Her name was Montana. Or that’s where she was from. I don’t remember.
On Bourbon Street, you can end-up lost. On Bourbon Street, you can end-up lost in a strip club. I’d argue it’s not true: a fool and his money will soon be parted. There’s nothing foolish about throwing your money at something you’re not supposed to have in the first place. On Bourbon Street, everything is for sale. The going rate for 10-minutes of affection is $100.
Montana was too beautiful to be a stripper. But it wasn’t my place to offer advice. It was my place to be used. And pay for the privilege of being used.
What are you supposed to say when the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen walks up to the table and offers you a dance? What are you supposed to say when the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen tosses her hair and takes you by the hand? What are you supposed to say when the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen walks you to a private room where the ATM essentially works in reverse?
On Bourbon Street, time is measured in green and red. As the dial changed from green to red, and Montana led me back to the table, I introduced her to The Kid, a friend I hadn’t seen in 20-years, a friend I’d only re-connected with thanks to NOLA.
What are you supposed to do when you’re introduced to the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen by a friend you haven’t been out drinking with in 20-years? The Kid did what any brave man would do, he blushed.
So I bought him 10-minutes of affection. Last thing I remember, he was walking out of the private room and heading upstairs.
The Kid always knew what to say.