“You a tourist?”
“Making my way from West Virginia to California.”
“Gay?”
“Yeah.”
“Makes sense, moving to California then. I’m Ramona, by the way,” she says, pulling out a pint glass. She fills it with ice and pours rum to the top of the cubes. The Hurricane mixture is a suggestion that barely turns the rum pink.
“Knox,” I say, taking the glass from her manicured hands.
“Nice to meet you, Knox.”
I take a big swallow of mostly rum, nearly choking on the burn. When I get halfway through the drink, it stops burning. By the time I reach the bottom of the glass, I’m drunk. Not quite moonshine wasted, but close.
Just as I’m starting to feel the exhaustion creep into my bones, a hot guy dressed like a fifties biker saunters in and hikes up on the stool next to mine.
“Hey, cutie.”
His voice is low and raspy, and his tattoos intimidate the hell out of me. Or they would if I was sober. Just as he’s running a finger up my arm, Ramona steps into the space between his legs and starts making out with him.
That’s…a lot of tongue. His finger never stops tracking up and down my arm, raising goose bumps along the teased flesh.
They pause the make-out session to touch foreheads.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
He grabs a handful of her generous hip and gestures at me with his chin. “Ro, baby, wanna play with junior league over here?”
She reaches over, pushing some hair from my forehead. “Wouldn’t hurt my feelings.” Turning to face me, she runs her hands up my thighs. “You down? My man is bi, and he really loves sucking dick.” She squeezes my thighs, which is confusing even though it feels good. “Don’t worry, you can say no.”
“Er, okay.” When in New Orleans, right? “Yes.”
They lead me to the apartment above the bar and take turns using their mouths and hands on me. I come twice before I pass out, then wake up the next morning to Robert—that’s his name—sucking on my cock. I don’t hate what Ramona did, but after last night, I can unequivocally say that I am a homosexual.
“Fuck, fuck,fuck.” I buck off the bed and come into his hot mouth, my eyes still crusty with sleep and my head still muzzy from last night’s Hurricane. Ramona’s soft chuckle comes in from their kitchenette and she walks over with a big coffee mug full of a reddish-brown liquid.
“It’s my favorite hangover recipe,” she says, kissing Robert with full tongue. Licking her lips, she smiles broadly. “God, your spunk tastes good.” She pushes the drink at me, gesturing for me to chug it.
I sit up and comply, then immediately regret it. I choke and inhale the contents down the wrong pipe, causing my nose to burn and my eyes to water. “What in God’s name is in this?”
“A raw egg, V-8, and a coupla shakes each of Tabasco and Worcestershire sauce. Why don’t you take a shower before you go, lollipop?”
I laugh at my nickname and manage to keep down the horrifying drink. Not sure if it’s that or the scalding hot shower that does the trick, but my head is clear and I’m feeling refreshed by the time I’m ready to head out.
They make out with me on the couch for a few minutes, and Robert sucks the last of the cum from my balls before they release me into the wild. They stand out in the street, waving goodbye as I take off in my little overloaded Honda.
I stop and take a few pictures of the city in the morning light and upload them to my account before heading out of town.
Mom:You’re already in New Orleans? What happened to Florida?
Hell if I know.
Go west, go west, go west.
I decide I’ll text my mother later and hit I-10, going in the cardinal direction of my heart. My car overheats just outside of Baton Rouge, then again outside of Lafayette. Water works the first time, but the second time forces me to stop for coolant.
