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.

Subdued But Still Alive

I don’t know how I get myself into these predicaments. I want to say that I just happen to walk into them but…on further analysis…I realize that I bring a lot of what goes on around me into my own sphere. It’s rarely by accident that things happen…to me.

I was recently told that I have too much control over myself and that I needed to let go just a little. Of course he was/is wanting that ass so…to him, me letting go includes letting go of my panties and inhibitions. At the time I said that I could let go that I could not think of the future but rather of the moment. I lied to him. I know that it’s because I do have a semblance of control that I am able to control the minor upsets that might occur. I enter into each affair of the heart as something that has been measured and weighed. I’ve not thought long and hard and deep about it but I have hit on the very surface of what something could be if all hell were to break out…or on the flip side, whether I was ready to take it to the next level if he and I decided to go there. It is all controlled in a very unfair way. It’s akin to manipulation. Of which I have also been accused of being a master of. Blah.

I am here in Nawlin’s. I don’t think I could ever explain what being in this humidity is like unless let’s say…you turn your hot water shower on and let it run for about an hour with the door closed, then walk in there with a parka, some ski pants, gloves and hat on and just sit there. It’s like that every day…all day. This morning I woke up at 530am to go for a morning walk…I opened my screen door and took one deep breath…then came back in and proceeded to make a pot of coffee to drink while I sat up under my air-conditioner. We won’t mention my hair issue…I can’t keep a curl in it to save my life. If my hair were all in one length it might look alright but it’s in layers and so it looks like someone just hacked away at my hair with a butter knife…it’s not cute, pretty, sexy or fashionable. My NY glam and my DC sophistication are being torn from me (unwillingly) by this humidity. All I find myself wearing is a ponytail. I might as well cut off my hair and wear a potato sack. Slish always told me that it wasn’t my milkshake that brought the boys to the yard…but my hair…and now I am milkshake-less and good-styled hair-less, Blah.

My first night here, my purse was stolen so…my trusty camera that used to follow me all over the place, the one my dad bought for me from some street vendor in Macau…well it’s gone. I am not too upset about it but it would have been nice to have been able to download the last pics I took of DC’s Caribbean Parade and of Pookie…but c’est le vie…such is life. I will have to buy me another although I am sure I will never get the bargain my dad got in Macau…$5.00 for a digital Samsung…*sigh* So although I have no pics at present...I'll be adding them as time goes on. For now, here is a picture from my visit at the beginning of June. It is of City Park (it's also from the collection I used for my header picture for my blog)

Apparently, I am the new shit in town (my sounds laid down by the Underground)…any sort of biting bug that you can imagine has gotten to my softness and ate away at me like I was some Golden Corral buffet. I even got stung by a black caterpillar. After 6pm I am no longer able to walk the streets of the Garden District without some sort of bug repellant…not that it helps but it does deter some. Funny…I was having dinner with Brian and he said, “you smell nice”…I was like, “yeah thanks, that’s hydrocodizone.” Either they can smell new blood…or I really am all that is wonderfully delicious (like I have been saying for years!)

In the span of one week, I have gone out with 3 men. Brian is my “ideal” but ideals usually fuck up and he is right there on the cusp of being perfectly and beautifully arrogant and… just plain being arrogant and a megalomaniac. The other two…well…I am not saying, but I’m just sayin’…that one of them could easily pass for being gay and the other one told me he had been arrested for domestic violence. That one, I kindly turned to face the bar and told him that I was no longer interested. I told him he could leave me while I finished my margarita…he just stared at me for a minute then walked out the door. He has called me twice since that date. I just ignore the call. I don’t know…maybe I am not as non-judgemental and free-thinking as I thought I was…but domestic violence isn’t such a turn on to someone who’s never been hit by a man…not even been whipped (or is it whooped) by her father. Not a selling point. *shrug* And finally there is Alabama…he looks like he could be someone’s grand daddy…he’s full of money but won’t share unless we set up an “arrangement”. Well he didn’t come out and say it but believe me…he talks about it enough to try and convince me that I have but to agree and ask and all will be mine. Just the thought of his old grand daddy ass sweating all over me as he ruts around gives me the chills…in the horror movie way, not in the oh-la-la way. However, all that is for naught since my philosphy is that you have to share in order to play. And of course my all time philosphy is...what's mine is mine...and occassionally, what's yours is mine too. I am a spoiled little bugger I know.

…I have much more to write but I will try and dole it out in pieces rather than some long drawn out post. Already I have jumped ahead of myself and the next post will be one that I should have written before this one. I am chronologically messing up my whole experience in N.O. Either way, y’all will get the full of it in time.

B~E~Z