[For an earlier story in the NYPD vice detective Mike Kavanagh series, see "Inevitable Case."]
Mike Kavanagh stood at the French balcony window of his "seen better times" hotel on Canal Street, looking at the festival parade units forming below him, and then beyond to the western edge of the French Quarter. He was lucky to have found a residence hotel this near work that had smoking rooms, and he didn't mind the water damage to his ceiling thanks to Hurricane Katrina and not yet fixed. It made a $150 difference a day in what he was paying—or, rather, in what the New York Police Department was paying.
A Mummer's band was tuning up below his window. As he absentmindedly puffed on his cigarette and scratched his hairy belly and then his equally hairy balls, he was hoping that the band was, in fact, just tuning up and wouldn't carry that cacophony of sound into the French Quarter.
This was the second day of the city's three-day All Fools' Day Parade festival, clustered around April Fools' Day, and designed to augment the earlier-in-the-year Mardi Gras festivities that brought so much good business into New Orleans. This new attempt to bring cash into the city was much needed for the continuing recovery from Katrina, no matter that the festival usually would fall within what should be somber Lent and thus make blasphemy of the whole Mardi Gras concept.
He turned his head and looked at the bed. The sheets were tussled in a way that celebrated the wrestling match that had gone on already on the bed. The blond was young and small bodied, although perfectly proportioned. He had been plucked off the street late the previous night at the height of the parade and partying in the French quarter. He had followed Kavanagh around, yipping like a thirsty puppy and begging the hunky police detective to take him home and fuck him—so Kavanagh had obliged him to exhaustion.
The cutie had a pink, studded dog collar on his neck, bands of pink and blue feathers around his biceps and ankles, and a blue leather belt around his waist that had supported a pink loincloth, now detached from the back and fanned out under him over the pillow his belly was resting on. The pillow had served to roll his pert buttocks up toward the ceiling. He had rings on his fingers and toes, his normally bleach-blond hair was spiked and frosted with pink and blue, and his more-pretty-than-handsome face was lipsticked and mascaraed. The mascara had run in the heat of the previous night's battles. He had lost the battle—multiple times.
He lay there, stretched out on his belly, his eyes following Kavanagh around the room, panting softly as an indication he'd been exhausted and belabored. The belabored part might have had something to do with handle of the string of graduated beads projecting from his ass, that last, biggest bead not quite inside him.
Kavanagh stubbed out his cigarette on the window pane, dropped the stub to the floor in front of the window at the edge of where the carpet started, to join other stubs there, and walked over to stand next to the side of the bed. The blond reached out to palm Kavanagh's bare buttocks and to slide over imperceptively to enable him to open his mouth over the older man's erection. As the young man tried, unsuccessfully, to deep throat him, both of them listening for the clicking of the older man's Prince Albert cock ring on the blond's teeth, Kavanagh reached down and patted the last bead home. The young man jerked and moaned deeply, but he took the invasion. After determining that the young man could accommodate it, Kavanagh fisted the handle on the bead string and slowly pulled the string out of the young man's ass. The young man groaned and murmured, "You. I want you inside me again. Fuck me again, Daddy."
Pulling back on his hips to withdraw from the blond's mouth, Kavanagh reached over to the nightstand and picked up a Trojan Magnum condom packet. He split it open, dropped it on the floor by the bed to join three other empty packets and spent condoms, and, with the trembling help of the blond, who spent as much time fondling the shaft as sheathing it, with the "god, it's huge" comment Kavanagh was used to hearing, rolled the condom on his erection.
He climbed up on the bed and hovered his six-and-a-half feet of nearly solid muscle over the much smaller, lither blond, stiff arming his fists into the mattress on either side of the young man's feathered biceps. He slowly entered the young man's ass, which had been kept open to his demanding requirements by the beads after the cock's previous visitation, and, assuming a push-up position, started his morning exercise of mining the moaning young man's ass. The young man grunted and groaned, but he raised his buttocks to give Kavanagh deeper entry.
"Yes, Daddy, yes."
Later, $150 poorer and the young man gone, no doubt to return to his revelries on the street, Kavanagh showered, dressed in a wrinkled business suit, snapped his badge on his belt, and left to push himself through the ranks of the paraders already pouring in the streets. His goal was to part the sea of revelers to reach police headquarters in the French Quarter, where he was an exchange officer from the NYPD sent to help New Orleans establish a Vice Homicide unit.
This would be his vacation this year. Having a new crop of young, willing blonds to pick from would have to do in place of a real vacation, which he might have taken here anyway, having heard of all the young male pussy available in the city. That was his own vice; he had to have it constantly, and he had a thing for young, willowy blonds, especially ones who sold themselves for money and could open themselves enough to accommodate him.
* * * *
Kavanagh stopped for his usual coffee and bagel at the hole-in-the-wall coffee bar on Dauphine, just inside the French Quarter from his Canal Street hotel. He had found the place on his second morning in New Orleans and had continued going there for a quick breakfast and a less quick lunch ever since. He didn't know if it was the coffee or the waiter, Kyle, who usually served him, that went down easy. It could be either—or both.
Was that on purpose, he wondered as Kyle touched his hand when putting his coffee down and then brushed his arm as he pulled around the table to go back to the coffee bar. He and Kyle had been playing this bear and mouse game for over a week now. That's how Kavanagh had to think of it, him being this tall, husky, hairy beast and Kyle being that willowy blond type who made Kavanagh go hard. He was hard now, watching the slight roll of the young blond's pert butt as he returned to the coffee bar. Visions of laying the waiter on top of one of the tables went through Kavanagh's mind, and he castigated himself. He'd just dedicated a night to getting his rocks off four times with a rent-boy. Surely . . . But, no, it was his lot in life to be ever ready, especially for a sweet little blond trick.
Kyle on his back on the table, the palms of his hands pressing into Kavanagh's chest, burying his fingers in the matting of the hair there, an empty gesture of "no" when his eyes, even with the frightened deer look in them, were being so "yes, yes." Arching his back, the look in the eyes going wild, his mouth opening in a wide "Oh, shit" as he feels the stretching entry of the first couple of inches in what is going to be a very long, thick, and rough journey.
He was brought back to the present by the off-key sound of a rag-tag band going by on Dauphine, headed deeper into the French Quarter. Not yet 9:00 in the morning and day two of the All Fool's Day festival had already begun. Already this raucous festival was standing on Kavanagh's only nerve.
Kavanagh saw that he'd finished his coffee and bagel during his reverie and that, as usual, he was late getting into the station. There was a 9:30 status meeting to get to. There was sure to be business, especially now that the prostitutes were out in force on the street again for the festival. New Orleans needed what he had brought from New York—expertise in getting a Vice Homicide unit, separate from simply homicide, going. If any city needed it more than New York had, it would be New Orleans, especially during Mardi Gras and this new street parade festival.
Captain Monroe hadn't been a fool about that. He'd asked the NYPD for help and not a moment too soon, as Kavanagh learned when he got to the station.
Kyle held up the coffee pot and gave Kavanagh a quizzical look. Mike knew he didn't have time for another cup. He shrugged and shook his head "no," as he rose from the table and put his usual, plus a generous tip, money on the table. Kyle put the pot down and was at the door when Kavanagh exited, all smiles and a "Have a good day."
Yes, Kavanagh thought, he could have this young man's ass, if he wanted it. And of course he did. Kavanagh wanted it about three times an hour, and he wanted it from a bad boy blond, although Kyle didn't seem to be the bad boy type. He was blond and small and more pretty than handsome, though, which was three-quarters of Kavanagh's turn-on specifications. That was the irony of Mike Kavanagh specializing in vice homicide and the reason, perhaps, that he was so good at it. He could think like the perpetrators—because he was one himself.
There was something about him that was a sex magnet for young blonds who wanted to be manhandled. He didn't know what it was, other than being a big, handsome bear, with a nice smile, sensual lips, and the look of danger in his eyes. He didn't analyze it. He just enjoyed that it was in play, because it brought exactly the sweet-on-the surface but nasty-seeking underneath little pieces to him he enjoyed. It continued working as he entered the police station and walked up the stairs toward the space that had been set aside, next to the squad room for Homicide, presided over by Captain Leon Monroe. The captain was a real character and a native Cajun and a fixture in the New Orleans police department going back to the pre-Katrina corruption days. That's how eras were marked in New Orleans now—before and after Katrina.
