I was standing in front of my tiny, jumbled closet looking in vain for suitable clothes to take to New Orleans. It had been sooo easy down in the Caribbean because all I needed was a couple pieces of floss to wear over my itty bitty titties and Brazilian waxed coochie. Rich, poor, who knew when you're half naked and dripping wet?
Who am I, you may be asking? I am Alexis, Queen of the Caribbean! No, this is not a story of a swashbuckling, big-tittied pirate like Anne Bonney (although THAT would be excellent grist for the erotica mill). Alexis is more a skinny, flat-chested, unbuckling type of girl who made her way across the aquamarine waters in a bazillionaire's yacht, carousing with some old and new friends in the teak and brass world of the super rich.
The dilemma with my wardrobe was that I was to attend a fancy-schmancy Valentine's Day/Mardi Gras party with my FRIEND Jay and her famous, super wealthy friends. Jay is an International film and TV superstar and I am a 21 year old, tomboyish waif who needs another nickel in order to rub two together. Jay is very cool about my lowly status and as a matter of fact, loves my smart mouth and unpretentious ways, I guess because of all the suck-ups in her life (here's where I modestly look down and say 'ah, shucks' while digging in the dirt with my big toe).
One other little factoid is that Jay is my employer. Jay insisted that I become her personal assistant and that I be paid a salary plus all expenses. I'm a little unclear what a personal assistant does. If it is personal in nature and I assist Jay in a carnal sense then yes, I am a personal assistant! Yahooooooo!
So, I'm packing for my new adventure with a tiny, niggling doubt about my ability to pull off this new incarnation of Alexis, Hand Maiden to the Stars! Where the hell are my harem pants?
I landed at Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport (what a mouthful, huh?) right on time and promptly sat on the tarmac for 45 minutes. Normally, that would piss me off. But remember the expense account? I was sitting in first-freaking-class like a rock star.
"Another champagne miss?"
"Oh, that would be delightful. Say, would you bring me another pillow too?"
The business mogul next to me was hoping my micro skirt was going to ride all the way up to paradise but occasionally I would tug it down a fraction of an inch, being the modest sort that I am. I did offer a peak down my blouse by leaning toward him a couple times but he was firmly fixated on my long, bare legs. I can't fault him; they are damned nice (you are going to HELL Alexis Noel for the sin of Pride, still number one on the Sins Chart. I know you may be reading Lit stories for other reasons but I'm sure you want to know the other six deadly sins: avarice, envy, wrath, lust, gluttony and sloth. Holy moly, I'm six for seven! I'm giving myself a pass on sloth, believing it to be an animal.)
Ok, after deplaning (have you ever seen the reruns of that old TV show 'Fantasy Island' where the little dude points to the sky and cries, 'De plane, de plane'? Whenever I 'de-plane' I always crack up thinking of that) I stroll through the security gates and guess what sports fans? An enormous limo guy dressed in a monkey suit was holding up a sign that said "Alexis Noel". I almost peed my panties I was so shocked! A limo? A driver? Moi?
Ever cool, I sauntered up to him, peered over the top of my black, knock-off Armani sunglasses, cocked a hip and in my best Mae West voice said, "I'm Alexis Noel."
I'll hand it to this guy for not requiring identification because EVERYONE remembers when George and Jerry faked their way into a limo on that classic Seinfeld episode. He didn't bat an eye and simply said, "Follow me, Miss Noel. We'll get your bags and be on our way." Well, la-di-da, why not?
The limo guy could have auditioned for the Sphinx because he wouldn't say shit if his mouth was full of it. I was jabbering away like the magpie I am, asking questions about where we were going, what was that building, were you here for Katrina, do you eat crawfish, can we drive through Bourbon Street and other probing questions. The only answer he gave me was, "Miss Jay sent me."
Okaaaaay. 'Nuf said. The Sphinx cruised through the city finally getting to what appeared to a very old and ritzy part of N'awlins (see how quickly I pick up the native lingo?). He stopped in front of this GORGEOUS Greek revival mansion that had all the classic wrought iron railings and potted plants that you see in travel mags. I'm not shitting you, when we pulled to a stop, three, count them, THREE servants rushed to the limo, opened my door, grabbed my crappy luggage and hustled me into the house. They must not have gotten the memo that I was a servant too!
The foyer (I pronounce foyer with a French accent of course) was a sort of courtyard that was DRIPPING with more wrought iron and native flowers. A striking woman dressed in a quintessential French maid outfit approached me after giving me a moment to pick my chin off the floor. In what had to be a Creole accent she said, "Please follow me missy. I'll show you to your room." I'm a card carrying member of the Sexually Liberal and Uninhibited Team (SLUT for short). This French maid I was following up the stairs was inspiring all kinds of kinky fantasies. Focus, Alexis, focus.
My 'room' turned out to be a friggin' suite, dear readers. Four poster bed, crushed velvet wallpaper, antique dressers and a gol'-danged FAINTING COUCH. Ha! I could just picture myself holding my lacy handkerchief to my delicate nose and saying to Rhett Butler, "Oh Rhett, I do declare that I am feeling faint. I must have the vapors. Do fetch me my snuffbox, sugah."
The hot French maid showed me the suite and began putting my clothes away. I asked her when Jay was arriving so I could start my personal assisting. She pulled a fancy envelope out of her apron and handed it to me instead of replying. I thumbed it open and pulled out a neatly written note from Jay. It said, "Alexis, I'm so happy you are here! I'm meeting some other friends at the private airport. This is going to be SO MUCH FUN!!!" It was signed "J" with a little lipstick kiss beside it.