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 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.
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.
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.
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.