One fall afternoon I left my law office in Manhattan, went to my penthouse overlooking Central Park and asked my wife to pack some bags. I told her we needed to get away from the city for a few days or I'd lose my sanity. Alas, dear Catharine said it would be impossible because she had a crucial pedicure appointment on her calendar, so I tossed a few things into a valise and took a cab to the station where I purchased a ticket for the next departing train. That was over a year ago and I haven't been back since.
My preliminary destination that day (which I think of as my personal day of Liberation) was the Windy City on Lake Michigan, but I didn't remain there long because I found it was just another metropolis filled with zombies walking around in business suits. I had always desired to see the west, so I rented a car, got onto the interstate and began driving in the direction of the setting sun. As I drove past endless fields of corn and wheat my migraine disappeared and I started to feel as though I was actually getting air into my lungs for the first time in my life. No telephone calls or faxes, no concrete canyons, just a vast and empty sky!
I kept driving. When I reached Denver I traded my car for a four-wheel drive SUV and headed into the mountains, exhilarated to be alone with nature. I was somewhere near Pike's Peak, I think, when it dawned on me that I had no reason to go back to Manhattan. Not in a week, not in a month. Not ever. That afternoon I called one of my partners, made some arrangements with my stock broker and left a short message on Catharine's voice mail telling her not to expect me home for a long time.
I explored ghost towns and fished in mountain streams and rode horses on beautiful trails through the Aspens, and when I tired of those things I went up to Seattle and spent many fine mornings watching the fishing boats in Puget Sound. But when winter arrived with its endless gray skies, I found myself longing for sunshine. I went to the airport and bought a ticket for New Orleans. New Orleans -- the city of carnivals, vice and corruption! On every corner one hears the twang of a guitar or the plunk of a honkytonk piano, and in the narrow streets of the Vieux Carre vine-covered balconies loom above the sidewalks, giving an exquisite sense of degeneracy to the whole place. And then there are the hookers and hustlers who appear at dusk. In New Orleans prostitutes don't walk the streets so much as go on parade, strutting and daring the tourists to ignore their displays of flesh, if they can. Some people believe New York City is the sin capital of the world, but for real sin-- the kind that sidles up to you on a street corner and laughs seductively in your ear --- I can assure you that the Big Apple doesn't hold a candle to the Big Easy. One afternoon shortly after my arrival, I was sitting outdoors at the Café du Monde enjoying a cup of espresso when I noticed a young man sitting at a nearby table. He was lanky and slender, appearing no more than twenty years of age, with dark brooding eyes and jet-black hair that curled rakishly around the nape of his neck. With his dark complexion he reminded me of a Flamenco dancer. He wore dark, loose trousers and a silky white shirt open at the throat, and around his neck I saw a thin silver chain with a pendant that sparkled with a glint of blue. Having been raised in New York, I was not in the habit of staring at strangers, but this young man was so striking in appearance that I couldn't help myself. And there came a moment when he looked in my direction and our eyes met. I glanced away, not wanting him to know that I had been watching him, but he rose from his chair and ambled over to my table.
"Excuse me, do you have a light?" he asked in a sonorous voice. He raised a thin white cigarette to his mouth and let it dangle from his finely chiseled lips.
"I'm sorry. I don't smoke," I said.
"I should quit, but I enjoy it too much, " he replied with a pleasant drawl. He slipped the cigarette casually into his shirt pocket and remained standing by my table, apparently intent on striking up a conversation. "I don't think I've seen you here before. Are you new in town?"
"I'm here for a few days on business," I said, which was not exactly true since I was planning an extended stay, but it hardly seemed to matter under the circumstances.
"This is a great town for business trips and conventions," continued the young man. "Men love to come here without their wives. And wives without their husbands."
I didn't respond to the shadier implications of his comment. "This café is a busy place. Do you keep track of everyone who comes here?"
Again he smiled. "Not really. I used to work here, you see, and I got to know most of the regular customers. I can tell you're from out of town by your accent, anyway. New York?"
I nodded.
"I've lived here all my life," he continued. "My people settled here about two hundred years ago when the Spaniards kicked out the French. Or maybe it was the French who kicked out the Spaniards. I get it mixed up."
"And what do you do for a living now, if I may ask?" I asked.
The young man blushed and smiled, showing a row of perfect white teeth. "Various things. Mainly I give tours. I like to show people out-of-the-way things -- things they don't mention in the tour books," he explained. His penetrating eyes met mine and held them. "Business has been a little slow lately. I could give you a discount if you're interested. My name is Martin." And with that, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a small white business card, which he pushed towards me. "You can call me anytime, I stay up late. I could stop by your hotel if you like." He was watching me intently and I couldn't help but notice the sparkle in his eyes, which reflected a hint of violet. "I'm very flexible," he added.
Fixing me with his smile, he held out his card until I took it from his hand, then turned and ambled casually out onto the street. I watched him disappear into the crowd and glanced down at the card. "Martin Girardeau - City Tours," it said. And under that: "Experience the Unusual." At the bottom was a telephone number. I slipped the card into my pocket and raised my cup, savoring the mellow aroma of chicory-tinged coffee. Several days later, on a warm and sultry evening, I was sitting in a jazz club on Decatur Street listening to a black woman with pendulous breasts and languid eyes singing the blues, and the intoxicating music, combined with two or three glasses of single malt scotch, had put me in a strange, reflective mood. Not sad, exactly, but a little melancholic. I am normally content to avoid socializing in public places, but in truth it had been a long time since I had seen any friends and I was feeling at loose ends. I went to the bar to order another scotch and it was just then that I saw a familiar figure. The young man, Martin, was standing at the other end of the bar smoking a cigarette. He was dressed much the same way as when I first met him at the Café du Monde, with a silk shirt and silver chain, and he was chatting with an attractive young lady wearing a red dress of very abbreviated hemline. I think we noticed each other at the same time.
"Ah, we meet again!" cried Martin, waving a hand.
"What a coincidence!" I said, "Unless you've been following me around. But I don't suppose you would do that. Can I buy you and your lady friend a drink?"
Martin introduced his companion, whose name was Sylvia, and in the muted light of the bar I could see that she was a very attractive young woman, perhaps a little older than Martin, but not by much. She returned my greeting with a charming smile and took a sip from her glass. After we were introduced she didn't say much, but occasionally scanned the room as if she were looking for someone, and whenever our eyes met she would flash me another smile that began to fade when she turned away. She wore long, dangling earrings and her thin face conveyed an intelligent, if slightly mousy, appearance. Any impression of innocence, however, was dispelled by her thick red lipstick and her remarkably low-cut neckline, which drew appreciative stares from all the men in her vicinity.
After some inconsequential small talk, Martin suggested that the three of us go to another club where the music was "a little more lively," as he put it. I didn't wish to interrupt the couple's plans, whatever they might be, but Sylvia assured me that she wouldn't mind the company. It seemed only polite for me to offer to drive. When I first arrived in New Orleans I had leased a cream-colored XJ8 from a local Jaguar dealer. Martin and Sylvia exchanged approving glances when the valet drove it up to the curb outside.
We made the rounds of two or three clubs and over the next few hours I drank somewhat more than I should, as my narrative will probably reflect. I won't bore my readers with insignificant details except to note that bartenders in New Orleans work harder than those in any other city I have ever visited. I dare say it was approaching sunrise when Martin diplomatically offered to take the keys to the Jaguar and transport me back to my hotel.
The city streets were dark and quiet. After parking the car, Martin suggested that the three of us end our evening with a nightcap, and, being in an expansive mood I ordered two bottles of chilled champagne to be delivered to my suite. We put on some soft music on the stereo and Martin poured the shimmering liquid into three glasses thoughtfully provided by room service. We toasted to new friendships and poured a second round. And without any prodding that I recall, Sylvia began slipping off her clothes.
"It's so warm in here!" she said, giggling, and her smile was delightfully coy. "Would you be a sweetheart and help me with this zipper?"
Sylvia's relationship with Martin was still a bit murky and I didn't want to cause any offense, but Martin encouraged me to play along. So I gallantly unhooked the zipper on her dress and she kicked off her sandals. Without another word she maneuvered her dress over her hips with a delightful wiggle of her ass and dropped it carelessly on the floor.
Sylvia's underthings were obviously chosen for display because they couldn't possibly serve any other purpose. Her bra, constructed of a sheer, stretchy fabric, was barely able to contain her ample breasts and one could see the dark nipples, the size of half dollars, straining under the fabric. Her panties were cut from similar cloth, except for a dainty fringe of lace around the leg openings, and the small triangles of fabric were barely large enough to cover the essentials. She glanced provocatively back and forth between Martin and me. "Which of you boys is going to help me take the rest of these things off?" she said.
"I think this is a two-man job," said Martin, smirking.
I would be a lying scoundrel if I claimed to be unmoved by this banter. Indeed, if I had been connected to a heart monitor I think the needle would have been jumping rather high. I was not foolish enough to think that I presented an irresistible attraction for twenty-year-olds interested in a three-way romp, but I also pride myself on maintaining an above-average standard of physical fitness for a man my age, so I can not completely deny an element of vanity. In any event, one should not look a gift horse in the mouth, as the saying goes. Despite the late hour I was increasingly intrigued.
