One Night in New Orleans

And yet another moral occurs to me now: Make love when you can. It’s good for you. ― Kurt Vonnegut

Excerpt from one of my books— Sci Fi WIP

Wednesday, April 20,1994

Officer Ken Comton ordered the murder of 32-year-old Kathy Jones who had filed a brutality complaint against him the day before, after seeing Comton pistol-whip a teenager. The incident nearly went unnoticed placed on the sixth page of a small newspaper. Jones was one of 188 people murdered in New Orleans and it was only April. More than a quarter of those where in public housing developments with poetic names like Desire and Felicity — but Sara was not afraid. Sara felt she knew the soul of people — she had an ability to see things within — and they were not usually the good things.

She wore New Orleans like it was an old torn coat — she knew it was a town of secrets and lies, creatures and inner monsters. And perhaps that was what she loved about it.

Sara put the newspaper down and wondered if it was truly different than other major cities or did they just not care enough to do a better job at hiding the depravity. Sara’s background in data science and social archaeology provided an often-unwanted insight into the degradation and devolution of the human psyche and, she believed, a not-too-distant collapse of the human species.

Her car arrived and she picked up the tapestry bag and laptop case before the driver could.

“Royal Sonesta please and there’s a good tip in it if you take it slow and easy so I can write.”

Although in the city for two weeks for conferences, her personal goal was to let loose, spend time at Jazz Fest, local clubs, eat some fine food, and meet up with some friends — including a few men she knew would be at some of the conferences and parties. She was done crying. She had given Jon a year and now, she was done; this would be two weeks of celebration — no restrictions.

April 20 Journal entry

Sometimes the pain of the world — of friends and family seems as far away as the stars and other times it feels like a breath on my cheek — that with the next inhale I will be thrown over the edge of sanity into a dark forest full of monsters I will recognize.

And thinking of monsters, Jon called before I left and asked about my love life — as if he had the right. He doesn’t want to be like Chris, he says — involved with Tammy, a woman he degrades behind her back but uses for sex and companionship; all the while Tammy claims his adoration for her and praises his abilities with oral sex to any female in earshot. Yet Jon is doing exactly that — living with that thrift store couch of a woman with all her sagging comfort. She’s safe, he says. Sure, he can bury his head in her ragged pillows and toss her out when he’s done without a second thought.

Dennis was the first of the three men she hoped to see. She knew him from work and was expecting his call; it came within minutes of entering her room, almost as if he had watched her arrive. She knew what he was expecting; they had started up a brief fling a few months prior. She intended to break it off this trip. He was recently divorced, and Sara loved his ex-wife, which was unusual as Sara didn’t like most women — finding them catty, chatty, and insecure.

Women should be saviors of humanity not anchors around its waist, she would say (usually, under her breath so as not to offend delicate egos). ‘Stop chattering your complaints like birds, put on your boots and take some action — specifically kicking a whole mass of old men out of office and boardrooms.’

Settle down, she thought; this week was not about the colorless women in her life. In contrast, men loved Sara and not because she was easy or extraordinarily beautiful. She was not easy — not for sex or companionship. She was complicated, particular, perceptive, and scared most men. She could talk about anything even golf, data science and archeology. She was a reader — a thinker — an analyst of patterns and behaviors and could read body language energy with the precision of a lizard’s tongue.

Dennis wasn’t scared — he was always direct but a true nice guy — caring, not a puffed-up chest of a man. He was a delicate and faultless lover with an eager tongue, slow hand, and firm ass. Everything about him was firm; he had a remarkable body for a man in his mid-forties — tall and slender with a rugged tanned face and a genuine smile that tried and failed to hide his acute intellect. She liked him, but he came with too much baggage — ex-wife, kids in high school…

She thought she would end the fling, but he called several times prior to the conference week, and he was always so sensuous on the phone — his deep but soft voice — the poetry he used to describe her — his sweet gentle lust for her. There was no crudeness about him — just innocent, almost pure desire.

He liked phone sex with Sara — she was less intrigued by the impersonal nature of it, but would sometimes oblige him, although often it was a fake orgasm. He once said he was struck by Sara. What a word, she thought. Struck — like by lightening or a bus.

His sexy phone voice hummed, “You’ve arrived, and I already want you. Let’s have dinner, or can we have dessert first? I am missing your lips and your neck and your thighs. Ah, don’t stop me now.”

She laughed gently, “Let’s have a cocktail and then dessert in my room. Not sure I want dinner at all; I ate some crap airline food. But not here — meet me in the lobby in an hour; let’s go to Sazerac. I want a scotch rocks and you.”

An hour later the elevator door opened to the lobby. He was standing in front of it as if he knew which one of the elevators she was on. White shirt neat. Blazer. Gently graying hair. He held one red rose tied with a black ribbon.

She stepped out of the elevator and moved toward him until she was inches from his mouth and her breasts pushed against him.

Without a whisper and in earshot of other elevator riders, he said, “I’ve been dreaming about licking every inch of you like an ice cream sundae. Will that happen before dinner or after?”

She knew Sazerac would wait.