Mardi Gras Madness

I staggered back, suddenly thirsty as hell, craving a cold beer. I wasn't quite prepared for what happened next.

Mirabel casually stood up, adjusted the masque on her face and strolled nonchalantly toward the door. Just before she opened it, she turned toward us and smiled that ironic, Mona Lisa smile that had beguiled me all night -- in fact, it still haunts me to this day.

"Thanks, guys, that was great," she said, then walked out the door, either oblivious or not caring that she still had cum dripping from both holes.

Nick and I just stared at each other as if to say, "What the fuck just happened?"

Just then, Desiree stood up and followed her out the door, leaving an equally bewildered lover-of-the-moment lying wrecked on the sofa. I just shrugged my shoulders and reached for my shorts and the faux Roman belt that was my costume.

By the way, the couple with the gas were now fucking, rutting on the floor like pigs, and the lesbian couple were still rolling on the floor in the same 69 they'd been engaged in the whole time we were in there.

As we passed back into the din of the party, Nick and I once again looked at each other, then started chuckling, shaking our heads in wonderment.

We never again saw Mirabel -- if that was even her name -- or her cousin, and, trust me, we looked.

In the immediate aftermath, I was too caught up in the general revelry of Mardi Gras to think much about the possible long-term consequences of our encounter with the mystery woman from the Krewe of Cooze Ball.

But after Ash Wednesday, when I'd had a little time to think about it, I wondered about what might have provoked someone to act the way this woman had, and it dawned on me that she could have had a more sinister motive for behaving as she did.

So I made an appointment to see a doctor for a blood test, and encouraged Nick to do the same. Fortunately, our tests came up negative, meaning the woman didn't pass anything on to us from our anonymous encounter.

Still, Mirabel scarred me in some ways.

I started thinking seriously about life in general, and sex in particular, and I realized that we'd been playing a game of sexual Russian Roulette with our single-minded pursuit of strange pussy. We'd been lucky so far, but who knew when our luck would run out.

And, of course, I never quite forgot those eyes, and the way she looked at me. There was a reason why she chose us -- me in particular -- for her little Mardi Gras tryst, and I would have loved to have learned that reason. I think in other circumstances she and I may have developed a relationship, but maybe that's just me engaging in wishful thinking.

The events of 9-11 not long after that really sobered me up, because I knew a girl who was killed in one of the towers. We'd had the same major and were the same year, so we had several classes together and had become friendly, even slept together a couple of times, although nothing more had developed.

I resolved to do something a little more productive with my life, and, fortunately, early in 2002, I met a woman from Alexandria who was a phlebotomist at one of the hospitals there. We feel in love, and I moved to Alexandria to be with her, so I missed Katrina.

Nick kind of soured on New Orleans too, for different reasons, and he moved back to his hometown in Maryland. We stay in touch, but we're not as close as we were. He's still a bit of a party animal, and I'm now married with two small children.

I still think about that night at the Krewe of Cooze Ball, though, especially when I need a fantasy to give me a little extra jolt in bed.

It was quite an experience, a true Mardi Gras moment, and I think I'll probably remember it until the day I die.

^ ^ ^ ^

Author's postscript: I dreamed up this little stroke story while driving home from a weekend trip to New Orleans I took in late March 2008.

I wandered into one of the many shops near the French Market that specialize in Louisiana-themed products, and saw a Mardi Gras poster from 2007 that had a drawing of a woman who was body-painted like the woman in this story.

The Krewe of Cooze Ball is based on a real event, the MOMS Ball, MOMS standing (I believe) for Mystic Order of Misfits. I'm not sure if the revelry quite reaches the level of debauchery described here, but it's pretty close.

It's very reminiscent of the Acid Tests of the mid-1960s in San Francisco, or at least it was when I attended back in the early 1980s. I am not advocating illegal drug use by including a roomful of acidheads in the story; I simply used that as a plot vehicle that was appropriate for a work of erotic fiction.

A couple of terminology definitions for those not familiar with New Orleans:

First, the Irish Channel is a working-class neighborhood tucked in between the Warehouse District and Uptown, and between St. Charles Avenue and the Mississippi River. It is so named because it was the area where Irish immigrants settled in the 19th century.

Also, Mid-City is a neighborhood between the Vieux Carre and Lake Pontchartrain, encompassing an area from Tulane Avenue to Elysian Fields Avenue (maybe the coolest street name in the country) and including Canal Street.

Second, the term "Yat" is a reference to a native New Orleanian and comes from the phrase, "where y'at," which is local lingo for "hello, how are you."

Finally, I was encouraged by the progress the city is making in its recovery from the ravages of Hurricane Katrina.

While New Orleans will never be the same as it was before the storm, it is still one of America's most unique cities, it is still worth visiting and the city needs the support.