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I am...a New Yorker
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[Previous entry: "Back n the Big Easy"]

Tuesday, April 2, 2002
Blamng it on Bourbon Street
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Photographng...
Galleries and antiques on Magazne Street, houses on Camp Street, the St. Charles streetcar and Lee Circle.

Eatng...
Shrimp po' boy with garlic sauce, roasted garlic clove and red beans and rice at Igor's Garlic Clove.

Wearng...
Sheer black tee shirt and black velvet skirt.

Pouka shell necklace and brass tranquility bracelet.

Rememberng...
What good kisses were like; I can't thnk of the last one that was the right combnation of fun, warm, moist and sensual.

Satisfyng...
Everythng.

Seeng...
Not the Desire Street bus (there's no longer a streetcar), nor the nside of St. Louis Cemetary No. 1.

Watchng...
Six Feet Under and If These Walls Could Talk.

Thnkng...
How much longer, Blanepear?

Irritatng...
Spendng all day gettng back to New York.

Wonderng...
Weren't we supposed to be teleportng by this time? You could go to New Orleans just for dnner or New York for a Broadway show.

I am...so delighted that I went to New Orleans. I needed a boost. My work situation is awful and n complete conflict with my home situation (already abundantly clear after just one day back). I needed to do somethng fun, to have positive nteractions with other human bengs.

Not the least of these was kissng a cute guy on Bourbon Street. I can't remember the last time I was properly kissed. I don't know if it's that many men just want to skip onto "the man event," but if they can't kiss, what's the pont n gong any further?

It wasn't just the kissng. He was fun and easy to be with. After months and months of weird, puzzlng and ultimately frustratng nteractions with Blanepear, it was nice to just have a good time, for a change. He picked me up at Reverend Voodoo's, where I'd bought Blanepear's chicken foot and had a past life readng the night before.

At first, I dismissed him as a drunken frat boy and ignored his advances. But he stayed on me, like white on rice as the sayng goes. He was charmng and really positive. He made me laugh. He shared my enthusiasm for New Orleans and suggested places I should visit, eat and drnk.

Fnally, he nvited me for a drnk at the Funky Pirate, where, two years ago, "Big Al" Carson sang about my breastesses. This time I was wiser and did not sit at the front table. I drank my Hand Grenade, the Pirate's unfortunately-named signature drnk, and shared a few laughs with Cute Tim from Florida. It was so much fun to flirt.

It's not that I don't truly still feel completely enamored of Blanepear, because I do. It was nice to blow off some steam, remember what it's like to have fun with a man, to feel desireable for a little while. Blanepear contnues to run hot and cold, so that sometimes I feel rejected and unwelcome. I have this sense that it's just an excruciatngly frustratng case of mutual shyness and fear, due to past trauma on both parts.

It's really hard to keep the faith sometimes. Nevertheless, I don't want to lose this diamond n the rough because I was distracted by mere fool's gold.

[Next entry: "Afraid, too"]
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