The Bon Bon Breasts of Bourbon Street

The train is leaving in ten minutes. I hurry over the melting sidewalks. Thawing slush melts off curbs. My Adidas slide over a frozen puddle making me lose my balance. The layer of crystal thin ice shatters from my weight. I get a soaker.

The New York spring has yet to arrive. The NYU kids are bundled in hats and scarves. Some of them are wearing fancy style synthetic rubber boots. I’ve never been seasonally fashionable.

My feet squish down the street. I weave in and out of people, mostly student types. I hate the academic little fuckers. I know the routine too well. Though not well enough to keep me from getting kicked out of school.

It doesn’t matter. I’m running towards a new adventure. My backpack has a few clothes, some books and a sleeping bag. $207.69 jangles in my front right pocket. After scouring for loose change in my apartment and then going to the ATM and overdrawing my checking account by two hundred dollars (the most I’m allowed) it’s all I could come up with.

When I don’t show up tonight Rick the prick will fire me and I’ll lose my part time dishwashing job. It will be a welcome relief from constant dishpan hands. After weeks of scrubbing baked on sauce for slightly more than minimum wage I experienced a reality awakening I wasn’t ready for.

Being over worked and underpaid is the kind of lesson you can’t learn in a classroom. I wish I wasn’t flunking out. Life could be at a turning point. Failing could label me a failure. I keep running. The train leaves in seven minutes.

I’ve isolated myself from friends and family. Rent is over due and the letter of my expulsion will be arriving at dad's door any day now.

I can get a cab uptown once I’m through Union Square. I’ve almost made it, and then I collide with Jen. This isn’t good. We were supposed to meet last night. She was going to tutor me in Spanish. I never showed.

Jennifer drops her heavy books. I pause to help her pick them up. She raises her head to see what kind of an oaf would run into her. Then notices it’s me. She is not impressed.

There is no time to explain. Jen gets that disappointed look in her eye. I know it well. I’ve seen that look in my parents, professors, ex girlfriends and Rick the prick.

Jen and I were in the same dorm last year. We developed a late night ritual. She always studied in the dorm reading room way past anyone else. I would come back from a night of clubbing, drunk or high on ecstasy and we would fuck against the bookshelves, on the desktops or in the sagging old armchair. I was Jen’s favorite study break.

“Shit Tyler! Where are you running too?” Jen asks slipping her glasses back up her nose. She tucks stands of loose bangs back behind her ear.

“I have to go,” I say.

“Where were you last night? I was going to help you with your Spanish. You could at least prepare for next semester, they’ll let you back in”

“I know…Sorry”

I turn my back. Start running again and don’t turn around. Jen calls me an asshole. Not a very educated response, but she gets the point across.

I hail a cab. Tell the driver to fucking hurry. He rushes me up Broadway to the Port Authority. Beggars, scam artists and prostitutes litter the exterior. None of them will be going anywhere today.

The train is delayed. I jump and scream as I enter the platform in dramatic style, like they do in the movies, except the train isn’t moving yet so it’s a little anti-climatic when I arrive heaving and out of breath. The comatose conductor puts down his coffee and lets me board.

“Settle down, kid,” he says.

I stumble to a window seat. The train is only half full. I get the whole row. It’s another twenty minutes before we depart.

Last night after work I went to my apartment. Walked right past the building Jen was in. Got home and went straight for the computer to check if I got a message. It’s what I have been doing every night. I spend my days in restrained anticipation of receiving an email from her.

I meet Gabby in Rio last summer. It was a special night.
Not sex or anything, just talking on the beach. We shared one of those rare conversations. Covered the spectrum from funny off hand observations to intimate details. That night by the bonfire our souls shone through all the muck of the world and bonded.

Now Gabby is studying a semester at Tulane. We have emailed each other a few times. She was quite surprised to hear from me. It took a week for her to write back. We started writing on a regular basis. I always write a couple of pages, she writes about a paragraph. She must be busy with schoolwork.

The last correspondence I received Gabby mentioned Mardis Grais. New Orleans, the infamous party town, is once again celebrating the biggest bash of the year. I thought I would come for a surprise visit. Last night it seemed like an ingenious idea. Now that I’m finally on my way I’m not too sure.

I puff up my jacket as a pillow. Rest my head against the window. We leave the city and enter the rural part of the state. Gray sky and dirty snow blanket the landscape. I drift into dreams. Soon hope to be dancing in sunshine on the Gulf of Mexico.

I wake up in Pennsylvania. It looks the same as New York, just different license plates on the cars. I take out my book Wonderland Avenue. It’s a tale of Rock and Roll excess and Iggy Pop’s vibrant insanity.

Some well-feed Midwest boys enter my car. They are clean cut, dressed in pressed blue jeans and backwards baseball caps. I choose to ignore them until I notice the cooler of beer.

“Hi guys,” I say.

I’m introduced to Chip, Doug and Rod. They go to Penn State.

“What are you reading?” Chip asks.

I show them the book.

“It’s about rock and roll excess. There is a cool section about Iggy Pop,” I say. “He was almost the new singer of The Doors. It’s kinda tabloid, but a fun read.”

“Nothing wrong with tabloid,” Chip says. “Long as it’s true.”

“Uh, yeah I guess.”

“You want a beer?” Doug offers


He hands me a beer from the cooler. A cold can of Budweiser.

“That Kerry Collins sure likes his beer,” Rod says.

“Naw, he’s in A.A.” Chip disagrees.

“You guys Eagles fans?” I don’t know too much about football.

“Fuck no man, The Steelers.”

“Yeah but fucking Kordel Stewart is a pillow bitter, takes it up the ass,” Chip frowns. “We need a new quarterback, the shits embarrassing.”

I sit and talk football with the guys. They are very upset about the Steelers, seems they had a poor season and think Kordel Stuart is gay. A lot of their happiness relies on what 300 pound men do on a field every fall Sunday, homosexual or not.

They make queer jokes and I don’t say anything. Back in the city I know this club kid Eddie. He’s gay but also one of my best friends. Eddie always gets me into the coolest after hours. Whenever I hear gay bashing I always think I should stick up for people like Eddie, but I never do.

We talk about music. They like the frat cock rock sitting on top of the charts. It’s unoriginal populists radio shit like Kid Rock, Limp Bizkit, and Blink 182. I try to explain DJ culture by dropping some of the big names like Sasha or Paul van Dyk but of course they never heard of them. We play cards. I struggle to stay even. The beer seems to keep coming out of the bottomless cooler. After a few hours I excuse myself to pass out in my sleeping bag.

I wake up. The train pulls into the Big Easy. I’m aware of the bright sun. Life outside the train seems to be glowing. It’s a new day in a whole new world.

I’m a little achy from sleeping scrunched up across the seat. I gather my thoughts and exit the train. The Penn State boys are nowhere in sight.

Outside the platform the sun is shining directly overhead. It’s almost noon. The smell of sizzle and spice is in the air. Everything seems be dripping with the laziness of a sweat drop.

The easiest thing would be to call Gabby and let her know I’ve arrived. But I want to make this a surprise. I’ll find my way there. I can’t wait to see her face when I knock on her door.

I walk to the taxi stand. A driver is leaning against his cab smoking a cigarette and reading the paper.

“How much to Charleston Street?” I ask.

“What?” The man asks. He never looks up.

“I want to go to Charleston Street. How much would it be?”

“About thirty bucks.”


“What?” The man still has his eyes fixated on the paper.

“I don’t have that. How do I get there by bus. This is my first time in New Orleans.”

The man looks at me for the first time. “It’s ‘Newww Or- lenses’ kid. Get it right.” He pronounces the name of the city with an aristocratic Cajun drawl, smoothly flowing the words together like molasses.

“Yeah, thanks.” I decide to find Gabby on my own.

It takes me a couple of hours to find the house. Four bus transfers, one tram ride, one purchased map- that turns out to be useless, and many miles of wondering around aimlessly. I finally find it in a sleepy neighborhood, the last house down a dead end street.

I knock on all the doors. Walk around the yard. I call her name. No answer. I check the address again just to make sure this is the right place. I’m a little disappointed that I finally arrived and no one is here.

The house is an old Victorian mansion with peeling paint and an over grown garden. The old wooden doors have brass fixtures. Bay windows are covered in spider webs. The walls look rickety and creak under their own weight. Gabby’s house looks kind of haunted. It doesn’t help that it’s next to a cemetery, one of those French graveyards where all the tombs are above ground. The head stones are exquisitely formed. There is a lot of detail dedicated to the dead.

I sit down on the porch. Take off the backpack. Fall asleep in the shade. It feels like I’ve only been out minutes. When I wake up the sun is setting. The sky looks like a melted dreamscile. I turn my head towards some female laughter.

A group of animated girls arrive. They have various alcoholic bottles in their hands. They walk, leaning on each other with exaggerated swaying of hips. All three are extremely exotic and elegantly wasted. They are talking Portuguese. I don’t speak the language but understand the merriment in their singsong voices.

I stand up and smile. The girls notice me for the first time. They abruptly stop. There is an awkward silence. I wave. Gabby steps forward.


“Yeah,” I shrug.

“Tyler from the emails?”

“Here I am.”


I’m smiling from ear to ear. But I’m dying inside. Burning up with the resentment of my own stupidity. I can tell I’m not wanted and the self-loathing spreads through me like lava out of an erupting volcano, working it’s way from my head down to my feet.

“You won’t believe it, but I came down with some friends, yeah, um and we drove down, but then I lost them and didn’t know where to go so I came here.”

I’m right. She looks like she doesn’t believe a word of it. I don’t blame her.

“Sorry,” Gabby says smiling for the first time, “I am just so shocked. You crazy boy you! Coming all the way here. We must get you a drink then help you find your friends”

I follow the girls into the house. They stare at me like I’m crazy. Not the fun loving life of the party kind of crazy, more like I’m kid loco, a complete stalker psycho. The girls politely nod in my direction and then whisper something in their native language. This brings on a fit of giggles.

We sit down and they share the bottles of tequila, rum and whiskey. Gabby finally introduces me to her friends Duda and Katrina. We talk about Brazil. I bring up the night on the beach. It doesn’t take long for me to understand it meant much more to me than her.

Duda and Katrina whisper some more. I self-consciously check my fly and run the back of my hand across my nose. Take a shot of tequila followed by a shot of rum.

“When does Billy arrive?” asks Duda in hysterics.

“Who’s Billy?” I demand more earnest than I should.

“Billy is my boyfriend,” Gabby says with a pathetic smile.

“Billy?” I ask again. There was no mention of a Billy in the emails.

“Billy, Billy from Texas,” says Katrina.

“Billy?” I can’t believe this.

“Billy from Texas!” Katrina laughs. “Gabby loves a boy named Billy from Texas!”

Katrina seems to think it is the most amusing thing in the world. Not me. I turn and ignore Katrina and look right into Gabby’s eyes. The way I did when we were on the beach. The way I was hoping to do again.

“So you love this guy. A guy from Texas?”

“Yes, very much,” she says nodding her head and biting on her bottom lip.

“How do you know?” It’s a stupid question. I’m desperate.

“Because when I drink pineapple coconut juice it tastes so yummy. And I want Billy to taste it, too. I want to share it with him so he can taste the yummy. That’s how I know I love him. It’s sharing yummy.” She keeps biting her bottom lip.

“Oh.” I never tasted pineapple coconut juice. I slam back some whiskey.

We drink for a few hours. The burning ache in my heart gets drowned. The girls take me out into New Orleans. I’m lead to honky tonk bars, southern fried taverns, and dens of voodoo madness. Local freaks with jolly hospitality greet us at every turn. Gabby seems to know everyone.

This is the real Mardis Grais experience, far from the tourists downtown. Wicked juices and squirmy food slid down my gullet. Wild potent concoctions are swallowed with licked lips. Shucked oysters are sucked in a gulp. The girls start to befriend me. I get smothered in colorful gorgeous beads. Duda kisses me playfully. We continue deep into the night dancing to the crazy Cajun music. And we keep drinking. Always drinking.

On the way back we stop off for some Jambalaya and another bottle of tequila. We get back and start on the feast. I try to talk. It seems I can now understand Portuguese. I can’t stop the room from spinning but speaking a foreign language is no problem. Towards the end of the bottle my head hits the floor. I don’t have the power to move it.

Fuck…Next morning.

I’m sprawled out on the floor next to the empty bottle of tequila. Strangled in the cheap plastic beads. Suffering the worst hang over in the history of the world. My mind is exploding, the floor is shaking, my throat is heaving, and it’s hard to tell how far into consciousness I am. I must be dead because hell couldn’t be any worse than this.

“Hello cowgirls! Howdy Ho!”

A bronze Adonis jumps over me. He is wearing tight faded blue jeans and a big floppy cowboy hat. No shirt. No shoes. He has a packet of Marlboro Reds tucked into the waist of his Levi’s.

The man moves around the room picking up left over bottles and finishes them off. His tight tanned skin stretches taunt over well-defined definition. The guy has a washboard stomach and muscles that bulge without flexing. You could hang a coat on his pectorals. He turns to look at me. His eyes are the most piercing blue I have ever seen, like sapphires on fire. He smiles at me with a shit eating grin.

“What a waste,” he says. I think he is talking about the fact I’m dying of alcohol poisoning at the age of twenty. He picks up the bottle, tips it over, and when nothing comes out throws it across the room. It smashes with fierce force.


Gabby comes bouncing down the stairs two at a time. The small silky robe she is wearing flaps open reveling the stunning body I so longed to touch. She is bright eyed and excited. No apparent effects from last night. She can handle her drink better than me. Maybe love allows you to avoid hangovers.

“Billy lover, oh Billy my love!”

It’s Billy the boyfriend from Texas. I watch them embrace. Their beauty deserves each other. I stick to the floor sprawled out in agony.

“Come here sweetness!” The Texan drawls.

Billy grabs Gabby. “I love you like a bear loves honey, baby!” To prove his point he grabs her around the waist in a big bear hug and licks her neck with his tongue. They spin around me. This is too much dizziness to take. I immediately throw up. The Jumbalya looks the same coming up as it did going down last night.

“Whoa partner,” Billy says stepping over me and carrying Gabby back to the bedroom. “Seems you made a fine mess of yourself.”

Less than a minute later the sounds of loud lovemaking let’s loose throughout the old house. Bedsprings bounce, the floor creaks overhead, screams of delight are belted out. I dry heave, retching out my twisted guts as moans of a different type continue from upstairs.

I suffer through the pain of other people enjoying immense pleasure. The fucking carries on in preposterous porno proportions. I walk out to the porch and curl up into a shriveling ball, the position of a baby in the womb.

Early evening arrives. Billy comes out and pokes me with his cowboy boot. I don’t move. He kicks me in the head.

“Wake up partner.”

“Is he dead?” Gabby asks, not concerned enough for my liking.

“Shit no.”

Billy tickles me under the armpits and I spring awake in spite of myself. He is drinking a beer. The Texan is in a mood to party.

Billy walks over to the stereo, files through the vinyl, and finds what he is looking for. Takes the record out of the sleeve, throws the album jacket across the floor. He puts the disk on the turntable and cranks the volume.

“What’s the use of getting sober when you are gonna get drunk again…” The song plays out the speakers.

“Fucking love Joe Jackson,” Billy says. He starts singing along. Billy forces a beer on me. He has an infectious addictive personality. It’s hard to hate the guy even though I perceive him as the enemy. I heed the songs advice and gulp the cold beer.

A twelve pack is finished and some speed snorted. Billy and I head off to Bourbon Street for a parade. The Brazilians stay behind. They think it’s a good idea for the boys to get to know each other. And I might find my friends.

Billy and I are sitting on a curb a few blocks from the parade. I notice girls walking by covered in beads. Sunglasses hide my drawn out stares. Some of them are flashing the audience, baring bountiful beautiful breasts. Everywhere I look I see big tits.

The amphetamine is zigzagging throughout my nervous system. I want to puke and shit myself but it also feels amazingly frenetic. My flaccid will power is gone. I’m buzzing to the beat. Getting hot under the collar, libido yelling out. I’m abnormally aroused, semi-erect and looking for the full hard on.

Besides being drugged and horny I realize my hang over has completely dissipated. I’m no longer deathly dehydrated but once again drowning in drinks. On the kind of binge that leaves your mental capacity at zero. Nothing left but an animal instinct for satisfaction. I think I might be drooling.

Billy drains his Hurricane. I do the same. This liquid diet is fascinating. I’m getting a flash of brilliance, glimmers of wonderment. Clarity comes through my mind. I wish I kept a journal because I’m the most enlightened thinker of the 21st century.

“You want another drink?” I ask. I’m buying. Today everything is on me.


I stand up. Stumble to straighten myself. Make my way past the crowds. The masses swirl around me. I go with the flow bumping and bumbling my way to the shortest line to get more drinks. No limit of excess can be reached tonight.

I head down an alley. Find a deserted nook. I unwrap some of the powder Billy gave me and snort it. Another shot of self confidence vacuumed in one huge inhale. I want to fuck.

I try to focus. I look through alcoholic eyes for another Hurricane. Before I move my vision meets a pair of Playboy tits, tasty bonbon breasts. The most fantastic fully developed firm huge round massive pendulous breasts I have ever seen are reaching out to me, protruding through the flap of a dark leather motorcycle jacket.

I look up and the woman has a mustache. Not a little peach fuzz above the lip, a full handlebar. Whatever grew that Kaiser Wilhelm had the hormones of a man. I do a double take. Look back down at the breasts and then again into the face. The person is a mutant throw back to the Village People. He/she is half Charlie’s Angel/half Hell’s Angel.

Before I can move or look away the person kisses me. Buries their tongue deep into my mouth. At first I resist but when I put my hand up to push away it falls on the breasts. My restraint turns to groping. I fondle those mounds of flesh, tweek the nipples between thumb and forefinger.

The beast gets on its knees. Puts my stiff cock in the hole under the mustache. It sucks deep down the shaft. I start thrusting and grunting. A few faggots walk by but hardly notice. I come spurting my seed into the back of the skull. The creep wipes its mouth and walks away.

The orgasm drains me of everything I believe in. I’m depleted of my manhood. Can see myself on Ricky Lake. I put my penis away and puke against the wall. Billy grabs my arm.

“Holly cow dung partner, I saw you with that Lola,” he says. “I didn’t know you walked on the wild side. You must have loved Brazil when you were there.”

“No, no man…”

“Don’t sweat it partner. Live and let love. Where are the drinks?”

We get more Hurricanes. I gulp mine down. I chug until the night is obliterated. Unconsciousness comes by way of disguise. False advertising has taken advantage of me.

I wake up in the graveyard next to Gabby’s house still too drunk to be hung over. I gather my socks and shoes. Don’t care about my backpack left in the house. I start walking to the train station.

The sun is coming up. New Orleans will experience another beautiful day. I walk away from the dead end street. The air is heavy with heat. I want to get to the train station and forget, forget everything that happened. Especially those fabulous breasts and the best blowjob I ever received.