Blood....

SEX

I find myself lost in thoughts of New Orleans . It might have something to do with the fact that my newly energized Starbucks fixation has me contemplating coffee and has led my thoughts to drift back to exquisite café au laits at the Du Monde. I talk all the time about the correlations between food and sex, my favoritest joke after eating a great meal being "Food, it's the second best thing in the world!" And in a town like New Orleans where all you basically do is eat and sweat, how could the very best thing be far from your mind.

I remember my 3^rd or 4^th night there, I ventured out alone on the Vampire tour. The small group met in Jackson Square right in front of the St. Louis Cathedral. The energy at night in that town is electric anyway, but try it in the warm September air at 10 PM in front of a gothic church backlit by neon, when a walking tour of bloodsucker haunts is your agenda. Try not to feel just a little bit \m/ and a lot bit randy. Or maybe it's just me. But hopefully that's why you like me.

The tour itself is inherently delightful because our guide, a guy in his 40s who has clearly been living The Life, talks about vampires not the way so many tour guides do, where it's clear they are reciting from memorization. He relates stories and facts like he's telling stories from his own past, the passion and familiarity is tangible and quixotic. Even the staunchest doubter would have a hard time not getting caught up in the delicious mood made unavoidable by our guide and inescapable by our decadent French Quarter surroundings. In this setting, you could very likely see a pair of gleaming eyes staring out at you from a dark alley or a corner window or a high-up balcony, it just wouldn't occur to you to be scared. Things that go bump in the night must live somewhere, must need a place to crash when they aren't out scaring the Normals. And that place, my friends, is the French Quarter. Rue du Iberville in particular. You walk that street and you literally feel the air shift and chill. In the muggiest Southern twilight, you will shiver because the ugly history of that street is as noticeable as the very few people who dare to brave it on foot. Horses drawing carriages will inexplicably refuse to turn down that street.

And what does all this have to do with sex, you're probably starting to wonder. Precisely this. At the halfway point of the Vampire tour, we took a break. On a normal walking tour, the break is necessitated for resting feet and using the facilities. A tour break in New Orleans means your glass must be empty and you need to step back up to the bar. Just like in Vegas, drinking on the streets is perfectly legal – it's simply public intoxication that remains the no-no. I had tapped out my cash flow at the FIRST bar we all popped into as part of the tour, so I decided to just hang back and enjoy the closest thing to a quiet moment one can get in New Orleans. I stood people-watching outside the bar, actually recognizing faces after only 4 days. The guy who had guided my Haunted New Orleans tour the second night was drinking with buddies nearby. I was among friends despite being among strangers. And while I took it all in, I became aware of a very clear presence behind me. A pelvically motivated, breath-against-your-hair type of presence. And in a city full of handsome men and endless opportunities, I was curious to see who was knocking. To my surprise, it was a guy I recognized from inside the first bar – an African American gentleman I would put somewhere around 45 give or take, in a dark blue Henley and khaki shorts. The sweat I could feel just pouring out of my skin was very visible on his, glinting under the nearby streetlights and immediately turning him from a predator into a human. In any other circumstances it would have reviled, but here the sweat forms a kinship. We can't avoid it; we just have to revel in it.

His intentions, despite a genuinely friendly smile, became apparent very quickly. There were many items on his menu, and every single one of them was resting underneath my sweat-drenched clothing. We bantered, no professional-courtesy space bubble between our bodies. He was a local, one of the apparently populous tour guides in the Big Easy, catching a late night drink at the oldest bar in the Quarter. His apartment was just around the corner. How long would I be in town, because he wanted to invite me to his home and cook me a fine dinner. And I must say, I respect a gentleman who will earn his way into a woman's underthings. I told him I had a boyfriend – a lie. He said he didn't care, and I told him that I did. He offered no strings, no attachments, simply an evening where he could put the thoughts clearly running through his head and so very visible in his eyes into action. Of course a part of me was tempted. This was no catch, no ideal circumstance. This was a guarantee of near anonymity, A Moment. And I know he saw my resolve weakening, my knees buckling with the feeling of being so shamelessly lusted for with no obligation.

Over my suitor's shoulder I see the vampire tour guide, watching the scene with a mix of amusement and concern. I had no fear in me, but I suspect he saw that he was about to lose a member of his group and in the interest of who knows what (liability, self-preservation, some protective instinct), he joined our conversation and in an act of extraordinarily gentlemanly cockblocking, he informed my suitor that it was time for his tour to move on. And that we did.

I finished up the tour that night feeling like every person I walked past had their eyes on me, like I could feel the energy of the street lights and the neon electrify my skin and provide a cooling despite the humidity offering no respite. What did I do that night besides enjoy a city tour and a flirtation with a stranger, what more substance to it all was there? I'll tell you – the substance of feeling alive, of feeling beautiful in my skin, of feeling noticed and acknowledged, my womanhood desired and my intellect of little relevance. Maybe I'm not supposed to enjoy that feeling.

Or maybe my life should be lived in pursuit of that feeling. Not on a daily basis. Just once in a while. A shot in the arm. An awakening. An unmistakable glint in my eye.

FOOD

Why do they put caffeine in pain pills? Seriously, what is the medical logic behind that? Not that I'm complaining, Excedrin is my BFF. But I know it's like mainlining speed, I'm not lying to myself. Why why why?

CINEMA

3 horror movies are on their way from Netflix, all put on my radar by My Lobster. I'll name them and discuss them post-consumption – in the meantime, just know that bloodthirst theme of this blog continues, yet ends, right here. :)