thebarefootcajunpetiteshistoires - Tumblr blog

[thebarefootcajunpetiteshistoires]

50 posts!

[thebarefootcajunpetiteshistoires]

Slept a Little Bit Closer That Night

Jaylyn and Raylyn had started first grade together. In those days on the Cajun Prairie there was not a kindergarten so all children went right to first grade. Most of the farm children went much later than August since that was the height of the harvesting season. Children helped bring in the crops. Jay and Ray as they were called, sometimes even called JayRay since the boys were always together. When you saw one you saw the other. Often identified as fraternal twins. They had been born on the same day by two different mothers almost to the second, and had become best friends.

The boys were next door neighbors out on the South Louisiana Cajun Prairie. They both had skills learned on the prairie on cotton farms. They were born in 1953 in the summer during the hottest month, August. Speaking of hot, these two were quite the lookers. Natural beauty, also quite the jocks in high school. They both played football and were on the first string team.

Therefore at every game they played most if not all of the innings of the game. Jay was the quarterback and Ray was a blocker. That suited the boys fine. Jay was slim, lithe and a fast runner; a quick thinker who oftentimes showed the coaches winning plays. Jay also liked to be in the limelight; the more people cheered for him, the better he played. Ray on the other hand was a bigger guy, in blocking he packed a punch. He protected his best bud Jay in order for Jay to gain yardage, throw passes and or make a touchdown. Ray didn’t much like being in the limelight. He preferred the joy of the team sport and enabling his BFF, Jay, to be the star.

After graduation the guys decided to take a house together. Their parents admired the boys independence and desire to make their own way. They took a rental place between their parents on Gros Orteil (toe). Named so because the region was shaped like a big toe. The guys’ rental was right spot on the big toe towards the edge of the region. The house they rented was a one room cottage, simple in design, created by using all natural materials from the prairie. It suited the boys, plain and rustic. All they really needed in their own words was a roof over their heads. There was a natural spring right out their back door; there they could bathe in the clear water bubbling up through the ground and pooling into a manmade lake.

Jay and Ray were outdoor guys. They planned to live mostly outside, but wanted a place to shelter in the event of inclement water. Also as a place to escape mosquitoes, one of the menacing live creatures on the Cajun Prairie. The boys moved in shortly after their high school graduation. Both of their families owned cotton farms a mile or two away. Each boy would continue to farm with his own family and help each other’s family if time allowed. The boys were ecstatic with this set up. They were close to their families and to be able to live within a mile of each of their families was a dream come true. To live with a best friend was even better, especially a friend since birth. More like brothers, but since high school something was different, the boys hadn’t acted upon it; they hadn’t even shared it with each other, but each had sexual dreams of the other. Not sure what to do, they did the only thing they could; ignored it.

How in the hell could two football jocks tell their parents that they were queer for each other. Understanding this today is impossible and understanding it almost seventy years ago was even more unexplainable. They lived with these desires in silence, and both boys knew that they couldn’t live this way forever. Imagine living with someone you love as an adult and you are horny for him, more than horny, but even think you love him. Daunting, scary, and impossible, but each boy couldn’t bear to think of not living with his love, best friend, forever guy.

Jay being the more outspoken and aggressive decided to have this conversation with Ray one night after showering in the spring outside the back cottage door. After drying off with an old cotton feed sack, Jay asked Ray to join him for a shot of moonshine on the front porch for a conversation. Ray didn’t think anything of it since the boys often had conversations about matters that concerned one or both of them. I mean really, they were best friends. That’s was best friends do.

On the porch with old mini one ounce canning jars, they did shots of moonshine. Jay told Ray what he was feeling and Ray responded with, “I’m feeling the same, have been for some time.”

Jay responded, “It’s a good feeling, one I don’t feel ashamed of. But I’m not understanding why it feels bad when it feels so good.”

Ray responded with a similar answer. No answers were given or even discussed. The boys decided that it felt good to finally have addressed this out in the open. See, the boys had never really dated in high school and had no interest in girls. Either boy had no interest in any other boys either. It had always been just the two of them, and this desire had been a new thing to work out. They boys both tired decided that it was time to go to bed, both had to be in the fields early in the morning. So they moved into the house to the bed that they shared.

That in itself wasn’t unusual either. Both boys had grown up sleeping together in a double bed since they were kids. Jay and Ray climbed into bed and got under the spread and slept a little bit closer that night.

[thebarefootcajunpetiteshistoires]

Finding Myself in Gray

Sun not peaking through the sheer, loose-falling, gauze floor to ceiling drapes

Embracing the yellow glow greeting me most mornings upon first opening my eyes

Today I embrace grayness filtering through those sheer hypnotic dangling drapes

Soothing, cooling, mesmerizing grayness, lost in this fog I find myself

[thebarefootcajunpetiteshistoires]

Miss Juanita Pouissine, Potato Queen

It is high noon on the old homestead where Miss Juanita Poussine lives. She’s out moving some of her gardens today; working in her root garden. Fall season was upon the South Louisiana Cajun Prairie; always a mild winter. Miss Juanita knew that she could potentially be harvesting potatoes in January. Her root storage was dwindling, and she wanted to replenish it with the next crop.

Miss Juanita was known for her potatoes, now Louisiana is not a big potato growing area, but she just had a knack with potatoes: red potatoes, purple potatoes and yams were her prize winning heroes.

Each year since 1922, Miss Juanita had won first prize at the Tri Parish Fair. First prize won her a trip to Idaho one year to see ‘them’ Idaho potatoes. She wondered why people didn’t visit her potato garden since she had won first prize for forty years. Let’s see, it’s 1962, by my calculation that’s forty years of winning.

“Mais, Chère, c’est leur perte!” (It’s their loss!) Je suis un gagnant! (I’m a winner!) exclaimed Miss Juanita Poussine.

Now I think we can all agree that Miss Juanita Poussine had no problems with self-confidence!

Miss Juanita had never married. In ‘them’ days women who never married were referred to as ‘Old Maids’ no disrespect single girls, today that is not a politically correct term, used by this author only to make a point about the times.

Today it’s actually more in-vogue to be a single woman, independent and self-reliant. Y’all go, single women. Okay, back to our story!

Some said that Ms. Juanita Poussine was getting a little too cocky about being the Potato Queen. She stood on the podium while hundreds watched her crowned Potato Queen 1962. With her head held high she was given her chance to walk the runway with all of the other Queens at the Tri Parish Fair.

Now in fairness to Miss Juanita she worked hard in her potato garden; it was a labor of love that she took very seriously. Multiple times a day she was in that garden praying over it, weeding it, smelling it, fertilizing it, watering it, draining it if there was too much rain, and God forbid a frost, she built fires all around the garden to keep the potatoes underneath the ground warm and cozy. Her prized potatoes were her children.

We all need something to get up for in the morning, and for Miss Juanita Poussine, it was her potatoes. She calculated everything on a large calendar and kept anecdotal notes similar to notes a teacher would keep on pupils. She knew those potatoes like she knew the back of her hand. A Potato Queen, Ms. Juanita Poussine was, and she worked for that title.

One of the rooms in her house, the parlor, had all of her banners and scepters with the year that she was awarded the title, Potato Queen. She had them plastered to her wall and had made a special glass cabinet to hold her scepters and crowns. Each banner and scepter needed to be returned the next year, but Ms Juanita had refused. She simply didn’t return them; the judges and fair officials knew that they needed to provide Ms. Juanita with a new one of each. And there was no compromise on her part. That Miss Juanita stood firm when her mind was made up.

Just as she was sure she was going to win Potato Queen again, someone came up with a new type of potato. It was a man named Mr. Hosea Debrilliard. He had grown potatoes all his life, too; and he was a pretty serious potato guy. His thing was creating a hybrid, a beautiful potato that was a cross between the delicious orange yam and the purple smaller potato. The cross created a beautiful warm, reddish brown color, an elongated potato like the yam, but smaller. It was his secret to unseat Miss Juanita Poussine. No one knew that he was planning to do this. Now of course, Mr. Hosea Debrilliard certainly didn’t do this out of malice; just as Miss Juanita loved potatoes, so did he. And he loved to experiment with his potatoes. Miss Juanita was more conservative. She believed it was a sin to cross vegetables, more of a purist she was.

Word got out that Mr. Hosea would be entering a new potato at the Tri Parish Fair next year, 1963. Miss Juanita was not alarmed or worried. She knew she had nothing to fear. Who would have the audacity to unseat her after forty years? Little did she know she had met her match in Mr. Hosea. And little did she know he had a secret weapon. And little did she know that people were rather tired of Miss Juanita’s, ‘I got this snobbish’ attitude after forty years. Now we can’t blame people for their attitude, because Miss Juanita really did have an attitude and air of superiority about her reign as Potato Queen.

Fast forward to the1963 Tri Parish Fair on the South Louisiana Cajun Prairie. This year in particular the word was out that Miss Juanita might just have met her match in Mr. Hosea, a gentle soul with a mild mannered personality. Pretty much a loner and unmarried as Miss Juanita. About the same age as Miss Juanita, about sixty-two.

People began to think what a lovely couple this bachelor and single woman would make, and they both have a keen interest in potatoes. People in South are like that, they love to matchmake; hmmm, maybe because married couples are so happy, or maybe because married couples are so unhappy. Either way, Southerners enjoy a romance blooming right before their eyes, and if there isn’t one budding they might just interfere, for the good of the couple, let me make that distinction.

And on the day of the potato judging, the judges struggled with making a decision.

They said, “Comment pouvons-nous renverser une reine des pommes de terre” (How can we unseat the Potato Queen?)

The deliberation went on for two whole days. The whole tri parish region was riddled with suspense. Each day while waiting for a decision the Tri Parish Fair population increased by as much as a thousand visitors. Attendance records were broken and money was being made. Newspapers and TV local news carried the controversial decision. No one wanted to take sides, however; therefore the judges asked for three extra days to deliberate. And on the third day, a Sunday morning, papers and TV news programs announced that the committee had made a decision. It would be announced that evening on the Queen’s Platform. People began arriving at the Tri Parish Fairgrounds around noon milling around and enjoying the excitement.

Miss Juanita had cloistered herself at home vowed not to arrive until about half an hour before the announcement would be made. Mr. Hosea decided to come a bit earlier to enjoy the festivities. Really, he had much less to lose, he wasn’t the reigning Potato Queen for the past forty years. The loss would be more devastating for Miss Juanita Poussine.

Both Miss Juanita and Mr. Hosea had asked the officials to have time alone with the judges, unbeknownst to either of the two of them.

Around five minutes before the big announcement, both Mr. Hosea and Miss Juanita sat in two wrought iron rusty old chairs. These were the seats of honor; of course the Queen’s chair was deliberately much more plush, after all it had to be fit for a Queen. The main judge came to the podium and you could hear a pin drop. She told the guests that there had been a surprise decision. The two main contenders, Hosea and Juanita, had both come in secret to relinquish their roles in the competition. The audience became even quieter, not knowing what to expect. And then the judge giving the report said, “This year we have both a Potato Queen and a Potato King.

And with that announcement the crowd hooped and hollered so much that you could hear the celebration in the next state. The two winners embraced, held hands and took a victory walk with scepters in hands and crowns on their heads. Of course most of the attendees set their sites on Miss Juanita Poussine becoming Mrs. Hosea Debrilliard.

Remember Southerners are romantics at heart?!

And that my friends and readers is how they do it on the South Louisiana Cajun Prairie where everyone is a winner.

[thebarefootcajunpetiteshistoires]

A friendly wasp lands

Giving me some lovely love

Needing attention

[thebarefootcajunpetiteshistoires]

The heart, an organ overflowing with love

Overwhelmed with pain

Thumps for 99 years

And then one day retires

A funny thing, how I treat my heart

Ignored

Dramaturg

Unappreciated

The heart is a thing to care for

Life, physically and emotionally dependent

Pumping and thumping

A lock for fluids

Too complex for my finite mind

I know you in emotion

Inside my chest you’re housed

Swimming in pools of liquids

A factory working nonstop

Enabling me to be

Sometimes you’re broken

And I’m heavy-laden

I wear u on my sleeve

No protection from humanness

Heart is battered and bruised, vulnerable to a cold hard world

Tell me how else can I exist feeling all that you offer me

At Risk to brokenness if I love

Life is that way

A hardened heart is dangerous

Pliable hearts endure flexibility

Stretched and stressed, O heart of mine

You work overtime

It’s you I honor today

It’s you I love anew each day

Barefoot 🦶 Cajun

An ode to my 69 year old HEART ❤️

Thursday

8:15 AM

March 9, 2023

L’anse Faquetaigue

[thebarefootcajunpetiteshistoires]

Approaching evening Mardi and especially Bleu began to feel hungry. They dressed in the shadows of the setting sun on the banks of Bayou Genou. Mardi moved closer to the lil cub and kissed him gingerly on the lips. The cub smiled and Mardi returned the smile as he hugged Bleu tighter. These guys were feeling the love, both were ready to make a declaration to the other, but the fear of rejection held them both back.

Bleu said, “Mardi, c’est tard, tu dois manger et dormir ici avec moi.” (It’s late, you must eat and sleep here with me.)

Mardi responded, “Bleu, c’est une bonne idée!” (That’s a good idea!)

Hand in hand these two loving men, jumped on Mardi’s horse and headed back to Bleu’s cottage. Bleu could feel the strong love that flowed between them - very strong appreciation for each as a person in his own right, as a friend, lover, mate and all good things. It just felt right for each man.

Bleu started a fire above the triangular iron tripod that secured the cooling pot. Chopped up the Cajun Trinity of onions, bell peppers and celery; he sautéed those in a large black pot over some hog lard. Next he browned some sausage and tasso and let it brown nice and crispy. After that he added some water to the meat drippings with a bit of roux to thicken the sauce. And in another pot, Bleu had a pot of rice boiling in some water with a pinch of salt. The guys we’re gonna eat a sauce piquant over rice - one of this author’s favorite meals.

When it was cooked Bleu and Mardi sat down and ate together at a little cedar table. Mardi, not much of an eater oohed and aahed at the delicious traditional Cajun dish craftily designed to make any mouth water. After supper they sat looking out over the prairie. Bleu cleaned up and put away the food. He suggested that they sit by the fire until it burned out and then they’d move inside. It was a warm evening with a southern breeze, but when the fire burned out the boys knew the mosquitoes would be intolerable with that naughty buzzing, biting and scratching.

As the fire extinguished the guys moved inside Bleu’s cottage. But before they moved in, they stripped and showered together under a hose hanging from a tree. Mardi washed Bleu’s back and Bleu reciprocated. They gathered up their clothes and moved inside nakedly. Together the men lie atop the thin yellow sheet with white embossed daisies. The guys chatted a bit about their day; it was 8:30 PM, already late for Mardi to be awake. The lil cub noticed Mardi’s eyes heavy with sleep. He kissed Mardi on the cheek, saying, “Dors bien, mon cher, cher nouvel ami.” (Sleep well, my new dear friend.)And on that note Mardi fell fast asleep.

The boys slept soundly that night wrapped in each other’s arms. Mardi woke around five ish still holding the lil cub. This time he stayed put loving this time with Bleu’s head in the crook of his arm. He thought to himself, “Je adore la petite lionceau.” (I love the little cub.) “Il me rend heureux.” (He makes me happy.) Je veux vivre avec lui pour toujours.” (I want to live with him forever.)

Mardi got lost in his love of Bleu and feeling so wrapped in his dreams that he fell back to sleep. The boys purred softy in each other’s arms dreaming of each other in love. And then around eight ish, little cub awoke feeling so secure and safe in the arms of his bear, Mardi. Still as a mouse he watched Mardi sleep. The lil cub had awakened before Mardi and thought to himself, “Je adore mon ours. Il me rend heureux. Je veux vivre avec lui pour toujours.” (I love my bear. He makes me happy. I want to live with him forever.)

Mardi awoke and saw lil cub staring at him. He gently pulled Bleu towards him and sealed that move with a gentle, yet masculine deep kiss. The morning cool breeze blowing through the windows opposite each other encouraged the boys to cuddle a bit more. By osmosis, the words I Love You worked themselves deeply within the pores of the boys. However each boy wasn’t able to whisper the words. Though sometimes not whispering the words is more powerful than voicing the words. In that case other senses kick in to communicate even more powerfully than the voice.

Mardi suggested that they arise and head outside for a powerful black coffee. He was feeling the need to head home to check in with his horses and Tante Lillian. They dressed, sat at the cedar table and drank their hot coffee while looking out toward the beautiful flat land of the South Louisiana Cajun Prairie.

Mardi said, “‘tit Lionceau, j’aime être avec toi.” (I like being with you.”

Bleu answered, “Moi, aussi.”(me, too.)

Mardi suggested that they should head out to his place. He moved toward the lil cub and hugged him tightly, kissing him passionately. Mardi carried Bleu and placed him beside the horse. He jumped on his horse, reached out to help Bleu up and off they rode away with the sun’s warmth riding on their backs.

[thebarefootcajunpetiteshistoires]

Beyond the tree fence

Blooms yellow carpeted Earth

Soft golden butter

[thebarefootcajunpetiteshistoires]

Cher baby crying

Infant life beginning voice

Looking for its mom

[thebarefootcajunpetiteshistoires]

Friendships the pulse of life

Encapsulate me

Encourage me

Balm for my soul

[thebarefootcajunpetiteshistoires]

Sister love glitters

Brighter than the brightest star

She twinkles always

[thebarefootcajunpetiteshistoires]

Gangly rose brought inside to spend the night

Lopped off, a wild stem scratching passersby

Reminds me of a tree that my school kids stressed about

See that tree had become old and ill; if not cut it would infect the others

So distressed the children 3,4, and 5 years asked to speak to the arborist

Children: Mr. Tree Man, Darrell is old, will he be cut down?

Arborist: Hmmm?

Food for thought: gangly, old and ill = useless

I think not!

[thebarefootcajunpetiteshistoires]

Freshly tilled dirt on the prairie, always delights my soul

Richness of nutrients naturally found on L’anse Faquetaigue on the South Louisiana Cajun Prairie

My bare feet coupled with that soil = magnetic attraction

Evermore I’ll live walking on L’anse Faquetaigue rich, cool, moist soil

[thebarefootcajunpetiteshistoires]

Brew in the morning, so strongly topped with crema

Awakens sleepy eyes

Its artful beauty invites me to sip

AND I’m ready for a new day

[thebarefootcajunpetiteshistoires]

Beside Him my heart pulsates

A steady beat reminding me that He is my life source

Tethered to His soul we are one in Spirit Love

In eternal love evermore

This Spirit Love began many years ago by His design

Aware of that pivotal point in my life

A Spiritual rebirth

Life can never be the same

I fly with Him on His Spirit wings

Engaged in love each day

With a changed heart

He’s my guiding star

A transformation so powerful lifting me from humanness

Realizing my wholeness in His Spirit

A love never able to replicate

He’s my strength in this Earthly life

Barefoot 🦶 Cajun

An original Psalm of Thanksgiving and Praise to my Maker and Joy in this life and life beyond

Living life on L’anse Faiquetaique on the South Louisiana Cajun Prairie

[thebarefootcajunpetiteshistoires]

Sitting among the crepe myrtles, pink, purple and white blossoms created a backdrop against their colorful shirts. The men both wore cotton shirts with flower prints; stylish in the year 1957. The shirts were made by moms and wives for husbands and sons. The fabric originated as feed sacks purchased from the local feed store. Not only were these shirts stylish but they breathed well in the heat on the South Louisiana prairie.

The men glanced in each other’s direction as they smoked their rolled cigarettes. Both men smoked Prince Albert, a popular tobacco during that year. The men were on their lunch break; usually an hour break during the summer months. Temps ranged anywhere from 90 to 100 degrees; the humidity added to an unbearable day for those who engaged in muscled labor.

The men worked at Shawee’s Feed Store on Cowherd Street in the small village of Tempest, population 379 as of the 1963 census conducted every 5 years. Munier and Babin worked the back room where customers picked up their orders, bachelors, quite eligible men I might add. They were considered good lookers. Munier was 49 and Babin was 50. They had been at Shawee’s since they graduated from High School. Hard workers described the men; in that they opened and closed the store. Starting work at 5:45 A.M. and closing at 6:45 P.M. Lifting heavy feed sacks kept the boys muscled tone; not an ounce of fat could be found on those two men.

Munier and Babin were happy with their lives, maybe if truth be told they were a little bit lonely. Family and friends were abundant in each of their lives, but both men were different in that they had no desire to date women; men was their demographic. Now, fake news reports that gay men love to sleep around and have lots of sex with men that they meet. This author being a gay man is here to testify that’s not the case; he’s happily partnered and in a monogamous relationship to a great guy for twenty eight and one half years. Now back to Munier and Babin, each wanted someone to share his life with. Now, readers remember that this is the 1950’s and being gay wasn’t condoned at all. Fearful of bringing shame to their families, not themselves, they thought that finding someone to love was worth the risks, but bringing shame to their families, not worth the risks.

Munier and Babin were the best of friends. They had been friends since high school and had become even better friends as they worked together in the feed store. They spent their days together, ate their lunch together and took their tobacco breaks together. The men had begun to take even more of a liking towards each other, but each man was afraid to voice that to the other. It would be embarrassing if one man vowed his love to the other and the other didn’t reciprocate. Munier and Babin were shy guys; this was uncharted territory for them, a place they had not gone before. Munier and Babin thought it best to declare their intentions away from the work place, maybe on a fishing, hunting or camping trip.

Now let me remind you that these guys weren’t effeminate men. They were real men by the standards that men and women might require. Not that effeminate men aren’t loved and accepted, too, but this author is using effeminate to paint a clearer picture of what is expected in the Deep South where there are clear definitions of what constitutes a man or a woman.

It was on a Monday morning that Munier asked Babin about his weekend plans. “Que fais-tu ce week-end?” Munier asked. (What are you doing this weekend?)


Babin answered, “Mais, cher, mon ami, rien.” (Well, my friend, nothing.”

Munier asked, “Tu veux aller pêcher, chasse, ou camping avec moi ce Samedi ou Dimanche? (You want to go fishing, hunting or camping with me this Saturday or Sunday?)

Babin answered, “Mais, cher, mon ami, oui, je veux pêcher, chasse ou camping avec toi ce weekend. (Well, yes, my friend, I would like to fish, hunt or camp with you this weekend.)

Munier said, “Mais, Babin, c’est finis, nous allons pêche, chasse ou camping ensemble ce weekend!” Well Babin, it’s finished, we will go fishing, hunting, or camping this weekend.

It was the end of the day after this conversation, and the men knew it would be a good week. Each had a fishing trip to look forward to with his best friend. Actually, it was a beautiful thing to observe; two happy men, both friends leaning toward a declaration of intention about romance on a fishing, hunting or camping trip - not a typical Southern thing, but nothing is typical in the South.

[thebarefootcajunpetiteshistoires]

It was a gay phone meet up line. I rang the number; it was busy. The year was 1993. I was lonely, wanted the touch of another man, if only to lie in his arms. Was that such a big deal, such a bad thing? Loneliness in a busy city is a bad thing. Lonely anywhere is a bad thing. I couldn’t tap the root to my loneliness or the compulsion to be loved and wanted by another man. It was real; it was mean, it was addiction at its finest. Though at the time I couldn’t bring myself to call it an addiction. It was a search to find my lost self.

Similar to a puzzle with a big corner chunk missing; weary I quit looking and gave into the thrill and adventure, almighty Russian Roulette game of life-risking unsafe sex. This was towards the end of the AIDS epidemic.

Finally, someone picked up the phone. “Hey”, the voice said, “what’s your name?”

I answer, “Rick”, an alias name, anonymity was best, and Rick sounded better than Darren, my real name.

He said, “My name is Jacky Lynn.”

Hum, I thought, that’s a nice sounding Southern name. His voice was smooth, strong and very masculine. Just what I was looking for.

“So, stats please?” I questioned.

He answered, “5 feet 6 inches. Smooth. Handsome, really cute. 25 years young. Hung like a horse dragging in a pasture.”

“And yourself,” he asked.

I responded, “6 feet 4 inches. Moderately hairy. Fifty years old. Mustache. Very average.”

“Can you come to me?” He asked.

“Certainly”, I responded.

Directions in hand I headed out to meet this trick. Adrenaline pumping, hurrying about as if I would explode without this drug of naked rendezvous. I dreamed of his naked male flesh, his touch, he lips kissing mine, bristles tickling my cheeks as we kissed. His hands touching my bare skin clumsily or skillfully? Didn’t matter. Male hands making contact with my skin a need as strong as a dose of heroin; I had to have it. Without it, I was floundering; unable to function. Expectations high, the hope that this would fill the void, that this was the fix, the cure for my loneliness. Maybe, just maybe, this time, it would be different.

The drive to Jacky Lynn’s house, an anxious drive, was made safely. Sitting in the driveway of the efficiency apartment, kind of like a tree house located in an upscale neighborhood, I relaxed a bit more, but still very much pumped with adrenaline. Close to my fix, I could already feel my body relaxing. Without this naked injection I would ball up into a fetal position with my head tucked in between my legs.

Knocking on the door I felt the familiar rush of what awaited me; it was always a surprise. Sometimes it was the anticipation that fueled me. I heard a man say, “Just a minute.”

Hooked, already I felt his words soothe my soul. Adrenalin slowing down, I was calmer, still very much excited for what awaited me. I heard three separate locks click, and the adrenaline flowed again with greater sexual propensity. Having to catch my breath, the door opened. I was already spent, feeling drained of half my energy.

Jacky Lynne was spot on with his stats. I was not in any way disappointed by his appearance. By the way he looked at me, I knew he felt the same. His words exactly as he tilted his head, “Average, I think not! Come on in, Mr. Average!”

Quickly, I crossed the threshold. And immediately he locked the three locks, always a little daunting. Now I was in essence his captive. Jacky Lynne invited me to sit down in the living room on the couch by him. An old shabby chic couch that had been around for some time. It had tassels dangling from its arms. Gold tassels, the couch was suede and a faded pink. Strange piece of furniture for a masculine man, but maybe he was embracing a feminine side.

Jacky Lynne offered me a drink, as I sat in the edge of the couch while he hovered over me making sure I wouldn’t make a mad dash for the door, and then I panicked when I realized the door had been locked, not once, twice, but thrice! Tricks always bothered me when they locked doors. I’m a nervous type anyway and I suffer from anxiety. I talked myself through the panic and realized this naked heroin was worth the risk.

“Sure I said, a drink would be great!” I answered.

Not much of a drinker, or druggie, I wanted a clear head to get away after I’d had my fix. I decided on a shot of smoky scotch. Maybe the smokiness would linger on my palate and keep me a bit numb; something to keep me occupied. After the trick I was always rather down and wanted a nap or food until I required my next high.

“Okay”, Jacky said, “a smoky scotch coming right up.”

Jacky handed me the drink with two big rocks in the old fashioned beveled glass with a yellow tint, not clear if the glass was just old or tinted yellow? I took a sip of the smoky scotch trying to utilize it to fortify my nerves, a term used in the South to signify anxiety. Jacky Lynne sat directly across staring me down. Never liking being the center of attention this unnerved me, and I took another swig of scotch. It lingered on my tongue and heated up my throat as it snaked its way down my esophagus. Again feeling a bit more fortified. I wanted him to make the first move; it’s the way I had always played the game of naked Russian Roulette.