Somewhere between dancing and trying not to lose my phone, I made my way toward a bar to grab another drink. That’s when I saw a man taking a shot off a woman’s stomach. She was laughing, the crowd was cheering, and suddenly I remembered my vision board.
“Do a body shot off a stranger on Bourbon Street.”
I blinked at the scene, my brain whisperingnowhile the tequila saidyes, bitch, yes.I turned to one of the women from earlier and said, “I wanna do that.”
She grinned like I’d just said something crazy. “You sure?”
I nodded. “I’m here for the experience.”
She laughed and clapped her hands, and suddenly the men standing around turned toward me like hyenas at a buffet. Everyone started shouting, “Who she gone pick? Who she gone pick?”
The woman smiled and said, “Your choice, baby.”
I looked around. None of them were fine. Not one. But I didn’t fly and use my PTO for nothing. I came for the plot.
One man was already unbuttoning his shirt like this wasMagic Mike: New Orleans Edition,so he was immediately out. Another was dancing like he was trying to win custody of rhythm itself. Pass. Then I saw a quiet, unimpressed man standing slightly to the back with his drink half full and his energy giving “I was dragged here to babysit my friends.”
Perfect.
“I’ll take him,” I said, pointing. He blinked, surprised. The crowd cheered while the music started again with something fast and nasty. I downed another shot for courage. The women helped me line the salt and lime, everyone cheering and hollering like this was the Super Bowl of bad decisions. The man lifted his shirt halfway, looking nervous.
“You ready, baby?” one of the women asked.
I nodded, already too deep in to turn back.
I leaned down, took the shot, and for some reason.. some dumb,spirit-of-the-heaux-phase reason—I licked his skin too.
Why? I don’t know. Maybe I thought it’d be sexy. Maybe the tequila possessed me. All I know is I tasted sweat, dirt, and a faint trace of regret. His skin was hot and sticky, and the secondI pulled away, I realized my tongue felt… wrong. Like his skin had rubbed off on mine. There was residue. Actual residue.
Everyone was clapping and screaming, “Ayyyeee!” and “She wild!” and “That’s how you do it, baby!”
And I wanted to smile, I really did, but my stomach was doing the electric slide in reverse.
I swallowed hard, blinked twice, and tried to hold it together. Then I gagged so loud like a cartoon character. Then I gagged again. And before I could stop it—
I threw up everywhere. On the bar. On the floor. On somebody’s shoes.
The music stopped. People screamed and scattered like roaches when the light came on. Somebody yelled, “Oh hell naw!” and another voice said, “She done baptized the bar!”
I stood there, mortified, wiping my mouth with a cocktail napkin that was definitely not enough for what just happened. The woman who gave me the shots was half laughing and half horrified. “Girl, you alright?!”
I nodded weakly, tears in my eyes. “Yeah. I think my spirit just rejected him.”
By the time I made it back to my hotel, I was sticky, humiliated, and ninety percent sure I’d left a piece of my dignity somewhere on Bourbon Street. I didn’t even turn the lights on. I kickedoff my shoes, undressed, and face-planted straight into the bed because it felt like the city had personally jumped me.
The last thing I remembered was mumbling, “never again,” into a pillow and when I opened my eyes again, the room was dark except for the glow creeping through the balcony curtains. I blinked at the clock on the nightstand.8:47 p.m.
Damn. I’d taken a nap-nap. I sat up slowly, my head pounding and my mouth dry. I pulled the comforter tighter around me and stared out the window. The view was amazing and New Orleans was just getting started.
I rubbed my face and groaned. “Girl, what the hell was that?”
That body shot incident was supposed to be a fun little “live in the moment” moment, not a public exorcism. I still couldn’t believe I’d licked a man who smelled like poison ivy and motor oil. And for what? A checkmark on a sticky note? I flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. “This is what I get for chasing experiences instead of peace.”
In my defense, I’d been running on fumes all day. Early flight. Jet lag. Too many shots on an empty stomach. My stomach grumbled, reminding me that tequila wasn’t a food group. I was so excited about getting the things on my vision board done that I didn’t even try to think of a plan. I just landed, dropped my bags, and sprinted toward chaos. But deep down, I couldn’t help but laugh. Because if nothing else, I was living. It was my first time in New Orleans alone.I’d been a few times for Essence Fest, but that was always with friends or family. Back then, there was always an itinerary, an auntie with a clipboard, or a cousin who knew all the good food spots and “safe” clubs.
I just arrived. No schedule. No plan. No one telling me where to go or what to do. At first, that sounded freeing. But maybe I’d mistaken being spontaneous for being lost. I squinted and read one of the notes out on the vision board aloud:
“Play tourist and local. Have a man show you the city, and you show him how dangerous vacation hearts can be.”
