On another one of my adventures, I had some close friends in town from Chicago, and they wanted to see some local craziness. Now, when someone asks to take it to the next level, you have to warn them. New Orleans isn’t for beginners, even more so when you’re dealing with the seedier side.
We’d met up in The Dungeon, a fabled metal bar that used to serve strong drinks with pretty ladies behind the bar, and a solid jukebox that had everything from Slayer to Johnny Cash, or Social Distortion.
For years, it was my bar. I even have my name on a plaque. After a few sodas and some shots of Jameson, we’d had our fill of Johnny Cash’s American Recordings material, and decided it was time for copious nudity. One of my best friends wanted to see some top notch “pretty titties” as they’re locally called. The rest of us groaned. A girl in one of the good clubs doesn’t care about you. She wants to get paid, and move on to the next lap she’ll dry fuck for a few crumpled dollars. She’s not going to work for it, end of story.
I told them I had a trick up my sleeve.
We ended up flipping a coin. My friend won, and I took them to Rick’s, next door to my work.
Rick’s is no joke. The girls are rock hard, and of diamond quality. There ain’t no slobs working the poles in Rick’s. We’d spent about an hour or so watching the natives writhe for dollars, and solicit us for lap dances. I luckily was off the hook because they knew I worked next door.
So while everyone else was getting the hustle, I got to watch for free and check the White Sox score on my iPhone while Hoss next to me was all falling in love with the Latina from Miami who loved his tattoos.
After we’d rallied around GTFOing – I walked them over a few blocks to one of the most skeezy areas in the entire south.
In a dubious part of the Quarter known for shady behavior, it was perfect. We were within doors of a secret gay bathhouse, an Asian Rub & Tug, other low rent strip clubs, and the bars where you go to find the blow.
Nothing short of complete sin and utter disgust, I told them I’d give them something to bring home. Of all of the places I took them to, I chose the grimiest, low down nasty joint. The homeless, toothless, overweight, prison tatted distant cousin of Rick’s: DD.
The DD is as bare bones as it gets. It’s small, dirty and insanely sketchy. No one in their right mind willingly goes inside unless they’re looking to cop, or because they’re into low-grade material. Hitting the door, my boys were floored. They don’t have spots like this back up in Chicago. We were met with awkward stares, and arched eyebrows from the staff, wondering aloud what in god’s name were these seemingly normal boys doing in here?
The room smells like used cigarettes from the Bronze Age while a distinct odor of regret intermingles with the sadness of empty bottles of Jim Beam or no-name gin.
The men who frequent DD are the kinds of chaps who look like they’ve been smoking methamphetamines on the hour for the last seventeen years, while their cousin who “rode into town” is always alongside, sipping $3 beer out of a paper bag. With heads of unwashed hair, and toothless smiles, these men keep the strippers in such a tragic place alive with their patronage.
The soundtrack to seduction is played off a small laptop, plugged into a sound system from Radio Shack. The stage is the year’s worn bar. So as you take a seat, your lady friend is grinding her cha-cha right up in your business, even if you don’t want it. There is no big brass, sexy stripper pole. They have Loews grade quality metal piping that runs through the bar, and this whole set up is complete with Plexiglas on the ceiling to keep a grip if thrusting the cooch upon someone’s chin.
The talent at Dixie Diva’s is something of folklore considering it’s where any stripper with decency wouldn’t consider taking a piss. These are the last little bits of grease leftover in the pan from frying some cheap bacon.
The girls feature a broad selection of C-section scars, missing teeth, or are so over the hill, Satan wants his money back from the meter going up long ago. Some look like linebackers squeezed into rhinestone studded tube tops, and $16 heels. And then there are the trannies. Not even the cute ones either. These aren’t the ones that could fool you in the best light.
These “girls” are the men who look like men in terrible makeup with horrific boob jobs, and have grown out this stringy, straw-like witch hair. To say the least, the stock is not pick of the litter. My friends fell in love instantly.
The beers from Rick’s were weighing heavily on my bladder, so I made way back toward the bathrooms. Upon opening the door, I was met with the sudden shout of
“HEY! I’M TRYING TO DO COCAINE IN HERE!”
Ok, lesson learned, leave whoever was in the bathroom alone. While waiting on the bathroom, the tranny working came up to me and told me I had to keep waiting because “a little boy and a little girl were busy in the bathroom” nudge nudge wink wink as he pointed to the women’s bathroom. I didn’t make a peep, nodded and let him pass. Mind you, this tranny had a face like a prison guard; his dead eyes had seen a lot of miles while the sallow skin stretched across his skull was tight. The violet circles under his eyes protruded out from under the badly caked makeup and past the bent Kool off his pink sparkly lips. I’m not arguing semantics with someone’s who’s got their dick tucked between their legs, and likely blows guys for what I spend on a pizza night.
When I’d returned back toward the floor, I came upon a scene straight out of a movie. Two destitute men sat at the far end of the bar, talking to a stripper who clocked in around 5’4 230 lbs. Jabba in the corset didn’t even consider making a pass at my friends.
She was busy working these two, despite that they looked like they have about a buck seventeen to split between them, let alone pay her child support. Their dirty beards, and craggy smiles should have told her she wouldn’t get rich off their patronage. But, in a sense, I don’t think she cared. With hungry eyes, the two codgers eye fucked her, and I think it made her feel wanted. DD is disgusting, and despite it’s trappings, a human staff still works there. Jabba pulled long tokes from her menthol and let the smoke bleed as the bums gave her something better than cash: dignity in a place everyone looks down their nose at.
A few other girls hung off in the shadows. Some too scared to work the loud, boorish crew of tattooed miscreants, while others were nodding off from a fresh fix. It didn’t matter; they had the exact entertainment they craved, anyhow.
Who was knee deep in the action with my friends hooting and hollering, was a large boned black woman with a thick Mohawk of red hair. Let’s call her Rhianna, given her stage persona only and shtick that she was her doppelganger, except…. large.
The boys are tattooers and had came to town on a whim at the last minute with pockets full of money and every intention of blowing it all. What the other girls didn’t want to cope with was that these guys were fun and wanted to get weird.
As the money was flying, Rhianna wanted it. She was game for anything; her car note getting paid this month was becoming a reality with each thrust of her hips. Dollars began to get stuffed into orifices of the body where money should not go. She writhed and moaned and used her body to pick up every cent, never her hands. Rhianna was getting turned on.
She was asking for the boys to do things to her, in front of everyone.
The bartender, totally out of her league with a pack of head to toe tattooed, money-throwing drunks was on Code Orange Threat Level.
At first, she tried to keep the rules of decorum (what?!) but was quickly silenced by a few $20s being tossed at her to “shut the fuck up, bitch. You play what they want and git sum fuckin’ drinks!” by our red haired friend. The bartender put her head down and start popping open the beers and passed them as needed.
The lead girl, the house mom, or whatever it was labeled, sauntered over to us.
Draped in black, she looked like a mountain of a woman, or at least a cross breed of Jabba The Hutt and Darth Vader. Her hair was a black teased 80’s tangle of gross, and as vodka stained lips moved, I could see the mauve lipstick on her teeth. How anyone wanted to see her take off her clothes, is something only the most feverish fetishists can explain.
At first, she hovered. She watched, and studied our actions. She wanted to know if she could sell us the goods on the secret menu. Some of the boys continued to wrap dollar bills around their fingers and next thing, they’d disappear inside our new friend Rhianna. With her back on the stage and her hips in the air, inviting them to play, it was one of the most disgusting things I’ve seen.
The house mom leaned over to the few of us not involved in the scrum and whispered with an air of crazed, sexual frenzy:
“We could go upstairs and party. There are no cameras and no rules. We can cut you a deal on anything. No rules. It’s fun upstairs, anything goes. We can get wild.” She stressed the no rules part.
We thanked her for her offer, and politely declined. My friends are a lot of things, but banging low rent strippers in a crack den isn’t one of them.
While my friend Andrew’s face was firmly planted between the ass cheeks of Rhianna, someone had the bright idea to pull out the camera phone, and start snapping. What else says Kodak Moment than a large strippers pock scarred ass bouncing off your nose?
At first the bartender tried, in vain, to yell at us for that thing not being allowed. Generally speaking, cameras are a No No in strip clubs. Rhianna wasn’t having it.
“You need to shut the fuck up, bitch! I got kids to feed!” she screamed, rolling around in a pile of money she’d likely never have seen, especially not in this place. The bartender muttered under her breath about respect.
The pictures and video got dirtier. Fingers went into places, as did more dollars, and our girl played the part. After her songs were done, she slid off stage and began to scoop up the over $500 she’d made in a few short minutes.
None of the other girls wanted anything to do with us as the stage was vacant. We waited. Rhianna seemed annoyed.
“The fuck is y’all doing?? We got paying customers down here!!!” She screamed while sticking her wad of cash in the cup of her bra.
The tranny took a deep breath. Money was at the ready. The tranny put on a smile made one pass down to our end, and as the hooting and hollering began, she was back at the other end, shaken from the thought of someone asking to see her dick.
As Rhianna gathered herself and made conversation, she casually wanted us to know that we could all “get our dicks sucked off for $60 each” – we passed. Twice we’d been offered to have a private party.
Something about neck tattoos must have screamed
“WE FUCK HOOKERS”.
Rhianna hung all over one of my friends, loving that he was a bigger boy. She made it very clear that he’d get the discount should he want to partake in the services.
She even tried kissing him on the mouth. She must have had a fat boy fetish because the rest of us happily remained untouched.
We still had no dancers. Rhianna was too busy flirting with the big boy, the tranny wasn’t even looking at us, and the other big girl had disappeared, likely upstairs where morality went to die.
With no one else getting up on the pole, Andrew took it upon himself to become the entertainment. In a stupor, he one eyed his way through A Perfect Circle and spun around with the same level of grace as the girls in this fetid hellhole. Getting down to his underwear, he took to the pole (pipe) and put on the best show he could. The bartender had completely given up on trying to contain the party. We were her only real customers, and no one with our money was about to walk in the door. She accepted it for what it was while money was thrown at her. For all of her protests, the bartender likely walked with over $100 from us. The boys hooted and hollered.
Finally, one of the girls crept out of the shadows and began to strut. She was semi cute in a damaged sort of way. Without even a word passing between us, the far off look of cheap heroin and bad life choices spoke volumes as to why she was working a pipe in the worst bar in the city.
I moved outside and started talking to my cousin. He was a part of the group, but a minor player. Drunk, and only in town for the night, he jumped in with us and went full bore. While talking, he’d struck up conversation with an urchin who worked in some capacity for the bar. They talked on about New Orleans and whatever until someone slid out of the door and slapped something in his hand. The urchin, looking at his friend, asked aloud what he was being given. The friend’s reply?
“A dollar’s worth of coke stupid! Go do it!” The urchin moved to the bathroom post haste. My cousin was awestruck at the free usage of substance in the city.
As we stood talking about our family and life back home, one of my boys from Chicago drifted out. His face was serious. He looked me dead in the eyes while taking sips off his Old Fashioned.
“You know when it’s time to leave the party because shit got too weird?”
“Yeah,” I replied.
“We got asked to join an orgy $100 a guy. I’m not fucking a fat black stripper, a tranny or the blob. Time to go.”
This an except from my memoir: Happy Hour - The Bourbon Street Chronicles.
This book is done.
I need new agent. If you know an awesome one, I’d like to be pals. There are more stories like this one. One is about a squirting geriatric at a swingers party, how I met my wife in a totally shady, weird way, and how much drugs are sold out of each club.