One of them was absolutely convinced I was going to jump off the balcony. I was both loaded and baffled, I had made no indication that I thought launching myself out into Jackson Square that way would have been amusing. She was dressed up as a pregnant nun so maybe her costume was influencing her thoughts.
I’ll never stop being glad that time of my life was so serendipitously the right queer in the right place at the right time. I’m also glad that of all the blindingly stupid choices I made then, none ever included jumping off a balcony in a flamingo beak mask.
boys with whom I’d like to let the good times roll.
Peek a boo, I see you.
This guy again. Because whenever this picture pops up in my Tumblr feed, I post it here. It’s a tradition.
I used to see this guy around here quite a bit, one memorable time in the YMCA steam room.
Daddy can’t decide whether to spank you or fuck you. I say why not both?
Whereas this daddy has decided to go straight to the “fuck you” portion of the evening.
I just love a generous foreskin.
Speaking of generous….
You don’t have to be pretty.
How many strings of Mardi Gras beads could you fit under that guy’s foreskin?
I would like to find out.
Of course you wouldn’t have jumped wearing a flamingo beak mask. With the mask, you couldn’t see well enough to make sure you landed on the right guy.
One of the best parts of Mardi Gras is that “the right guy” so often turns out to be “guys.”
Ah, the good old days indeed. We never had anything quite like Mardi Gras (obviously, given the climate and the Northern European Protestant sniffiness about such things; we have Pancake Day instead) – but your fond memories of sluttiness reminds me of more than one Gay Pride Party-in-the-Park, where there was always a helluva lot more going on around the shrubbery than there was at the main stage… Jx
As I raised up in Protestant sniffiness, I was so delighted to find the Papist madness of New Orleans waiting for me.