In a Few Words
Collected Short Stories of Devon Layne and Nathan Everett

Whatever NOLA Wants

A Wonders of My World Story
Based on the true story of Aroslav’s erotic journey around America
as told to Devon Layne
©2017 Elder Road Books
No prior publication

I KNOW I don’t always tell the literal “truth” the way an outside observer might view it. Alice says I lie for a living. And I’m not even in politics! But all the strangest things seem to have actually happened. Of course, you’ll need to decide exactly which of the things in this tale are the strangest, because they’re all pretty weird. I like to say, “it’s all mostly true,” in that it’s all true, but mostly in my head. Take my weekend plans in New Orleans, for example.

Not so long ago in Las Vegas

They say what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, but this bit seemed to follow me around. In addition to the various computer expos, cement show, the gun show, and the homebuilders’ show, Vegas is home to a large adult industry show, what I refer to as Porn Expo. I’d rented a nice condo suite for my week-long vacation from LA to LV to attend the show. I also rented an assistant, Dee. We shared the condo, and after the first night of feeling each other out, we shared the king-size bed, the whirlpool bath, breakfast in bed, and dinner at a show on the Strip.

As far as seeing delectable T&A, I really didn’t need to go to the Porn Expo. Dee was dark complected—as in darker than me—and had an abundance of cleavage that she delighted in showing off. The dress she wore on our date to see a musical show on the Strip had a plunging neckline that stopped just short of her naval. The full profile of her breasts was on display. It was just long enough to allow her to sit without having her bare buns on the chair.

We started our time together talking about our sex lives—what else? She knew she was accompanying an erotic author and was determined to give me material for future books. I’m sure bits and pieces of our experiences have found their way into my stories.

For example, she’d had a lover in college who she felt was a large man. He really stretched her when they made love and ‘it felt so good.’ I was a little concerned that I wouldn’t measure up, but she continued. “After we broke up, I bought a dildo. I carefully measured it out (With a tape measure? Her throat? The span of her hands?—and got one as close to his size as I could find. The first time I put it in, I thought I’d die. He might have been the same size, but he was nowhere near as hard as that piece of plastic!” Later, for comparison’s sake, she said she was glad I was no bigger than I was because I was a lot harder than her big lover. I preened at that.

And once we got to bed, she was an enthusiastic lover. Our arrangement had been that she would have the fold-out bed in the living room and I (because I was the boss) would have the king-size luxury bed in the bedroom. The first morning I got up and walked to the kitchen, I’d forgotten to put on any clothes. Well, I’m a nudist after all. I stepped out of the bedroom and glanced over to where she was sleeping—just uncovered enough that I could tell she was practicing nudism as well. I made coffee and when the first pot was ready, I poured a cup for her and sat on the edge of her bed. She looked at me and pushed herself up to a sitting position, ignoring the sheet that fell around her waist. We sat like that while we drank the first cup and as I went to fill the cups again, I watched her pad bare-butt into the bathroom to shower.

Anyway, that night, I went to bed, assuming she would once again be in the living room. I got a pleasant surprise when she slid into bed and pressed her bare skin against mine. Now, understand that Dee was not a professional escort. I wasn’t paying her. I’d paid for her transportation, lodging and food, and ticket to the show. Her responsibility was to accompany me around the show and be my arm candy at the parties. Even though we’d enjoyed looking at each other the previous day, we hadn’t touched. She made sure I understood that scenario had come to an end.

About fifty years ago in Indiana

It wasn’t the first time a woman had unexpectedly crawled into my bed. Or in the case of Sha, into my sleeping bag. I was a camp counselor, believe it or not. Some unknowing parents entrusted their little boys and girls to my care as we canoed down the Eel River and Sha was my co-counsellor. We’d also stayed up late one night getting to know each other in whispered conversations by the campfire as our little charges slept beneath the lean-to. That getting to know each other quickly evolved into an intense make-out session that would have gone further if we hadn’t felt nervous about the kiddies being so close.

The next night, we camped along the river near a covered bridge. We had a campfire and after an entire day of swimming and canoeing, the kids had zonked out as soon as it got dark. Sha and I got into our sleeping bags next to each other and began making out again. She was just wearing her bikini and I was in my swim trunks, so our play had dislodged most of the clothing we were wearing.

“I’m coming over there,” she whispered. “I can’t stand it any longer.”

I was all for that and by the time she’d worked her way into my sleeping bag, we’d both lost whatever minimal amount we’d been wearing. Feeling Sha’s breasts was a delight, as I was still fairly inexperienced. I worked my way down in the sleeping bag so I could suckle a nipple, but I couldn’t get any farther down in the bag without suffocating. Sha pulled me over on top of her and started swiping my cock through her moisture as she spoke to me.

“Don’t be too startled,” she whispered. “I’m a virgin and I’m told it will hurt a little the first time. Don’t stop.”

“Pregnancy! I don’t want to get you pregnant!” I said. I was ready to take the plunge and had difficulty restraining myself.

“I’m on the pill for medical reasons,” she gasped, pulling at my hips until I popped into her tight pussy. Whatever reason, I was glad because once I felt the hot wetness of her pussy surround me, I was not about to stop. Apparently, the expected pain was so moderate that it didn’t slow either of us down. She may have been a virgin, but I don’t think she had much of a hymen remaining.

We kept our lips sealed together and our tongues in each other’s mouth to keep from getting so noisy we’d wake up the kidlets. It was a near thing and when I came, the sudden rush was so intense that I had to break the kiss to get any air. Sha was trying to suck all I had out of my lungs. She bit my shoulder to keep from crying out.

It was too bad that it was already Thursday of our camp week. We managed one more time after the parents took the kids home on Saturday. We went back to our campsite to make sure it had been adequately policed and she mounted me as I sat on a log where the fire used to be. Sadly, that was before the days of easily getting in touch with another person via cellphone. We managed one payphone call to her college dorm and then lost touch with each other.

Back to Las Vegas

Well, Dee and I didn’t have the underlying tension of a dozen eleven- and twelve-year-olds asleep ten feet away, nor of expecting virginal pain, but the excitement of sliding into her was intense just the same. And there was no hesitation about getting far enough under the covers to have oral satisfaction in both directions. Besides which, back in the late-60s and early-70s, girls weren’t really into shaving themselves. Dee had a bare and slippery pussy that left no hairs between my teeth nor rugburn on my cock.

And the show didn’t open until two in the afternoon, so there was no reason to get up in the morning other than to get coffee and shower together.

The Porn Expo was a feast for both of us. She dressed in a pair of cut-off jeans that exposed glimpses of her cheeks and a top that cut across the top of her breasts to a single strap that looped around her neck. In her boots and cowboy hat, I was ready for another rodeo.

She was mindful of her responsibilities as well. I’d arranged to have a few promotional copies of one of my books and we made a game of getting a prospective mark to say my name out loud, at which time I’d sign a book for her. (Why bother giving books to men?)

“That guy with me? That’s Aroslav, the famous author of dirty books. Do you like to read sexy stuff? All you need to do is go over there and say, ‘Aren’t you the author Aroslav?’ and he’ll give you one,” Dee said. I don’t know if any of them could actually read, but a lot of cute girls made a scene out of meeting the famous author Aroslav.

Dee liked the girls as much as guys. At one booth, she tried out a kind of harness thing that a model wore. The model bent over, Dee took hold of the handle of the harness and they bounced her pelvis off the model’s butt for a few minutes. At another booth, there was a model with huge boobs wearing a g-string and tiny top. Dee just went up to her and asked, “Can I feel these?” The model puffed them out and put Dee’s hands on them to squeeze and fondle. I took a picture. I bemoaned not having touched any of the delectable boobs I’d seen so far.

“All you have to do is go up to him and say, ‘Aren’t you the author Aroslav?’ and he’ll give you a book,” Dee said to yet another model. She was definitely cute. Far more my style than the model with the double-F boobs.

“Aren’t you the famous author Aroslav?” she asked loudly, attracting a little attention from other passersby.

“Yes, I am. Would you like one of my books?”

“Really?” she exclaimed as I signed the book and handed it to her. “You can so touch my tits!”

I wasn’t about to turn down that invitation, especially when she whipped off her shirt and stood before me in just pasties. As I squeezed those delightful little tits in my fingers, she planted a big kiss on me and whispered, “Squeeze again. I love it.” I kindly obliged.

Dee unfortunately had to leave late Friday night, so I was on my own on Saturday. The day started out with the Women’s Rights March through downtown Las Vegas.

Fifty Years ago in Indianapolis

I was raised in the turbulent sixties and was still an activist in college—even more so than I’d been in high school. In May of 1970, we got word that the US had pushed the Viet Nam war across the border into Cambodia. Don’t ask me to explain the politics and who was wrong or right in the conflict. I hated every news article that talked about American deaths in Viet Nam where I felt we had no reason nor right to be in the first place.

So, we protested. We called it a moratorium—a temporary prohibition of the war. The previous year, the moratorium in Washington, DC had attracted 500,000 peace marchers. A previously unheard of number.

I was with Paula at the time—not dating, just hanging out—and we stood on the street in front of the college administration building holding signs, chanting, and singing protest songs. I had an American flag I was particularly proud of. It was one of the few that had forty-nine stars. I held it on a pole while Paula held a sign that said, “Fly it over the living instead of draping it over the dead.”

After the protest, we went into the dorm lounges to see if the news had covered it. Instead, we heard that the National Guard had killed four students at Kent State in a similar protest.

It wasn’t the last time I marched, but it might have been the most memorable.

Back to Las Vegas

I participated with thousands of others in Las Vegas to reaffirm that we would continue to support and fight for civil rights for all people in the United States. I proudly wore my “Honorary Lesbian” T-shirt, presented to me by lesbian adult film director, Bree Mills (girlsway.com). The shirt was a big hit at the march. I went straight to the show and it was a great way to get attention—of a good sort—now that I was missing my escort.

When I got back to the hotel to take a break before the parties that night, I decided to take my martini to the smoking circle where there was a nice fire going and I could relax with a cigar and a good book. Being a Saturday, I was probably reading something on SOL. But I was definitely kicked back and relaxed when half a dozen others came into the smoking circle. Five girls and a guy. Lucky guy. All five girls were luscious, dark-skinned beauties. I nodded and said hi and then one of the girls spotted my T-shirt. And screamed.

That started quite the conversation. Yes, I marched. No, I don’t live here. I’m here for the Porn Expo. Yeah, I write erotica. You do? Really? Of course, you can take a picture with me.

I also found out that the six were one brother with his five sisters in Las Vegas to celebrate the eldest sister’s birthday. It was the youngest two (all of them over 21!) who latched onto me and wanted a picture, cuddled up nicely under each arm. Jazz and Razz. Jazz snapped the picture. I asked if she’d mind sending me a copy and gave her my phone number so she could text it to me.

Well, Jazz was slow to let go. She finally managed to push little sister, Razz away, but kept herself tucked under my arm. Eldest sister said, “Why do you have the guy? It’s my birthday!” Jazz was pretty defensive of her territory.

“My birthday is in April. Will you come to New Orleans to celebrate with me?” she asked. “You have my phone number now.”

“Hmm. I could probably get there in April. I’ll let you know.”

Her body felt delicious in my arms when she gave me a toe-curling kiss that let me know she was serious, even if just for tonight.”

“I’m going to a Porn Expo party tonight. Want to join me?” I asked. She pouted.

“I have to stay with my sisters to celebrate. I’ll call if I get free later.”

Needless to say, no call came later. I had a little fantasy about the girl and then pretty much forgot about her as I headed back to Los Angeles and then got involved with a new trailer, a girl I’d met in LA, and preparing for my trip and participation in the next big sex expo in Denver.

Denver is on the way to New Orleans

Okay, so maybe not the fastest route, but that was where I was parked, hoping we didn’t get a late March snowstorm. I sat out at the airport waiting for Cherry’s flight. It was so successful in Vegas that I made the same offer for the show in Denver, only with a slightly different motivation. I had a booth at this show to sell my books. I had a nice display, new banners, and eight feet of space with a draped table. What I didn’t have was an assistant. The booth needed to be manned anytime the show was open. So, I offered free airfare, hotel (in my room with two beds), and food if a sexy woman would help in my booth. Cherry read my book reviews, answered the ad, and flew into Denver.

She was a handful. In more ways than one.

She was a non-stop toker (vape) and a non-stop talker. By the time I reached our hotel, about a mile from the convention center, I’d heard much of her life story, her current boyfriend status, and how many sexy clothes she’d brought along. After she’d seen and approved the living arrangements, we headed to the convention center to get set up.

The place was a mess. Over half the booth spaces were yet to be set up. We located my booth, just behind the dungeon. It was almost guaranteed that everyone who passed the booth would be looking the other direction. How can a table full of books compete with the opportunity for men and women to strip off their shirts and have their backs flogged? Not my cup of coffee, but eye-arresting.

We worked and got everything set up. Cherry was at least a real help in getting things unpacked, the display set, leveling the banners, and chatting up a storm. When we were satisfied the booth looked attractive, Cherry went out to have a smoke and then we went to dinner.

There was a vendor meet and greet in the lobby bar, so I told Cherry I’d stand her one drink and we’d go scope out the setting. Buying a lot of alcohol was not on my budget, but I figured I could stand a $10 drink for each of us. We edged up to the bar and had just ordered when I heard a voice behind me loudly say, “Aren’t you the author Aroslav?” Cherry nearly dropped her drink with the validation of how famous I was. I turned to address the guy.

“I am. Do I know you?” I said.

“I’m Dave. We’ve never met, but I’ve seen your name popping up on Twitter ever since Porn Expo in Vegas. Do I get a book?”

“Stop by my booth when the show opens tomorrow and I’ll sign one for you,” I laughed. Two or three other people had edged closer and Cherry latched onto my arm. She had first dibs.

Of course, she also had three other conversations going at once nearby and when we’d finished our drinks, I had to tug at her a couple of times to get her to leave.

A few years ago in Berlin

It was neither the first nor the last time I was mistaken for someone famous. I mean, being called by name in a busy bar can’t be considered mistaken identity, exactly. They were just mistaken that I was famous. It happened to me in Berlin a few years ago.

My host was a delightful woman who seemed to know just about everyone. The rent-a-bed room I was in also had a piano in it. Her son was a pianist, living in Dusseldorf and the room had been his. One evening, however, she brought a friend in who was also a pianist. I had a private concert as I lay in the bed. And it was very good. He invited us to a party at an artist enclave that used to be The Knast women’s prison in Berlin-Lichterfelde. It was a garden party and Giselle insisted I needed to dress in white. I already had my white Panama hat, a loose white short-sleeve shirt, and my white beard. All I needed was to buy a pair of cheap white jeans and I was ready to go.

From the moment we showed up at the party, people seemed inordinately interested in me. A few fingers pointed and as we strolled around the enclave, a young man approached us and asked if he could take a picture with us. I figured he must want a picture of an American tourist. I said sure. That started a sporadic line of people stopping to see if they could get a picture with me. It soon became obvious that they were not interested in Giselle. She laughed and when people asked her about me, I heard her say, “Oh, that’s the author, Aroslav.”

One woman, who had at least one too many glasses of wine, faced me with one hand on my shoulder and looked over her shoulder at a friend taking the picture. My other hand, however, she dragged unseen down to cup her mound, which I obligingly squeezed a few times as she kept telling her friend “Noch ein mal,” (One more).

Late in the evening, we were preparing to leave and another guy came up to me, but instead of wanting a picture, he just shook my hand and said, “I’ve got to tell you, you rock that outfit much better than the guy in Jurassic Park.” I was stunned. They all wanted their picture with me because they thought I was Richard Attenborough?

Well, the guy had only been dead a year or two, so I suppose it was an easy mistake to make. I was thankful Giselle didn’t make me wear red.

Back to Denver

Cherry had to stop for a full load of pot in her vape thing. When she got up to the room, I was sitting up in bed reading—not waiting for her, but trying to be polite, you know. She came into the room, chattering about the odd clerk at the front desk who had asked her if she wanted company tonight because he got off in an hour. While she told me the story in great detail, she undressed. I figured the jeans and shirt were just a sign that she was comfortable around me and the important parts were still covered by the bikini panties and bra.

Then the panties and bra came off.

Cherry is not a skinny model type, but she is very sexy. There are a few dimples in her butt cheeks, but she didn’t let that stop her from making sure I got a good look at them. When she unleashed her bosom, abundant flesh spilled out, crowned by large nipples and areolae. She went into the bathroom and left the door open so I could hear her piss and then wash her hands and then brush her teeth. No, it was supposed to be so I could hear her telling me about the woman she was talking to who did sex and sensuality seminars all over the country.

Then without commenting at all about what she was doing, she ignored the second bed in the room and crawled in with me. I’d worn undershorts to bed out of politeness, but she tugged at them until I pulled them off. Then she set about making sure I was hard and ready for her to impale herself—which she did. Repeatedly.

And through all this, the only time she quit talking was when she jumped off me and sucked my cock into her mouth so I wouldn’t come in her pussy.

I will say that at the show, she was a great assistant. She dressed as sexily as the rules would allow and actually worked at going out to invite people over to the booth to look at the books. I gave a seminar on “How to talk dirty, like an erotic author.” It was fun and well-attended. Cherry handled the booth by herself while I was gone.

One thing about the Denver Sex Expo as opposed to the Las Vegas Porn Expo is that the Vegas show is an industry show. A trade show, if you will. The models are there to get jobs. The product vendors are looking for stores they can sell their products through. The fans are really only around on Saturday. The Sex Expo was a fan show. The first night was Ladies night and all women got in free. Most dragged boyfriends or husbands along with them. Nearly all tried to out-sex the porn stars who were there promoting various movies and products. There was a guy with a girl in bikini panties and pasties who was on a leash and crawled after him. There was a woman with only her nipples covered and a pair of shorts that exposed the massive bruise on her left butt-cheek where she’d been paddled. There was a guy wearing a pair of shorts and a dog mask who only barked at people and ran chasing a ball around the show floor. It was inspiring, and after an evening at the Ladies Night Party when Cherry did her part to tell other women that I was the author Aroslav, we went back to the hotel and re-enacted scenes from the day while she rode my cock until one or the other of us passed out.

Fast forward a few weeks. I’d finished the Expo and was cruising through Kansas with the wind buffeting the trailer from the south. The 30 oz porterhouse at Jess & Jim’s Steakhouse in KC wasn’t as good as I remembered from 20 years ago, but it was twice as expensive. Dinner at Lambert’s Café in Ozark with one of my online writing buddies was great. And then the trip across southern Missouri and northern Arkansas to visit SOL reviewer Rabbi Rabbit. Breathtaking.

It’s not New Or-leans. It’s Nawlins.

On the way, I checked my maps and realized I was straight north of New Orleans. Well, I truthfully hadn’t thought much about Jazz, but it was the middle of April and I was just 500 miles away. I sent her a text message.

*Jazz, this is Ari, the honorary lesbian from Vegas in January. Do I remember right that your birthday is in April? I could be in New Orleans the weekend of the 21st if you’d like to get together for dinner. Let me know soon. No obligation or expectation.*

Aren’t I a nice guy? She responded immediately.

*Aw, hi, how are you? Yes member you. My bday is on April 15 but Ill be in MIAMI and yes would love to go to dinner with you on the 21st. TY 4 membering!*

Well, shit. I guess I needed to go to New Orleans. I’d have a week from when I left Rabbi Rabbit and his lovely wife to get to NOLA for a dinner date on the 21st. I gave her the date and the name of the restaurant I wanted to go to (Acme Oyster House) and asked where I should pick her up. She said she’d let me know.

And that was about all I heard until I was camped at Bayou Segnette State Park in a fantastic location. I loved it. But as Friday began to wane and I still had no response from Jazz, I figured it was time to make the last call.

*Jazz? Did you cancel your birthday dinner tonight and forget to tell me? Please let me know.*

I got a response half an hour later.

*Noooo I rly thought it was tomor I rly sry mixed up the days.*

So, after a couple more quick text messages, we agreed to meet Saturday evening with her final note being:

*I’m rly excited to c you*

You might have noticed that my text messages are all complete sentences with proper punctuation and hers are… not. Oh well.

Saturday, I waited patiently, because I’m a nice guy and a mistake in the date/time is understandable, even if she did suggest it. Along about 4:00, I got a message and the day started going downhill from there. She was out buying a car and had difficulties, but was excited to see me with her new car.

*Got a plan?* I asked.

“Y Ruth Chris r Chophouse you pick I can make reservatios*

Oh, fuck! There are two reasons to go to either of those places on a first date. 1) You are being fleeced for all she can get out of you. 2) You’re paying up front for sex. There really isn’t an option three. And though I’d go along with option 2, I was pretty sure it was number 1.

*I wasn’t trying to find the fanciest, just something fun. I was thinking French Quarter, but if the Chophouse would be most fun for you it’s okay. I’m not a rich guy. Just want to do something nice for you. I always wanted to try the Acme Oyster House. Walked by today and it looked like a fun place.*

I really didn’t expect to hear from her again. She must have thought I was the New York Times best-selling author instead of the guy who sits in a trailer down by the river drinking whiskey and smoking cigars while he bleeds on the page. But no! I heard from her right away.

*lol sokay and yess I loveee oysters lol that’s would be fine. Let’s say around 8-8:30 Hope Ill walk out here with a car so I can meet you.*

Well, maybe she’s the sweetheart I thought she was in the first place. At 8:15, I found a parking spot for the beast of a truck and paid $30 for 3 hours! I went down Iberville Street and got in a block-long line for Acme. I sent her a text message that I was at the end of the line on Iberville waiting for her.

8:26 pm: *Hi I just txting you Im just now lving the lot finally got a car.*

8:45 pm: *Going change my clothes and headed to u sorry took so long*

*No problem. 40-minute wait yet. I am in line.*

*Kk Ill be there soon*

9:44 pm: *I’m at the head of the line.*

*Im lving my house now*

Things were clicking. If she was just leaving her house now, it would still be 30-40 minutes before she could get downtown. That would be 10:30 and my meter would expire at 11:13. I left the line, went back to the parking lot and examined the meter choices. Hell, why didn’t I spend $40 the first time for ten hours. At this rate, we might as well have gone to the Chophouse! I tossed the parking ticket on the dash while I cut and lit a cigar. What a disaster. This cigar, a Macanudo Duke of Devon, was packed so tightly… Remember getting a chocolate malt that was so thick it collapsed the straw when you tried to suck it up? Yeah. That tight. I got at the end of a much shorter line and by 10:15, I was back at the head.

10:20 pm: *Getting off bridge R u seated yet*

*Wont seat me wout you Come head of line*

My text messages were deteriorating, as was my patience. I’d been in line over two hours.

*Kk hear I come*

Then the messages came pouring in.

10:54 pm: *There’s so much traffic out here*

*I’m trying to park but I have no parking*

*I didn’t know you were on bourbon*

At 11:00 the doorman looked at me and said, “We’re closing. I’ll let you in if you order and bring her to you when she gets here.” I just nodded.

11:00 pm: *I’m in and seated. Ordering for both of us. They’ll let you in.*

I ordered a dozen oysters on the half shell, two beers, an order of jambalaya, and an order of fried shrimp and oysters with hush puppies. I was starving! I started on the oysters and told the waitress to bring the rest of the food. If she didn’t show up, I would eat it all.

11:26 pm: *Ok sooo I really couldn’t get to you I’m upset I know you ordered already and everything r you going have beignets in the am*

I guess that depends on whether I’m awake yet after I eat all this food and drink these beers. Of course, that’s not what I said.

12:56 am: *Joe’s Café at Westbank Expressway and Tanglewood Drive. 10:30 am Sunday. See you.*

Thirty years ago in Minneapolis

I’m not a complete stranger to being played. I just always seem to fall for it. Belle was an expert at it. She knew exactly what she ultimately wanted—diamond jewelry and nice house with regular meals—when she gave me a Christmas card that asked bluntly, “Do you want to get lucky?”

It turned out I did, and that started the progression from simple asks to the more elaborate. It started the day after our first time together.

“I’d kill myself if I thought that was a one-night stand.”

Oh, shit! Not that I intended it to be a one-night stand, but that she started bargaining and demanding so quickly. By spring, I was divorced and living with a girl ten years younger than me. She was an active and totally addictive sex partner but each time we fucked, I could expect a new request.

“Did you see that pretty diamond pin at Gregg’s Jewelers? It would look so good on my black dress this weekend.”

“Debbie and George have a cute little apartment available in their building. We’d be so close to our friends!”

“We really need a new bed.”

“I know it’s not a wedding, but don’t you think I should have a nice diamond ring?”

“You’re working on that show? Introduce me to the director!”

“Your boss owns the company? Let’s go to his party.”

“I might not come home this weekend.”

“I do own half the house.”

“I’ll take the artwork.”

After six months of being apart and me nearly being clean from my addiction to her pussy, I got one more call from her.

“I need $600 for the security deposit on my new apartment.”

“Belle,” I finally said, “I think it’s time you begged for things from someone else. Your father’s dead and I don’t care enough to help.”

I never heard from her again. If I hadn’t been so totally addicted, I should have broken it off years before.

Back to New Orleans

The night’s trauma wasn’t over.

I got back to my truck about 1:00, and started to back out. It didn’t move. There was a flyer on my windshield, soaked by the rain. I looked down at the front wheels. At 11:28, fifteen minutes after my first parking receipt expired, I was booted. I was furious! $140 to have the boot removed? When I’d paid for another ten hours of parking? I called the number on the flyer and expressed my upset. She hung up on me. I collected myself and calmly called again. I gave her the lot location and my vehicle make and model. She said someone should be there in 20 minutes.

At 2:15, a guy came to collect. I showed him my parking ticket and the times on it and he said he was sorry, but he only saw the other ticket in the window when he checked. This ticket was on the wrong side of the dash. By that time, we’d been through one cloudburst and he hustled to get the boot off, apologized for the inconvenience (no charge) and left. I drove back to camp, with a short stop at the café to text the address to Jazz, in the pouring rain.

At 3:15 a.m., I pulled in to my campsite and went through the trailer stripping my clothes off and ready to collapse in bed.

Except it was wet!

I still don’t know if I’d forgotten some time ago to close the vent tightly or if it had vibrated open. It didn’t make a difference. I stripped the bed and went to my recliner to sleep restlessly for the night.

Well, as I expected, Jazz didn’t show up for breakfast in the morning and I haven’t heard from her since. I sent this message:

Sunday 11:00 a.m.

*If you visit me at the nudist park, you will learn organization, scheduling, and respect for the people you try to use.* Then I deleted her contact info. Don’t expect I’ll ever hear from her again.

You can’t imagine how much I wish that was the end of my New Orleans story. No… It couldn’t be that easy. If you don’t know the RV terms, fake it. I’m not explaining them.

Monday morning, I was ready to leave NOLA for good. Unfortunately, the trailer had rocked back slightly onto the wheel chocks because it was on a downslope and the landing jacks were binding too much for me to raise the front so I could hitch. The bastards installed the fifth wheel hitch in the bed of my truck with the setting at its top height. That meant that I had to extend the jacks all the way to get it to lift from the truck bed and then lower them all the way to get it level. With them binding at the bottom, I couldn’t lift the trailer enough to hook up.

I tried winching it forward, but just didn’t have a strong enough (manual) winch. I headed out of the park and found an RV repair shop a mere eight miles away. Unfortunately, they didn’t have a trailer jack that would help me. They did, however, lower the hitch in the truck bed so I would at least ride a little more level. $50. I did a quick search and found a Harbor Freight where I bought a hydraulic floor jack and a Rhino Ramp to run things up on. $150. Stopped for groceries… well, wine, water, and a couple salads… and finally made it back to the campsite at noon.

It took me a while and a lot of sweat to get the trailer jacked up enough that the landing jacks could reset and come down square. I raised it up and hitched. After policing the site and making sure everything was connected correctly, I pulled out of the park forty minutes before the checkout time of 2:00.

By then my damn coffee was cold!

I stopped at a McDonald’s about twenty miles out and they refilled my travel mug. Got in the truck and headed out. Sipped my coffee and IT WAS COLD! I forget that no one down here makes coffee after about ten in the morning. I found a Starbucks at New Iberia a couple of hours later when I stopped to call the campsite I’d chosen for Monday night.

It was full.

There was a city park campground in the same town, so I decided to just go there and take my chances. It was empty, cost $11 for the night, and the jambalaya was better reheated than it had been at the restaurant.

I’m known, at least a little, for torturing my characters. No happy ending if you don’t suffer for it. But I never dreamed up anything like this!

And OMG! I broke a fingernail. WTF? Etc. ikr?