boobs

Don’t Go To Bourbon Street Sober

Louisiana

Today, we woke up late and went to The Pharmacy Museum in downtown New Orleans. High key, this is the best bang for your buck when talking about New Orleans museum.

After finishing up my work and getting ready to leave on Saturday, I decided to go to the French Quarter to photograph Southern Decadence.

I was out taking photos and this dude started talking to me (check out photos here).

He was not visibly drunk or hitting on me. He told me he was a tour guide with a Cajun accent and his beard did not wrap around his chin. In other words, he looked completely harmless.

This complete stranger asked if he could show me around, with him being a tour guide, I figured I would learn something. He settled in for following me while I took my pictures and pointing at things. Once again, my red flag of supposed womanly intuition did not raise. We were in extreme public and he had yet to even try to touch me.

An hour into our exploration of drunken bodies and alcohol, he had to leave. I thought that was it, but instead he asked for a hug.

It seemed like an acceptable motion between two strangers.

He pulled me in and when I tried to back away, his hand gripped my back. Next thing I know, his head is angling and his eyes close. Again, I try to back away but his grip tightens and he kisses me. My face froze and I just took it.

I’m not sure if it was the shock factor that I did not automatically knee him in his groin but all I did was push him away with force. I turned and walked away as fast as I could while trying to keep what little dignity I felt I didn’t have.

The kiss happened without warning, without me giving any inclination that I wanted him to feel me up. It just happened.

So I had my most uncomfortable and unnecessary kiss of my life in New Orleans.

I ran to Cafe Du Monde after that. I hate men.

At Cafe Du Monde, I ended up hanging out with a local man. He was singing on the side of the street and told me about his life.

singer in new orleans

Street Choir

He was a choir singer at a local New Orleans church but lost his house (I think from Katrina but he was talking so fast, I may not have got it right).

But he sang me church songs, while I sat there getting fat with my beignets.

The beginning of the French Quarter was awkward and filled with stupid horniness and ended with me meeting an interesting man who could sing with all his heart.

I am of firm belief that New Orleans is one crazy, weird city.