The Lady at Cosimo's
I was sitting in Cosimo's that night just about midnight. It was spring, I think. Yea, it must have been spring, the doors were open and I was staring out onto Burgundy Street when I saw her. Drunk, lost tourist. O tempore, O mores. She was alone, this drunk, lost tourist, though more lost than drunk and more alone than lost. Red dress. Fishnet stockings. Stiletto heels. I figured she would come in, and she did. She sat at the corner stool and crossed her legs. My heart went thump. I was impressed. Full, red lips that begged to be kissed; firm, young breasts that drew attention, not for their size but for their bidding; long legs that I could almost feel wrapped around me; deep blue pools of eyes that called for me to dive into.
Immediately one of the young hawks at the other side of the bar bought her a drink, though he was obviously not in her class. In fact, none of the guys at the bar were in her class, save one or two of the queens, and they were not about to jump into the fray. It was more interesting than the muted rerun of the 10 o'clock news on the TV. That's why I like Napoleon House, you know, no TV.
She was good looking, not in the classic sense but beautiful with sex was written all over her. No, not sexy as in playmate sexy or sexy like one of those women in the middle blocks of Bourbon in the latex shorts. No, really sexy. Every man in the bar was watching and a lot of the ladies, too, and, I imagine, every man -- and a lot of those women -- wanted her. I watched. Yea, I wanted her, too. She smoked a cigar, blowing blue circles toward the ceiling, and she laughed, gales ringing off the window panes and filling Governor Nichols and Burgundy streets. And she smiled, lighting up the dim, dingy barroom. Then, she looked at me, sitting at a table just outside the French doors. I smiled and lifted my glass.
I went to the juke box and punched in the numbers for the Ultimate Dr. John, and walked back to my chair. There was what was left of a martini on the table, and SHE was sitting behind it. I lifted her nearly empty glass and waved it at the bartender. Then we listened, watching each other. I have no idea how long Mack sang and played. My interests were elsewhere. A smile crossed her face. "Until you've lost your reputation, you never realize what a burden it was -- or what freedom really is. I'm at the Richelieu."
She stood up and began walking into the night down Governor Nichols, through the darkness. Little girl lost knew where she was going. I confess that I really wanted to lag behind just a bit to watch. Firm in just the right spots, just the right amount of jiggle in just the right spots. That red dress rushed in waves over that delicious ass. She was skipping now. Well, almost skipping, which made her breasts jiggle, too, bouncing in three-quarter time. She reached out to grab my hand and I tried to keep up, really did.
At the corner of Governor Nichols and Bourbon she stopped. I nearly ran over her, bumping full into that inviting woman. I put my arms on her shoulders to stop myself. Instead of being my anchor, she stepped to the side and pushed me onto the hood of a Ford parked at the intersection. She leaned over me and mesmerized me with those navy pools until I fell in... a long -- loooooong --fall. A first kiss. Her lips were as divine as I had imagined the first time I saw them, and our kiss lingered. When we broke the kiss, she just stared at me -- a stare, I swear, that was out of this world. An alien. A goddess. Helen. Venus. Aphrodite.. I could take it no longer, and I kissed her again, a long, slow, wet kiss. Our tongues met, seeking, searching. I could feel my excitement rising -- and something else was rising as well. I reached for her breast, her right breast, and for a few seconds held it like a globe in my left hand, not massaging, not squeezing, just holding it until I could feel the nipple begin to stiffen... I fully expected her to say, "not here." She didn't. Instead, she seemed to melt into my body, her arms lightly around my shoulders, her hands at my neck. I pressed her body closer to me until she could feel me. Her warm body slightly straddled my leg and her breath came quicker, even if only a little quicker.
Just as suddenly as she had thrown me onto the car, she stood, grabbed my hand and yanked me to my feet. I was stunned -- fearful, really, fearing this was all about to crash into reality, fearing that the alarm would sound and I would have to get up for work.
"But first, we've got to dance." And she grabbed my hand and began skipping again, running down Bourbon to St. Phillip and then toward Decatur. I knew where we were going... Los Marinos was crowded. It always is, even at one-thirty on a Tuesday morning in April. The Corvettes were playing tonight, or what was left of the Corvettes... but then, like so many R&B bands in New Orleans, the musicians are interchangeable and often the same guys are in three of four bands.
She rushed in. I paid the cover and tried to find her. It was easy. A dervish of red, and legs and tits, and blonde hair, jiggling and jumping and writhing to the music with a topless, tattooed biker, who was simply drooling, his eyes nearly out of his skull trying to drink in all of this woman with just two eyes. I feared having to fight for her favors... then I feared for her... then I relaxed and went to the bar for a beer -- it was hot -- and Sky Vodka ... with a twist, a splash and two olives . She was very particular. I waited in an empty spot near the bar and I watched just like everyone else. When the number was over, the biker grabbed her and pulled her close. I tensed, but it was for naught. She slid out from under him, a smile still on her face, and began moving to the bar, grabbed her vodka -- the one I had just paid $8.50 for -- and fled again onto the dance floor as Land of a Thousand Dances blared from the Corvettes -- more Detroit Wheels than Chris Kenner, though.
She was on fire now, her tits bouncing in perfect time to the na-na-na-na-na, and that delicious ass bumping and twisting. She was dancing with an older conventioneer type, who must have thought he had died and gone to paradise -- second sphere.
As you might imagine, by now most of the people in the place had stopped dancing and were watching her, and, I am certain, the male portion were all thinking the same thing. For a time, it looked as if she would come right out of her dress, which I am sure would not have bothered too many folks. Wouldn't have bothered me a bit. As she danced, she turned to look in my direction and smiled. I raised my beer to salute her, and she moved in my direction right up to me, really. And, can this be happening? The sexiest woman in the entire French Quarter is rubbing herself against my thigh in time to the music. She looks up to say something, and I lean in her direction to hear her through the sounds of the Corvettes: "You want to fuck?"
