The Bone (Part 1)

There’s something about sex and sadness that goes together like cheese and crackers. To be more specific, my favorite combination is fucking a complete stranger while grieving for a deep deprivation that has haunted me my entire life. And that's equivalent to a Trader Joe’s Raisin Rosemary Crisp with goat cheese. Yum! 

The first time I experienced this high was the summer before college in 2002. I was finally getting out of the racist bowl of hell known as New Orleans. I was SO ready to leave the city, my house, my dad. That summer, I decided to let go and come out of my shell, meaning going out every night and getting wasted. My whole life I was afraid of drinking. Even though New Orleans is definitely a drinking town with their no last calls and drive-thru daiquiris, I knew booze was a bad idea, and I held out for awhile. My older brother drank way too much, consumed a plethora of drugs and was a complete mess. He inflicted a lot of pain on the family. Alright. I noted that. My dead mother loved alcohol and drugs too. Cocaine and heroin were detected in her when they found her lifeless body discarded at a grocery store parking lot. She died when I was 14 months. Okaaaaay. Duly noted times two. Buuuuut… when it was my senior year in high school, I was so deeply depressed, and I needed to escape. I decided to do stand-up comedy. Comedians, for the most part, are miserable human beings who hate themselves, so I instantly felt at home. I was a teenager amongst handsy older men buying me cranberry vodkas and then wanting to fuck me. Honestly, I did. I fucked them. Well, some. I didn’t know how to say no. No to a drink or no to an exposed dick. 

See, I’ve always been sexual. I was horny even in grade school. But I was weird and chubby and painfully shy and no one wanted to touch me. But then I lost some weight, and transferred to an all black public high school where guys actually liked that I had thighs and a butt. Slowly by slowly, I saw myself as a sexual object. And then these older male comics, well…really saw me as a sexual object. But they didn’t care to get to know me. I mean, I knew it. Because of that, I was never able to truly let go and be myself. 

My dad would often drop me off at Canal Place, a small high end mall with a movie theatre on the second floor, that showed independent and foreign movies. The mall was located Downtown New Orleans, the beginning of the French Quarter. He gave me a twenty dollar bill and said, “get home safe.” As if those words made any difference.

One Wednesday night, I saw a 10pm showing of L.I.E. (A dark independent movie about a tortured boy getting into a relationship with an older man. Loved it). Since there was no last call in bars, the night life wouldn’t really start till midnight. I also told my dad that I was going to meet up with friends after the movies. But I wasn’t. I never did. I was just going out by myself. Sometimes I would run into somebody that I knew. But most of the time, I wouldn’t.  

That night after the movie, I picked a less crowded bar to go drink in. I needed something calm at first. I sat down at an empty bar and pulled out my journal. I always kept my journal with me. Basically I would drunkenly scribble how uncomfortable I was or make fun of the other people at the bar. There was this one guy, in his late 30s, sitting across for me. He had long dirty blond hair in a pony tail and a goatee. He was also wearing a cowboy hat. By no means was he an actual cowboy. He seemed like he would lose any fight. He wore a long sleeve floral shirt from the 70s and beige polyester pants. He made eye contact with me, and I looked back with disdain. I mean, c’mon. The goatee alone would have caused an eye roll, but the whole outfit?!? It deserved a 1000 eye rolls. 

It was just us at the bar, so I decided to leave. I took the leftover of my cranberry vodka and poured into a to-go cup by the door. Cowboy man followed me out. 

    “Hey. What’cha up to?” 

Oh, the nerve! This guy is asking me what I’m up to? Walking away so I don’t have to look at your weirdness. 

    “Oh, nothing,” I said dryly. 

    “Want to grab a drink at the R Bar?” 

I looked him in the eyes underneath his yellow sunglasses. Yes, he was wearing yellow sunglasses at night. I did want to grab another drink. I had no other plans. And, I was lonely. Perhaps he was my best bet.

    “Sure,” I shrugged. 

    “Oh great! I’m Larry. Everyone calls me The Bone, though. Larry, the Bone.” 

    “Dixie.” 

    “Dixie? That’s the best name. You look like a Dixie. You’re very intriguing. You’re not like anyone I've ever met."               

I blushed. I knew right then that I made the right decision. 

Later that night, I had the most profound sexual experience that forever changed me.