That Old Devil Sin

by W E DeVore

  That mouth. What I would do to that mouth.

  She waits for a kiss that doesn’t come. He mutters an excuse. Her face falls and she looks out the window. For a moment, I think she's seen me, but she just stares at her own disappointed reflection until he guides her out from the safety of the bar and into the dark, cold rain.

  They run to the waiting car and he opens the passenger door before racing to the other side. The engine fires and they are quickly afforded some relief from the bone-chilling cold. I expect them to leave. I wait for them to leave. But they just sit there. He touches her face. She moves closer. And he just sits there, staring at her, the fucking pussy; unable to move, impotent mama’s boy still begging for the permission that’s already been given.

  Finally, her hunger takes over. The hunger that I knew was lurking beneath her outer reserve. She kisses him, slowly at first, but soon it becomes frantic. Her desire is so close to being satiated that she succumbs to it.

  I ball my fists in frustration.

  The kiss goes on and on. It won’t stop. The rain pours down my spine and I cannot move. I cannot look away from their silhouettes. Their mouths constantly connected, his hands slipping out of view and underneath the cloth that separates them to touch her bare flesh. A familiar rage creeps up my spine.

  I am paralyzed, knowing how much he wants her. Remembering how he couldn’t stop talking about her, mentioning her, bringing up her name, her eyes, her voice. All the while, not realizing that his obsession had been mine as well from the moment I heard her sing; saw her close her eyes and smile.

  My angel, reborn.

  So, I stand here, under the shadow of a live oak, the rain’s chill slowly sinking into my skin, the heat of my own arousal keeping it at bay for now.

  Finally, he cuts the engine and emerges to race to the other side of the car, guiding her out into the cold. She shivers. They run through the rain to the apartment next to where I stand in the shadow of a live oak. He pushes her against the door and kisses her throat. She moans. She is so close I can hear her whisper, “I want you, Ben Bordelon. I want you inside me.”

  He stops, abruptly, and looks at her for several moments, his breath jagged. He looks down, trying to regain control of his need to be near her.

  “I want you,” she repeats and I close my eyes and imagine it is into my ear that she is whispering.

  Something’s wrong. I can feel her doubt. I open my eyes to see her searching his face.

  “Don’t you want me?” she asks, suddenly timid, losing some of that swagger she’s had all evening. She bites her lower lip, unsure of what to do next. Angela would know. Angela always knew.

  But her shyness breaks through whatever reservations he had. Same game. Different playbook.

  “More than anything in the world, darlin’,” he says, picking her up off the ground.

  She wraps her long legs around him and sucks on his earlobe while he unlocks the door. Within moments of disappearing from view, I can hear her cries and his groans. She screams out his name again and again and I wish more than anything that it were mine.

  Nothing but Socks

  It was remarkably cold for being just six days past any Category three or higher hurricane having a chance in hell of making its ugly appearance in the Gulf. Q shivered in her cardigan and quickened her pace as she stepped off the streetcar at Canal. She pulled out her phone and glanced at the time as she was hurried along in a crush of tourism industry support staff in kitchen whites and housecleaning blues.

  She let herself be carried along into the French Quarter and straight into a throng of Repent Now! and Gay is not the way! signs. Righteously angry voices chanted various elevator pitches for salvation in a disjointed cacophony. Q held up her forearms to shield her face from errant elbows and the occasional sign-wielding stranger screaming in her face. She had just made it to the outstretches of the quarter-block long street protest, when a teenaged boy in a Casting Crowns t-shirt pushed a pamphlet into her hands asking, “Are you Saved?”

  Q wordlessly pushed the pamphlet back into his hand and quickened her pace to break through the last of the protesters.

  He walked beside her, attempting again to press the glossy paper into her hands.

  “You won’t even read it?” he asked.

  “Nope. Won’t do any good, kid. I'm Jewish, so save it for someone else,” she quickly explained. “Besides, hell has nothing on my grandmother. But better luck next time.”

  She started to walk away and immediately regretted engaging him in the first place. He followed alongside her, saying, “Jesus was Jewish, let me give you my testimony.”

  Without waiting for a response, he began telling her all the juicy details of his own personal relationship with Jesus Christ. Q sighed and tried to tune him out, but after another half block, she’d had enough. She stopped walking and held up her hand, turning to face him.

  “Let me stop you right there, Junior,” she said. “Look, you seem like a nice enough kid, and it sounds like you’ve got a great thing going with J.C. and all, but if you don’t stop following me, I’m going to be forced to pepper spray you. You feel me?”

  He did.

  “I’ll pray for you,” he called after her.

  Q shrugged.

  Eh, couldn’t hurt.

  She rushed past a tourist couple sporting matching Patagonia backpacks, matching pairs of work boots, matching wedding bands, and sharing a single matched pair of impressively filled, strategically placed gym socks, as they stopped to take a picture of a street performer. Salvation foot soldiers and gay couples out in nothing but socks could only mean one thing: Southern Decadence, the annual apocalypse predicted by homophobic religious sects the world over had started; and the French Quarter was Ground Zero.

  Southern Decadence, Gay Mardi Gras, or, more officially, 'an end of summer Celebration of Gay Life, Music and Culture,' capped off the long, humid Southeast Louisiana summer and was the start of the long, crowded New Orleans tourist season. Tens of thousands of celebrants converged on the French Quarter every Labor Day weekend to drink, party, and generally bacchanal it up. Many of whom tried to, and succeeded in, getting away with wearing as little clothing as the law allowed. This being New Orleans, the law allowed one to get away with very little coverage at all.

  The tall Socksy Twin caught her eye as she took in his ensemble and smiled at her. Q smiled back, quickly deciding that in his normal life he was probably a tax attorney and the other half of the matched pair was a guidance counselor…on second thought, an orthodontist. Both were definitely from the Midwest given their imperviousness to the chilly-for-New Orleans, sixty-five-degree Friday morning. Q quickly turned away from the overwhelming temptation to determine how much of each sock was legitimate, and how much relied on some sort of vegetable assistance, and hurried on her way towards the heart of the festivities.

  If Southern Decadence was a pilgrimage, St. Ann and Bourbon was the Wailing Wall, Mecca, and St. Peter's combined. It was the center of pretty much any gay celebration in New Orleans. But during Southern Decadence, its normal atmosphere of party-boy go-go dancers and the people lining up to fondle their sockless parts, was amplified exponentially.

  Club Sin Sin was located two blocks away from this holy crossroads and was also the current home to the Bourdello Burlesque. In what could only be called a whiskey-induced epiphany, Q and her want-to-be-guitar-god trumpeter, Charlie Bourdel, had revamped their band, QT and the Beasts, in a seemingly futile attempt to break away from their corporate Jazz standard image and attract some new fans.

  Charlie had managed to charm a few of his favorite pole-dancing gymnasts to form a burlesque act that served as backdrop and trappings for QT and the Beasts’ original soundtrack. It took some time to find a venue and script the act, but the Bourdello Burlesque paid the bills through the summer, saving them from an endless montage of plantation weddings from April through July. As an added bonus, QT and the Beasts’ new material was attracting a new, younger crowd th
at paid almost as well as the elder one. Of course, their corporate fair was still available for the button-down, booty-shaking set willing to pay top dollar. Thank you, whiskey-induced epiphanies.

  She fell in step with a group of drag queens having a heated debate over what the group form of ‘drag queen’ should be. She was instantly encased in the scent of stage make-up and vintage formal-wear. An impossibly beautiful redhead in a full iridescent purple and green sequined gown looped her arm through Q’s and said, “Let’s have this little cutie pie settle it.”

  Q grinned at the unwitting reference to her boyfriend’s pet name for her. The sole purpose of which, in her considered opinion, was to annoy the ever-living fuck out of her.

  “How can I help you, gorgeous?” Q asked.

  The redhead leaned in conspiratorially, “I feel that the group form of ‘drag queen’ should be ‘court’, denoting the royalty of our station.” She flipped her long, auburn curls towards the raven-haired queen in a micro-mini skirt. “Lola feels that the group form should be ‘star’. I think that is just vulgar. Settle this for us. We shall abide by your decision.”

  Lola and the others murmured in agreement as Q paused to look at her four new companions. “I think you’re both wrong. The group form of ‘drag queen’ should be ‘splendor.’”

  “A Splendor of Drag Queens!” Lola cooed. Q was greeted with fragrant kisses that she was quite sure left lip prints on both cheeks.

  The Splendor continued on their way throwing rainbow-glitter bombs on unsuspecting passersby, and calling out their thanks to Q. She blew kisses at each of them that were met with shrieks of giddy joy as the Splendor pretended to catch each one.

  As she approached Club Sin Sin, she spotted Charlie leaning against the doorframe, smoking a cigarette. Charlie Bourdel stood five foot nothing without his combat boots. His long, black, curly hair hung down in a loose braid from under the cocked pork-pie hat he had recently taken to wearing. He was dressed in his daily uniform of black cargo pants and a fitted black t-shirt.

  One hundred and thirty pounds sopping wet of swagger and confidence.

  She squinted her eyes and held out her arms in frustration. “It’s Labor Day weekend, Charlie.”

  Charlie shrugged. “What? You and loverboy had vacation plans or something?”

  “Labor Day. Southern Decadence. Gay Mardi Gras,” she said with emphasis.

  Charlie took a long drag off his cigarette. “I don’t get your meaning, baby.”

  “Why did you book a show for this weekend? Who in the hell is going to come to a Burlesque show, when there are miles of readily available cock two blocks away?” she exclaimed, jerking her thumb in the direction of the constant rhythmic throbbing of dance music.

  Charlie threw down his cigarette and stubbed it out with the heel of his boot. He put his arm around Q’s shoulders and moved his other hand through the air in front of them, like it was tracking a comet across the sky.

  “Lesbians,” he said in a husky voice accompanied by a couple of eyebrow raises.

  Despite her best efforts to suppress it, Q burst out laughing. “That your new marketing plan?”

  “I’m expanding our demographic, babe. If you can get a room full of hard-ons with that sultry little routine of yours, imagine how much more money we can make if it works on pussies, too.” He winked at her.

  Q groaned and shrugged Charlie’s arm off her shoulder. “You’re a pig, Charlie Bourdel.”

  She headed into the dim club with Charlie right behind her. “A pig with a vision is not a pig, Q, he is a prophet.”

  She rolled her eyes and sat down at the bar. The owners of Club Sin Sin, Susan and Laura, had rescued the magnificent piece of mahogany from an abandoned bar near Bayou Manchec. Laura strolled over to meet them from behind the bar, tying her brown hair back into a ponytail.

  “You get accosted by a group of drag queens?” she asked, motioning to Q’s cheeks.

  Q looked in the mirror facing her and saw a neat and very glittery lip print on each cheek.

  “A Splendor of Drag Queens,” she corrected, grinning. “You like it? I just made it up. Early polling shows favorable results.”

  Laura laughed and nodded, handing Q a damp towel to remove the kisses. Q wiped her cheeks and tossed the towel back, before following Charlie through the red velvet-clad doors and into the darkened theatre beyond. The stage was illuminated in a hazy, violet light that shimmered off the drum hardware Tom Wills was adjusting.

  Charlie jumped on stage and stood in the center. “Check it, Q.”

  He snapped his fingers and he was lifted three feet up off the stage. “We finally figured out how to stage ‘Build Me a Man.’”

  “Because you’re two feet shorter than every woman on stage?” Q asked.

  “Exactly so,” a voice agreed from directly below her, making her jump.

  She looked down to find Max Greenberg on the floor gaffing cable. Max was the final piece to the puzzle in creating the Bourdello Burlesque. Not long into the venture, they’d soon realized that the staging was too difficult for Q and the boys to manage on their own. Max was the solution. The retired husband of a member of Q’s grandmother’s bridge club, Max had been designing sets for touring productions along the I-10 corridor since well before any of The Beasts were born. Better than his talent and knowledge, was his price. As long as Q kept quiet about his Pepsi and bourbons, his services were entirely free.

  Max stood up and brushed the dust off his perfectly pleated knees before stretching his back. He tossed the roll of gaff tape below Charlie’s raised boots.

  “I’m too old to be crawling around on the floor,” he grunted, before yelling up onto the stage, “One of you young fellas get down here and tape this shit down. I’m going to get me drink.”

  Max waddled down to the front of the stage and opened his cooler to retrieve a Pepsi. After taking two very large sips, he waddled back to Q.

  “Gonna get this spiced up a titch,” he said with a wink.

  Q grinned as he headed out to the bar. Max brought a certain amount of levity with him. It was hard to be serious around a man who walked like a duck and whose receding hairline was hardly hidden by his faded, orange comb-over. He also took a great deal of pleasure in taking swings at Charlie’s larger-than-life ego. Most days he struck out, but Q and the other Beasts were rooting for a home run one day, or at the very least, a decent stand-up double.

  Charlie jumped down from his pedestal and called, “What you waiting for, Q? A written invitation? Let’s get started already.”

  “What are you so anxious about?” Q asked. “I thought this was just a run-through. We’ve been practicing for weeks.”

  Tom called out from behind the drum kit, “New sound man.”

  Q glanced back at the front-of-house mix position and saw an empty space where a sound engineer should be.

  “He invisible?” she asked, as she walked up the stage-left steps.

  “He’s miking up your piano.” A disembodied voice called out from behind the tall upright grand in front of her.

  Q peered around the back of her piano to find a lithe, bleach-blonde man peering back at her.

  “I take it you don’t remember me," he said matter-of-factly as he adjusted the boom stand holding one of the piano mics.

  She set her satchel down and unsuccessfully tried to place his face. Before she could apologize, he continued, “We met a few times, back when I was dating Niko. You are Niko’s friend, aren’t you?”

  Not so much since I shot him twice in the chest.

  She stared in disbelief. Niko’s involvement with Senator and Mrs. Gus Multer’s murder-for-hire scandal, as well as Q’s involvement in his untimely demise, had been all over the news for most of the Lenten season two years ago. And interest in the events was resurrected with reliable regularity every few months since the trial had begun.

  “Excuse me?” she asked in disbelief.

  “Niko Perakis. Greek Bitch. Liked to wear black diamonds in b
oth his ears and had a tranny fetish. Got himself killed a couple of Mardi Gras’ ago?” Her new sound man lisped like he was discussing the current weather pattern over the Gulf.

  Her heart started to throb in her throat and her neck was suddenly uncomfortably cold. For better or for worse, Niko had been a charming, lovely human being when he wasn’t killing people for money and burning down apartment buildings to cover it up. She'd had more than a few of Niko’s trail of broken hearts scream 'murderer!' in a crowded restaurant. The fact that Niko had tried to beat her to death, and had very nearly killed her boyfriend, Ben, didn't seem to count for much.

  Q quickly turned for support. Tom was already on his feet and on his way over, straightening his gangly, six-foot frame to its full extension. Charlie picked up a mic stand and threw the business end of it threateningly over his shoulder.

  “He was my neighbor,” she replied faintly and waited for the ax to drop.

  “He was an asshole. Great taste in jewelry though," he said, tapping the black diamond stud in his nose and standing back up, oblivious to QT and the Beasts’ collectively defensive body language. “So what happened?”

  “What do you mean, ‘what happened’?” Q tried to sound casual. If he didn’t know that she’d put Niko in his early grave, she wasn’t about to tell him.

  “Heard some rich freaks hired him to kill somebody. I moved out to Austin a few years back, just came to town for a few weeks for this gig I landed after Southern Decadence. Lucked into y’all’s yesterday. Was he really a hit man?”

  Q shrugged, relieved. “That’s what they say. I’m sorry, you are….”

  He held out a hand for her to apparently kiss. “Michael Lopez at your service.”

  She took his hand and shook it. “Q.”

  Michael’s face spread into a wide grin. “I knew it. The singer his neighbor was all hung up on," he said, slapping his hand on the top of the piano. “Did what’s-his-name ever get you?”