1-I'd Russian

I met him coming out of the W hotel in downtown New Orleans…and as soon as I saw him I was thinking...I would talk to him just for the story.
And that right there…is what I live for these days…the story. The experience.

The one-eyed Russian. Now…he is from Kazatastan or Czechoslovakia or something but I call him my one-eyed Russian. Politically correctness is not how I write…umm, or think.

So this is how it goes…I met him out there in front of the W hotel. I had just come from talking mucho gusto shit with the people inside. Why? Hell I don’t know. I was drunk. Drunk I tell you.

Sidenote: I have been drinking entirely too much. Drinking in New Orleans is entirely different than any other place in the US…even Vegas. And if you are born and raised here…I swear these bastards started drinking liquor like it was milk from the teat. No lie. Which of course has people just buying me drinks at random…which makes me obliged to accept. Right?

So…I had drank 3 beers at Gordon Bierch and then headed over to the W just to get some money to catch a cab home…well, I ended up having 3 phone conversations on the lobby couch and from there…drifted over to the bar. Ordered a double-shot of Jameson. I drank that and then the bartender being all gracious and shit…topped me off with another shot for free.
I can’t even remember what I was saying…I do remember offending a chick…umm, my bad…a lawyer. I really didn’t mean to but from there…we started off on the wrong foot and I am not good at trying to rewind on a chick. If she had been a dude, well…of course. But really…who gets upset at a drunk…and a happy drunk at that! C’est la vie.
I met a pretty young chick and her guy “friend”…who somewhat sorta tried to say something but I could be all wrong. I do remember young chick trying to convince me that he was a cool dude and I should "pay attention" to him…but she also said he had a little wee-wee so I am not sure how that was a plus in any mans book, just sayin’. I also don't know how she giving me that information was helping his cause in gaining some play time with me. Again, just sayin'.

…back to the one-eyed Russian…

Yes, yes, yes…I am all kinds of ignorant and uncouth…but fuck it.
I covered up one eye…and asked if he could see out of the clouded white eye…
He looks scary and dangerous with that eye but…I secretly like scary and dangerous.
Well, wait, let me clarify…I like the look of scary and dangerous…I don’t necessarily like scary…and only borderline dangerous.
His accent was thiiiick. I kept asking him to repeat himself but then again…it might have been the drunken-ness. After all, I think I may have asked him his name 15-eleben times and that was after he showed me his license. Confused, with a furrowed brow and head tilted to the side I ask, “umm, what’s your name again?”

Apparently he likes me. Clarify again, he likes ass and even though I have none…"ass" isn’t really what I am talking about when I say it. I have quickly learned that sexing in NOLA is akin to a weekly pedicure. Maintenance. And if done correctly, relaxing.
And oh goodness, don’t, for whatever reason, float around the FQ because it’s like Sodom & Gomorrah down there. All sorts of perversions and sexual proclivities abound.

I have come to the conclusion that I am a white man magnet in the south.
Who’da knew, not me.
After all, until this move I can count on 3 fingers how many white men have wanted me, approached me…and been declined. However here…more white men have approached me then black men. So everything has flip-flopped...matter of fact, I can count on 3 fingers the amount of black men who’ve wanted me, approached me…and been declined.

The one-eyed Russian wants me. Or so he professes. Tells me all about him and I am shocked to find out that he is 27. I was drinking a beer when he told me that, I choked. Choked so bad, beer came out of my nose.
I.honestly.can’t.remember.the.last.time.I.dated.a.27.year.old.
Deterred? Nope.
And on he presses.
So 3 bars later and me more drunk…him, well he’s drinking coke…
No drunk in their right mind wants to hang out with a sober person as they sink deeper and deeper in their cups. Good thing I was already done when I started…otherwise I would’ve let him go about 4 hours earlier. But happy drunk I am and I am making “acquaintances” left and right.
Sidenote: I don’t get it…Rich says that I beat him up every time I get tipsy but here, I am happy-go-lucky. I have to surmise that it’s out of angst that he gets the hurtful drunk. A woman scorned is safer than a drunk woman scorned…I kid, I kid…sort of.

One-eyed Russian and I stayed out until 5am. He walks me home and keeps asking me if he can take me to dinner and all sorts of other things that I vaguely remember. Through out my partying all I think of when I meet someone is how can they help make my adjustment to New Orleans smoother… I realize that I am going to have to go to dinner with a few people that I probably would normally not…but he seems like a nice guy…thru my drunken haze.
We sit on the stairs of someone’s house and it almost feels like nights in Harlem sitting on the stoop…almost…but not. I can’t imagine sitting on a stoop in Harlem on a humid summer night…with a one-eyed Russian.

…and once again, I reminded that I am so so far from home.
Not that NYC is my home anymore…but it has been my home for 6 years and it’s the place that I associate home with. Watching movies that are based in NYC is sort of hard for me…just because I do miss it and I reminisce.
However, right now…the EZ isn’t all that bad. And I am already stacking up some experiences to rival those from summer of 2004 when I moved to NYC. I find myself in the most unusual, unexpected, sometimes unwanted, and uniquely compromising situations no matter where I go.
As I always say...
I walk the line on a daily basis.