The Long Path (part 7)

  With no guilt or remorse, I boarded the Greyhound bus in the hopes to be rid of it all once again. Heading south out of Virginia and picking up or dropping off other travelers down along the eastern coast states, then into the gulf states. The trip took more than four days, but felt like an eternity. You're left to your own devices to make the best of things. You only stop in an interesting city long enough to pick up people, and yet you have horrible long lasting layovers in small off the beaten path towns you never wanted to visit to in the first place.
  I did have the fortunate experience of changing a new bus in Mobile, Alabama. Fortunate that the only open seat plopped me down next to a fellow who I knew was in similar circumstances. The person, Michael, as he would later introduce himself, sat there with the look of fatigue from an irregular sleeping schedule. His eyes appeared to be red and puffy, possible from either the sleep deprivation or , prehaps, had been sobbing quietly to himself. He had a wild look of desperation about him, an air of uncertainty. It was like looking into the past at my own history. After the bus departed, we sat there in mutual silence, until I took it unto myself to introduce myself, and break the ice.
  After conversation of the idle banter kind, he eventually opened up to me, retelling the events that had brought him to this particular place in time. A nasty childhood, sexually assulted by a member of his family, several run away attempts, and now finally, hopefully the last run away attempt. He had no notion of what he was going to do, never had even left the security of his hometown. I explained my history in the hopes that , even though it was a harder way of life than most were used to, good , if not great experiences could be attained from it.
  I shared what food I had at my disposal, a tin of chef boy-ar-dee ravioli's, some beef jerky, and some pudding cups I had bought at a gas station during one of the layovers along this trip. He swallowed more than chewed everything I put in front of hm, evident that he had not eaten in quite sometime. Afterward, we sat and talked about nothing in general. It was just conversation, no point to it than to stifle off bordem. During the trip, He had to excuse himself to relieve himself in the onboard restroom at the back of the bus. While he was away, I stuffed what ever extra food that was in my backpack and a twenty dollar bill, along with the note:"good journey, from your new greyhound friend," into one of the deep recessed pockets of his bag. After he returned, we talked a little longer, before both decided to get some sleep.
  When I finally awoke from my slumber, Michael was gone from the seat next to me. Confused, I asked another passenger if we had made any stops, and they reassured me that we had, and in fact the passenger next to me was the only one not to have got back on the bus after an impromptu smokebreak the driver had allowed. I wondered if he had either decided to return home, or had made the last stop his first footsteps on a new journey.
  I felt a little better about putting the items and money in his backpack. The rest of the trip was without incident or excitement.
  Finally reaching my destination of New Orleans, I remember having to strip off layers of heavy clothing apon leaving the cold air conditioned interior of the bus station. The weather was only about fifty degrees, regular fall into winter weather for the people of the city,for me it was a taste of paradise, and it was the first thing I liked about the city. The bus station was in a part of town, surrounded by hotels and of nothing of interest. With no discernible direction, I left the building from the front doors in a straight line. I came apon a small cafe, opened still into the early evening, with less than a few patrons in the building. I ordered a coffee, and positioned myself on a stool at the counter rather than taking one of the booths that ran along the walls. The coffee barista behind the counter, a cute brunette girl with short hair, had the nicest disposition after having someone like myself sit at her bar. With overstuffed backpack, unwashed clothes, four day old greyhound bus perfume, and an air of cautious uncertainty about me, I'm sure I was quite the vision.
  Lost in my thoughts, I just sat there quietly sipping my coffee and trying to figure out the next thing to do. I almost didn't answer her, the Barista, when she finally tried to instigate a conversation with me. She was asking me questions. With a big smile on her face and cheerful disposition, trying to be friends, or nature of the job, I couldn't be sure. Most of the patrons had left while I had been brooding over my thoughts, and eventually it was just her, one of her co-workers who made a lot of noise in a backroom somewhere, but was never seen and I. She wanted to know if I was in town for Mardi Gras. I tried to think if I had heard anything about Mardi Gras, maybe a story or a reference to it, but nothing solid. I tried to give the most convincing reply that I was in town for the occasion, but she laughed in my face to my response. The conversation to follow was her best attempt at explaining Mardi Gras to me. I eventually told her about a portion of my journey, with the events leading up to me arriving in the city, obvious with no knowledge of the festival at hand. She agreed to take to the "Vieux Carre" or French Quarter as it is commonly called after closing, if I wouldn't mind waiting for another hour and a half. Having nothing but free time at my disposal, I agreed to wait. No one entered the establishment the rest of the shift, giving us nothing to do but converse. She would refill my coffee, I would tell tales of my travels. At closing, her co-worker finally emerged from the recesses of the back of the building. A woman, in her late thirties, a huge blonde fan of a mohawk, tastefully done across her head, with various pierceings in her nose and ears and wearing a Ramones t-shirt with the sleeves and neckline cut out. She went straight into conversing with the barista about not being able to find something or other, even after searching all night for it through various boxes and containers. The Pretty Barista explained my situation in a nutshell to the Blonde Mohawk, stating that I was waiting for closing time, to be led to the 'Quarter. They both agreed that closing early wasn't a bad idea, and I helped flipping chairs onto tables and sweeping the foyer, as they washed and cleaned behind the counter for the opening crew in the morning. Before long, I found myself standing out front with the duo, with the lights off and the doors locked. Blonde Mohawk said her goodbye's and was off to find a taxi back to her house. The Pretty Barista grabbed me by the hand at lead me away in the opposite direction. As we walked, I lit a cigarette and she did the same, idle banter between us. As we walked, she suddenly stopped, hands flying up to hide her mouth, and with my look of bewilderment, explained that she felt ashamed for never really introducing herself. Her name was Beth, and even though I had told her my name during our conversations, I reintroduced myself again, and off we went.
After a few more blocks of omniously unlit department stores and office buildings we finally arrived to the edge of the French Quarter.
  At the edge of wonderment I found myself. The divideing line between the French Quarter and where we had walked through, an area simply called the Central Business District, or just CBD for short, was Canal street. Twelve lanes wide. The widest street I had ever seen. Trash had been littered about, mostly empty cups of rediculous proportions, and for alcohol consumption, I was sure of. Strands of plastic beads were on the ground, some generic in nature, others lavish in design. Tourists walked in small groups, either to continue the night festivities or to wander back to their hotel rooms. It was about two o'clock in the morning, and even though I had missed the party, the aftermath was still interesting to behold. Behind the first block into the Quarter, people's voices and the sounds of club music echoed out onto the amzingly wide and barren street. As I attempted to cross Canal street to find out more of what was afoot, Beth, grabbed my arm and explained to me now was not the time to go venturing into the Quarter. The bars would be closing down for a few hours to restock their wares and to clean. Tourists would be disappearing back to their rooms. The police would be out in droves, arresting those that were too drunk to sit up, or worse, were simply past out in the streets. She also explained she didn't want me venturing too far off from the Quarter, as there were some places that neither tourists nor police venture at this time of night.
  With some hesitation in her voice, she offered me a place to sleep for the night. She told me she was a pretty good judge of charecter, and in a half joking manner, told me if I hurt her or worse, her co-worker had seen my face and would know what to describe to the police if something bad occured. I agreed. Rest would be most welcome, even more so, I could explore the city during the much safer daylight hours. She hailed a cab, explaining she didn't expect me to pay my portion of the fare, and even though I explained I had money to chip in for it, she refused to accept it. As we rode along in the cab, conversation came to an abrupt halt. A twinge of fear and excitement started to creep up behind me. I was trying to remember all the turns along the way to her house, if I had to make the return journey on foot. We finally arrived at her apartment, which was a one room studio apartment, with a small kitchen, and even smaller bathroom. She did her best at giving me a tour of her place, even though everything could be witnessed merely by standing in the room. She had a bed along one wall with a curtain hung in a way in front of it to give the illusion that it was seperated from the rest of the room. A futon couch, an entertainment center with a television and a VCR, a radio on a table in the corner, some small end tables on either side of the couch, and some random art pieces hung on the walls made up all that was to be seen. She left me to sit on the couch, asking me to put my backpack and jacket in anyplace I could find that was open floor space, which there was ample room of. She disappeared to the kitchen, and returned with two cold beers. Conversation returned to idle chit chat as we sipped our beverages. She eventually asked me not to be offended, if I would like to take a shower, and if I wanted, she offered to take my clothes down to the first floor, where they had a washer and clothes dryer on site for the residents. I told her it was a great idea, longing for a hot shower and clean clothes, I went along with her idea. While in the shower, behind the curtain she entered the bathroom and even though I had folded my clothes in a neat pile, she did her best to not touch them, scooping them into a clothes basket and disappearing from the room. I stayed long in the shower, just standing there with the water flowing over me, when the realisation that I hadn't brought my bag into the bathroom with me for a change of clothes hit me. I rushed to shut the shower off, and I grabbed a towel on the rung from the wall, trying to dry off as quickly as possible.
  I heard her through the door in the other room, and tried my best to explain the conundrum I had placed myself in. She made a jest of the situation. With maniacal laughter, and he best "evil-doer" voice, she joked she had the upper hand, now that I was nude, I would have to answer to her beck and call if I was to receive any clothing. Before I could reply, the door came ajar with her hand poking through holding my bag. After I had taken the parcel, her hand seemed to linger just a bit longer than I would have expected, and I was stunned at her as she tried to peek inside the bathroom with the door still slightly opened. Had I not been facing the door I would never have seen her. She laughed, and threw accusations that I wasn't exactly nude, if I still had a towel wrapped around me. I stood there with a smirk on my face until she closed the door completely. I dressed as quickly as I could, well at least quick enough to put some boxer shorts on, for fear that she would poke her head in and catch me unaware.
  After dressing, and enjoying the ability to shave, I re-entered back into the main room. She had changed her clothes, from the streetware of when I first met her at the coffeeshop, to just a slip of a night gown. Perhaps that's how she prefers to sleep, or maybe it is just more comfortable for her, I had wondered. I sat back down, more relaxed, with just a shirt and pair of shorts, opposite her on the couch. Conversations continued, but into more taboo subject matter. Either it was the alcohol or preference of company that somehow relaxed her inhibitions on the subjects ranging from sex, anal sex, drug use, masterbation, and the like. The subjects didn't bother me to discuss them. Maybe she was hoping for the shock value effect of such things, but she wasn't going to get them from me. After awhile, and after much drinking, she asked me if I could venture downstairs with her to get the clothes that were sure to be done out of the dryer. After returning, I packed my clothes back into my pack. We had spent most of the time drinking and discussing, but the late hours had grown into the early morning hours, and I did my best to express subtle concern for sleep, even though it appeared that she wanted to continue talking. Soon, she had the lights turned down low, and disappered to the recesses of her "bedroom" behind her curtain, leaving me with the futon to sleep on.
  I awoke with a start. For a moment lost in the confusion between dreaming and waking. I could tell I hadn't been asleep long, the feelings of a complete rest had not shown it's face, and the cloudy feeling of alcohol consumption still swimming in my head. That's when I noticed that I wasn't alone on the futon. Beth, sat to the side of me, slowly carressing my now erect cock with her hand and mouth. Feelings of confusion bled away to feelings of arousal, as she took me inside of her mouth. I laid back and enjoyed it. Thoughts of these actions had been fantasized, just under the surface, as soon as she had asked me to spend the night at her place, and now that they were being put into action, I did my best to comply to them.
  Soon we were both naked, exploring each other experimentally, the only way two new lovers can, trying to find the mix and combonation of what worked, without breaking the mood with verbal communication. A slight push in the right direction, a lick of the tongue, a slight raise of her hips from the bed, was all the direction I needed. After going down on her, and probing with my tongue until she came, she pulled me up and turned her self around, on her knees and bent forward. I entered her from behind, and even though she was very wet, she had a virginal tightness that was quite enjoyable. After grabbing a lock of her hair, and pulling her back onto myself, the vow of silence between us was broken. She made the most wonderful noises, from soft moaning to excited yelps as we had sex on her futon. After she orgasmed, she reached behind and pulled out my cock, to service her in another fashion I had never done before. With her caress and direction, I found myself penetrating her ass, slow at first until the head of my cock entered her, even slower still, trying to fit myself in her. I was lost for words, the erotic sensaul feeling of it all had me. Something fantasized prior with youthful masterbation, here for the taking. It was a different feeling all together from vaginal penetration. The noises she made and the looks on her face, told me she was lost between a little bit of pleasure and a little bit of pain, which seemed to turn me on even more. That I had the power to grant either, or both. The thought of it alone seem to spur me on, making me cum faster than I would have liked. Afterwords, we both layed there, pantng, dressed in each others sweat.
  After cleaning ourselves up, we returned to her bed, where we layed there, spooning each other. A curious conversation began, in which hesitantly she tried to conjure the notion that we just had sex, and we should leave it at that. I understood the meaning of her words, but a little bit of me had hoped that something more than just sex could blossom from such an experience. I felt completely at odds agreeing with her, like I had made a business transaction, formal like. I admit I remember feeling a little used, but another notion came to mind that I could be "just okay" with just having sex, and not having it have to lead to a romance or a relationship. I came to the conclussion that I would let, whomever my partner may be in the future, to make the first move at whether or not a relationship could ensue. Soon, after, we drifted off to sleep.
  When I awoke, I found myself alone. A note clung to her pillow told me that she had left to find coffee and breakfast, and that if I found myself awake before her return, that I was left at liberty to use the apartment as I had seen fit. I got up, showered, and was dressed before she returned. There was a slight feeling of awkwardness in the air. I guess I was expecting a different sort of jubilation apon her return, but the vibe I was getting was that I had overstayed my welcome. We sat, drank coffee, and she offered me some beignets. "Ben-yay"? I tried to say. She explained that it was kind of like a doughnut, a puffed fried pastry, that they douse with powdered sugar. It was good, but messy. Breakfast concluded, she offered to take me to the French Quarter. Apon arriving, she led me along to Bourbon Street, and even though the hour was still early afternoon, I would say about one-thirty or so, throngs of people were all ready filling the streets. We didn't venture long, before she said that she had to go. She forced herself apon me and we kissed in the street. She asked maybe we could see another again sometime, if I didn't mind. I agreed I would like that. She produced a little tour brochure from her purse and a pen, and walked me to a side of the building we had been standing next to. On the brochure was a map of the Quarter, and she wrote as to what areas I should try to stay in. Making sure I understood never to go any farther than North Rampart street to the north-west. She said I could be okay if I didn't go to far past Esplanade Ave., but I should be on the look out of my surroundings, as the neighborhoods can jump from elegance to ghetto in the space of a city block. After one more kiss and a short conversation, she was gone from sight.
  Left to my own devices, I strolled along Bourbon st. Shops were opening, peddling wares of plastic beads, and taxidermied aligator heads, to voodoo dolls and hex bags. Bars had begun to open there doors as well, with patrons allready filing in. People walked about, with over priced beers in plastic cups, drinks that looked like giant slushie drinks, like the kind you might find at a 7-Eleven, yet these were enriched with rum and vodka. There were tourist trap shops, bars, strip clubs, and resturants all piled on top of one another up and down the street. Vendors selling hotdogs stood on every other corner. Jazz music poured and boomed out of some bars, while street musicians did their best to perform over the beautiful noise. Police rode astride horses, which gave them better hight, to see over the crowds to come.
  I looked at the map on the brochure. I funny looking picture of a steeple was drawn on the map, with the words Jackson Square printed underneath. I figured if it was on the map, it should hold some significance, so I headed in that direction. I passed more shops, more bars. As I was walking past one bar, a drunken tourist stumbled out the front door, almost coliding with me, but spilling his drink onto the ground in the process. He was most dismayed, but was even more upset that I didn't have a drink to give him for the one he spilled. After some interesting conversation, he invited me into the bar, where he would purchase drinks for the both of us. But, apon entering, one look from the bar tender told me she knew I was too young to be in the establishment and ordered me back outside. The Drunk told me to wait outside, and after a few minutes emerged, shoving a rather stiff drink in my hand, before doing an about face, without a word, disappearing back into the bar.
  I walked along, sipping my drink. It was all whisky, with a dash of cola for color. No adult showed up to take it from me. The police paid no notice.
  So this is what I had been missing? I should have came here from the start, I mused. If the past twenty-four hours were evident of things to come, than I would gladly accept them. I thought of this, and made my way to stand in front of the cathedral in Jackson Sqaure.
 
 
  (Will have chapter 8 up as soon as possible)