Chapter 1
Calvin
Rightorleft?
Right. Left.
It’s early evening when I get off work. Standing on the sidewalk on Canal Street, hands shoved into the pockets of my slacks, and a bag slung over my shoulder, I debate which direction to go.
You’d think I’d come across some important crossroads, having to decide my life’s fate at this moment. Some fork in the road that singers love to write songs about. That dilemma about life and the consequences of choice. It’s so much more inane than that. Going left means going home and being boringly responsible. Going right means having fun and feeling the freedom I’ve fought so hard for, even if for one night. In other words, having a good fuck.
Who am I kidding? I almost always choose right. I’m responsible enough for work. After that, I’m my own man, who likes to let loose on the weekends. No one is at home waiting for me. No one is expecting me to bring dinner or to cook. No children to bathe or read to before bed.
I’ll be forty in November, two months away, and I plan to stay single and enjoy life for forty more. Maybe I’ll take a vacation to the Bahamas or something next summer. That’d be fun.
If my mother hadn’t called earlier, or if I hadn’t answered, I probably would’ve headed home.
A plan starts taking shape as I walk the three blocks to the Ritz-Carlton. When I step up to the front desk, a lovely woman with a cute splash of freckles decorating her nose and cheeks greets me.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, I’d like a room for the evening, specifically an executive suite.”
“Certainly. Name, please.”
“Calvin Abernathy.”
“Thank you, Mr. Abernathy. Is there anything else you need?”
“I’ll need a toothbrush and toothpaste sent up to my room, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
She takes my credit card information and checks me in. I head up to my room to drop off my suit jacket and tie. The suite is beautiful. You definitely get what you pay for.
Sure, the room is pricey as hell, but if I find someone for the night, why not fuck him in luxury? I can afford it. Besides, I’m not in the mood to drive my potential one-night stand back to my house in Belle Chasse. I do that enough. My neighbor probably thinks I’m some slut. Fine, maybe I am, but this is easier and more fun.
After rolling up my sleeves, I freshen up in the bathroom. The lighting is terrible. It exaggerates the fine lines in my face, as if I need a damn reminder of my age.
I finger my hair away from my face, making sure it’s exactly how I want it, then spritz on some cologne I keep in my leather bag.
“Good enough,” I say into the mirror before heading out.
Once I leave the hotel, I stroll the eight blocks toward the French Quarter and toCafé Lafitteon Bourbon Street, a popular gay bar. In fact, it’s the oldest gay bar in New Orleans. It’s not the most exciting or nicest place, but I’ve never had problems finding a guy for the night over there. While tourism can be especially annoying, they’re perfect for one-night stands. When we’re done fucking, they go home back to their lives, and I won’t ever see them again.
The bar’s atmosphere is dark, and the only source of lighting is in colorful neon pinks, blues, and purples. It’s no more special than any other bar on Bourbon Street. It’s old, like the rest of them. Some trite pop song is playing on the speakers. I can’t begin to name it or identify the singer. Give me the oldies any day.
The worst thing aboutCafé Lafitteis the gawkers. The straight couples on vacation or the groups of straight women having a bachelorette party who come in to observe the gay men dance or make out. Like we’re a novelty to be pointed at in some bizarre queer zoo. It’s fucking weird.
While it’s Friday night, it’s still early enough that I can snag a seat at the bar and people-watch. I sit down at one of the stools when a cute bartender takes my order. He’s blond, lean, and looks way too fucking young to be tending bar. Then again, everyone looks young to me these days. Turning forty is going to suck.
“What can I getcha, handsome?” he asks in his strong Louisiana accent. Who am I to say? I have a Texas accent that I’ve struggled to ditch.
“A boulevardier withBulleit, please.”
“Fancy,” he says, winking at me.
It’s about as fancy as I’m going to find in a place like this, which generally sells watered-down hurricanes and shitty beer.
