Even Cockjunkies get the Blues.

So, as of this writing here I find myself at the Louis Armstrong International Airport in New Orleans. Our flight to New York City leaves in a little over an hour. Dan is at the bar downing whisky sours, happy as a little girl. Wait, I guess I should explain how Dan and I arrived at this point.

Well, if I must...Roll the film!!

Yesterday, it had already become dark and the streets were teeming with drunken revelers throwing beads everywhere. The cool thing about Bourbon Street is that you can drink in public. Dan and I meandered to several bars, loud with tourists. We visited several titty bars for the sake of Dan; I found them utterly boring. Dan said he'd compromise and visit a gay bar with me. At the time I had no idea virtually every bar in the French Quarter was queer. There are several queer bars so full every night that the fags spill out onto the sidewalk. A room full of fags gives me the horrors. They jerk around like puppets on invisible strings, galvanized into a hideous activity that is the negation of everything living and spontaneous. The live human beings moved out of these bodies long ago. The fag sits in a bar nursing his beer and uncontrollably yapping out of a rigid doll face. Creepy.

The first bar we visited was called The Round Up. It was basically a neighborhood bar filled with hustlers and rich old queens chasing them. The other clients that inhabited the place, and every other bar in the Quarter, were the transvestites. New Orleans has its own special breed of Drag Queen. These tired old bitches didn't even attempt to look pretty. Crooked wigs, running makeup, smeared eyeliner, dirty dresses, rotten teeth, and facial hair were the norm with these gargoyles. Dan and I sat there and each had a beer. Dan and I soon became quite the popular ones. Dan's chiseled Hollywood looks and my Teen-Beat cover boy face wowed all the smooth-talking daddies there. Guys kept buying us beers, pawing Dan, asking a thousand questions. The men’s room in the joint was a virtual Roman Orgy. Dan would be escorted to the lady’s room by various Amazonian-sized Drag Queens for a "quickie". I, myself, could never come to have sex with a transvestite. I like men too much to be with a pseudo-woman.

An old drunken vampire that resembled Mickey Rooney sat next to Dan. He threw his chubby little arm around Dan's neck and proclaimed slobbishly, "I like this one!"

A handsome young black guy sat next to me and we struck up a conversation. He talked me into going to the local bathhouse nearby and I agreed, by the way, Dan's a big boy...he can handle himself. Once there, the black guy tried to pay at the door with his credit card but it was maxed out. As he screamed and barked at the bored-looking attendant behind the window, I quietly slipped out and snuck back to the bar.

I found Dan surrounded by transvestites and I said I wanted to visit more bars. The bartender told us of a good one with male go-go dancers called The Side Pocket. Dan agreed to come with, so a little drunk we stumbled the two blocks or so to the bar.

The Side Pocket was packed. The music pumped as boys gyrated on the bar completely naked. All around us was every type of sleaze imaginable. Old grey bloated daddies in leather G-strings fluttered around. Muscle men would flex as queens would screech and coo over them. Tired southern fags whirled around in feathers, furs, and fluff. A guy was being blown on the pool table. In the restroom boys getting butt fucked occupied both stalls. All this to a psychotic tribal beat blasting from the speakers. Dan and I ordered a drink and stood there watching the show.

"Ewwww!!!"

"What is it, Dan?"

"That guy that was standing behind me just jacked off onto my arm!"

I caught a glimpse of a fat balding man in a tan Members Only jacket standing behind Dan. When he caught my eye, he sank into the murky depths of the bar. As Dan wiped his arm with a napkin, I ordered more beers. All types of horny faggots prowled around us like aroused Tom cats; buying us drinks and inquiring where we were from.

I got really fucked up. I vaguely remember Dan grabbing my arm and saying, "Let's go!" Then being poured into the back seat of a car and driving somewhere. When I woke up, I was lying fully clothed on the floor in a hotel room. Dan was on the bed--completely naked--vomiting into the ice bucket. I squinted around bleary-eyed and hungover.

"Where the fuck are we?" I looked outside and saw sunshine and pine trees. We definitely were not in the city.

Dan was doing the big spit again. "Oh, God...oh, man. I can't believe I did that!”

"What? Did what?"

“I fucked Jabba the Hutt." He rolled over and puked up transparent liquid.

I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. He related that at the club last night he met this chef, who weighed about 400lbs and offered him quite a bit of money to have sex with him. I was drunk off of my so they just dragged me along. Dan went into sordid details of what that sick sea cow had him do. It was truly perverted. A leather mask, a candle, twine, and lots of anal lubricant was involved.

"How much did he give you?" I asked, still conscious of our transportation problem.

Jabba gave him four hundred dollars. That was cool to me. The question was why were we in a hotel room in Lincoln, Louisiana? That's a small town about thirty miles north of New Orleans.

Dan assured me that Jabba was going to return for us after he fed his horses on some ranch he claimed to own. Jabba did show up and Holy jumpin' jigglin' Jesus was he fat!! After taking us to lunch (First-time experience with gumbo...deelish!!) Jabba made some excuses and split. We never saw him again. We waited at that restaurant in Lincoln for three fucking hours! I got sick off of all the bowls of gumbo that I ate. It was getting late, and after learning that no bus route went through town, we had no choice but to hitchhike. Passing some black children gawking at the two honkies invading their turf, we headed to the road that lead south to New Orleans.

Dan knew the art of hitchhiking and had his thumb out as we walked under the evergreen-lined road. It was pretty quick to get a ride. This old queen who claimed to own a restaurant in New Orleans picked us up. It seems that everybody in that fucking city is a chef! He couldn't take us all the way, so he dropped us off at the beginning of that bridge that spans Lake Pontchartrain. Dan and I sat in a Waffle House wondering how we were going to get across, it was banned to pedestrians. Another old guy who was obviously queer listened to us as we bitched to the unsympathetic waitress; offered us a ride to the Greyhound in New Orleans.

Dan and I were pretty bummed out once we got to the bus station. I told Dan if he could work a miracle, I'd be one happy cowboy. I went into the men’s room and when I came back out, Dan was finishing up a conversation on the cell phone with John Bourne in Manhattan. Dan looked at me.

"You wanted a miracle? There are two tickets at the airport waiting for us. We leave tonight."

I snapped my fingers and pointed at Dan, "Rockin' good news!"

So, after a cab ride here we are awaiting our flight.

New York City...here I come!!!