The Hand

Thanks to azure_skies for being my editor.

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Being a native to New Orleans, I had been through many Mardi Gras seasons. My parents were rather uptight though. I was confined to the tame areas near the universities where my parents both worked. So despite being a native, I had never been to the French Quarter on Mardi Gras day. And the French Quarter is where it is all let out.

I was 21 for my first time in the French Quarter for Mardi Gras, in my last year at Loyola University. I went with a group of friends from college. Like most non-natives, they seemed rather immature and inhibited to me. No matter how straight-laced my parents were, the hedonism of the city seeped into me. New Orleans is a place of the flesh... eating, drinking, music, dancing. Wound through it all is the erotic. People blossom early in such a climate where little is regulated by law or custom. I was not as inexperienced and naïve as my out-of-town friends. I'd had a few racy encounters. I felt superior.

I was not prepared for what awaited me, though. There were costumes of all kinds, a spectacle on every corner. Some amusing, some beautiful, some crude. We saw delicate drag queens, men in leather, women rivaling Vegas show girls. The sights were phenomenal. We stopped to admire a butterfly man with wingspan of 6 feet, looking like he might loft up at any moment. My friends stared open mouthed at a sinuous woman dressed in a tight cat suit being led on a chain by a muscled woman in leather. We all laughed to see in a man in a top hat courting a mature faerie woman, pleading for a kiss in exchange for one of his paper flowers. Never had I seen so much flesh on display, nor displayed in such artful and creative ways. People were taking advantage of the day to let loose. Strangers kissing each other, open admiration, teasing glimpses of more than was allowed by law. I felt intoxicated by the atmosphere heavy with raw, open sexuality.

As we wandered towards the more touristy streets, mainly there were others like ourselves, looking to drink and enjoy being part of the crowd. Our group made the big mistake of turning into Bourbon Street. It was packed, wall to wall, a slowly milling crowd flowing in two directions up and down the street. Once in the crowd, there was no escape. There was nothing to be done but to be slowly shunted down the street with everyone else. I was pretty miserable. This was not my idea of fun. I was not a tourist and didn't find it amusing to be trapped in a crowd devoid of costumes.

I was exasperated when things ground to a complete halt. I couldn't see what the obstruction was, but it had utterly arrested all forward movement. I was at the end of our column of friends. I couldn't hear them or talk to them through the thick crowd, so I was left to my own thoughts. Mainly, that I would never do this again. I was fuming over being convinced to go down Bourbon Street when I knew better. My thoughts began to wander. I gazed abstractedly at the Spanish style architecture, the wrought iron, the brick, the hanging plants of the balconies above.

Then I felt it.

A hand. This hand very gently snaked between my legs. It was so gentle, and I was so far away in my thoughts, I was at first not alarmed. That hand blended into the heady atmosphere, my drifting thoughts, the buzz I felt from drinking a bit too fast. But a belated bell went off in my mind. Some person was violating me in broad daylight! I looked around for escape, but I was hemmed in on every side, nowhere to go. The hand rested there, between my legs. It didn't do anything, just gently touched me. I stood still, hoping it would go away. It didn't. All my being was focused on that tiny area where the hand made contact.

I knew this inquisitive hand could have barged in, grabbed me, mauled me, whatever its owner wanted to do as I was caught and caught good. Instead, this feather light, testing touch. The thin, silky material of my sports shorts was no armor. I desperately wished I had worn jeans. I felt stupid for being the last in our line of friends, leaving myself wide open to such an attack.

But here I was, like it or not, with this hand between my legs. Very slowly it began to move. I was mortified. The fingers cupped me, then softly began rubbing with the lightest touch. Gradually the shock came down a notch and I noticed the fine nuances of the movement. The fingers of this hand slowly stroked me. The cloth was smooth and slippery, enabling the hand to glide back and forth over my sex. As this went on, I felt increasingly hot. Flushed. Wet. Wet? Was I enjoying this invasion?

I thought about it. It was not really an invasion, more of an insinuation. I had the feeling that it had started so slowly as a sort of request, asking for permission. Had I given that permission? I didn't roughly shove my way through the crowd, I didn't yell, I didn't reach around and grab the owner of the hand and push him away. Instead, I found myself unconsciously spreading my legs and pushing back into the touch. I became conscious of this response. I was horrified. Some strange person was touching me in the most intimate way, and I liked it? Acquiesced? Invited more? For this spreading of my legs, this arching of my back that pressed me back, surely that was an invitation for more.

The hand gave me what my body was asking for. One finger on either side of my nether lips, the middle finger was drawing the lightest sketch right over my split. It rubbed more firmly now, the cloth of my shorts slightly folding into my crevice. The outer fingers spread wider. Touched bare skin. Where the crotch of my shorts ended. Oh god this was good. Skin against skin, the silky rubbing of the cloth, growing wetness. What was wrong with me? I wondered for a moment, but then the sensations intervened, shorting out my will. All I wanted was more. The tips of the outer fingers drew together a bit as they glided back and forth. Under my shorts. The fingers were now under my shorts. The soft flesh where my legs joined was so sensitive, this light brushing of skin against skin was unbearable. Then the entire hand slipped sideways through the leg hole of my shorts. I wasn't wearing any panties. The hand now had complete access to me.

It continued rubbing, now with the middle finger directly on my slit. Every pass back and forth, the middle finger pressed more deeply into the flesh that lined my outer lips. And then the finger broke through and entered. I flowered open, engorged with excitement. It slid across my slick inner lips, questing. I was breathing hard now, in little gasps. The finger was firm and more confident, stroking, wiggling, teasing. I had never been touched this way. First dancing over my wet inner lips, then stroking my clit, entering me slightly, teasingly, back onto the slippery folds around my clit. Then the hand honed in on my rhythm. It was more purposeful now, stroke after stroke across my clit. I rose higher and higher, immersed in the pure sensation of the rhythmic touch. Finally, it was too much. I was pushed over the edge, my entire body clenching around that moment of ecstasy.

I went limp as the orgasm washed away. And found myself supported. The hand, the magical wonderful hand, had withdrawn. Now I was being held steady by two hands at my waist. I came to myself and glanced around. Had anyone noticed? Noticed me having a mind-blowing orgasm? No, no one was interested in me.

Then the crowd was moving again. In a daze, I allowed myself to be pushed along with the rest of the crowd. As I came to my senses, I focused on my friends. They were still there ahead of me. I pressed on, not wanting to be separated from them. The cause of the blockage was now evident... women on balconies displaying their breasts for all to see and admire, while they were pelted with beads and enjoyed the wolf whistles. Police officers were now forcing the crowd onward, while others escorted the bare-chested ladies off the balconies and into the shadowy rooms behind. Then we were out, like a cork shot from a bottle. My friends were tittering and seemed shocked by the show the ladies had given from the balcony. I looked around, hoping to glimpse the owner of the hand. But it was nothing but crowds, random people moving aimlessly, no way to tell him from any other man. So I caught up and joined my friends.

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This story is continued in The Genius of Mardi Gras.