Mardi Gras is five hours over. February’s slow sun has yet to rise and cast judgment on Tuesday’s wreckage. Avoiding Lent’s solemnity, I have yet to pass out after twenty hours of drinking and drugging. All day I’ve been stranded by thousands of revelers, all of us embarrassingly desperate for fun. I can’t seem to find a niche, a conversation, a bar stool or curb that feels like home. I run into my ex. His face smells like some other pussy. My friends have proven comatose acquaintances, fair-weathered and zombi-fied as behavioral carte blanche is the order of the day.
I still have my pussy. And some blow. Mid-way through the day, I half-heartedly follow my friend Dave to his house and begin to watch a bootleg copy of, of all things, Django Unchained. As the movie muddles the screen, Dave slithers down my legs and begins to eat me out. I gaze at the T.V., hoping more time has passed. Hard to tell on Mardi Gras. What’s not hard is his cock. Too fucked up to come, I leave, uninterested. As I walk alone past graffitied houses and lawns of garbage, I wonder how it had gotten dark out already.
After twenty hours of this miserable day, one last bout of dancing would surely appease the obligatory high I sought. Frenzied by the threat of daylight, I seek out a last-ditch thrill and unabashedly gyrate to the throbbing of a shopping cart boombox on a bar’s corner. Ten strangers and me, shaking our barely covered asses, building a sweat in the early humid cold. Two more men join the city’s last corner of indulgence, communally twitching hips and stomping feet.
One of these men mimics me from behind, flailing a barely controlled sex, a possessed despair gilded in beads and booze. I keep my back to him as I dance, feeling his stare on the bouncing blur of my tiny fake-fur skirt. The pleasure search continues as he takes my hand and guides me to his black Escalade across the street. Not making eye contact, we squash ourselves into the cluttered back seat. He proffers his cock before the door closes. Not registering his face, I give him my company with a paint-by-numbers blowjob. Minutes later, I spit up cum into an empty beer bottle I grab from off the floor. I lean back, nestling the bottle upright into a heap of clothes by my side.
Awkwardly bending over my lap, he eats me out, his face obscured by dreadlocks. Poisons have numbed my clit but he wants more. I don’t. I notice the sparse crowd through the darkly tinted windows. People are still dancing just caddy-corner to us, but their music is loud. Wide-eyed, my heart races quietly, my blood sobering. To my right, piles of junk block the car door. His muscular frame eclipses my other exit. I begin to relish what might be my last moments as the woman I know now. My mind flashes panic, and I turn up the coy. I flirtatiously suggest we carry on another night, complimenting him as I urgently keep the mood light. Trying to read his body language by the light of hazy yellow street lamps, I anticipate his strong arms jutting out to pin me down. I can already feel his hand on my mouth and hear his shh-shh-shh’s close to my ear. I conjure up rape-revenge scenarios in my head as I look for something sharp. A screwdriver will do. Holding it by my side, I tense up to react, but he puts his threat away without incidence. I pull my barely-there furry cave-girl skirt back down from my waist. My guard is up, and I strategically smile, hoping he won’t unhinge. He opens the door as I tell him goodnight and we pour out of the SUV. Quickly fading into fog, I forget his shadowy face, drop the sweaty screwdriver and beeline home, somehow remembering the way there.