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.
