Mardi Gras Mambo

At precisely eight o’clock on the dot I rang Misha’s doorbell.

The sun had gone down around six o’clock, and the temperature had dropped about twenty degrees. The wind had picked up, too, grabbing hold of my cape and blowing it out and away from my body. I shivered and grabbed hold of the cape, trying to wrap it around my torso as some protection against the wind. It was pretty thin, so I was still cold, but at least my skin was not as exposed. The air also felt damp, which might mean rain later. I looked up at the sky, which was covered with billowing clouds reflecting the neon of the Quarter back down. Yeah, it was definitely going to rain at some point, and I just hoped we were inside the parade and dancing when it started. There’s nothing worse than being caught in a cold rain when all you’re wearing is a cape and tights. I was wearing my mask, and one of the longer feathers was making my left eye itchy. I sighed and shifted it a little bit. That’s the problem with masks: the more elaborate they are, the more annoying they can be. I knew I’d probably discard the mask later on the dance floor, after I started sweating.

I’d walked into the Quarter with the boys, leaving them at Lafitte’s while I made the drug run. A lot of people were out—a glance down to the straight end of Bourbon Street showed an almost endless sea of bodies—but not as many as there would be later. Endymion was still rolling, which meant at least another 40,000 people would descend on the Quarter after the parade ended. Lafitte’s was already packed with revelers—the balcony was crowded full of men leaning over the railing and waving beads at the crowd below, trying to get some unsuspecting guy to whip his dick out or drop his pants and moon them. There were also enough people roaming the streets to keep Frank, Colin, and David entertained until I got back.

Misha lived on Burgundy Street right off St. Ann. I rang the doorbell and looked around. From his front steps I could see Rawhide on the corner. There was already a crowd of leather men out there milling about and drinking. The doorman was precariously perched on a stool checking IDs. Rawhide’s management was a lot more cautious and careful than it used to be. The bar had been raided a number of times, which had caused a decline in its popularity. There’s nothing like a raid to drive off a bar’s clientele. During specialty weekends, a trip down there used to be a requirement of the evening. The place would be packed full of men, and it had always seemed warm and muggy from all the body heat. I hadn’t been in there in over a year, and as I watched the long line of men move slowly forward as IDs were checked, I wondered if I should take the boys there later. Might as well give them the whole Carnival experience, I thought, grinning as I imagined Frank’s reaction to what went on in there. He really does need to lighten up some.

My eyes scanned the street, and I noticed a guy standing on the corner on my side of St. Ann, but on the other side of Burgundy. He was casually smoking a cigarette, but he looked out of place. When he noticed me looking over at him, he looked away. He was wearing loose-fitting jeans, a flannel shirt under a black leather jacket, and a black and gold Saints baseball cap. I stared at him. Why does he seem out of place? I wondered. He was dressed like most of the guys in line at Rawhide, and the guys just hanging out in the street. What made him different from everyone else?

He’s up to something, a voice whispered in my head. Better to keep an eye on him, Scotty, or you might be sorry.

As I mentioned before, I’m a bit psychic. I’m not sure how it all works, but sometimes I get messages that I assume come from the Goddess. I stared at the guy some more, as he crushed the cigarette out under his tennis shoes and lit another one.

That’s it, I realized. He’s wearing sneakers, not boots.

No self-respecting leather guy would ever wear sneakers with a leather jacket. It just isn’t done.

I felt a chill run down my spine that had nothing to do with the wind.

I had just about decided to go over and talk to him, try to see what he was up to, when I heard footsteps coming down the hall toward the door.

“Who is it?” Misha asked through the door.

“It’s me, Scotty. Let me in! It’s freezing out here!” I replied, shivering as another gust of wind grabbed the cape out of my hands, making it billow out around me. Fuck!

I turned to look back at the guy, but he’d gotten into the line waiting to get inside the bar. Maybe it wasn’t anything after all. Maybe he was just newly into the leather scene and hadn’t figured out all the rules yet.

I heard the deadbolt click back and the chain come off. Then the door swung open and there was Misha grinning at me. He was wearing only a pair of green army fatigue pants with the button undone to reveal the waistband of a cheap pair of white briefs. A pair of dog tags hung around his neck into the deep cleavage between his massive pectorals. Some razor burn glowed red just above the dog tags. His skin was milky white and soft looking. His brown hair was cut short in a military-like style, and his bright blue eyes sparkled as he grinned at me. He had really nice straight, white teeth and full red lips. His stomach was flat, and his broad shoulders narrowed down to a slender waist. He could have been any age between twenty-five and thirty-five. He was about six feet tall and had to weigh at least 230 pounds—all muscle. He’s huge.

He threw his big arms around me in a bear hug and squeezed the breath out of me. I thought I heard a rib crack, but it was probably my imagination. I swear sometimes he doesn’t know his own strength. “Happy Mardi Gras!” He lifted me off my feet without any visible effort.

I gave him a kiss on the cheek as my feet dangled in the air. “Back at ya, darlin’. Now put me down, please?”

“Of course.” He set me down like I weighed no more than a feather. “Come in, come in!” He stood aside, and I walked past him into the living room. In one corner a weight bench was set up, with weight plates scattered all over the wooden floor. There was nothing hanging on the dingy yellow walls—they had probably been white originally sometime in the distant past. The room was also sparsely furnished; a coffee table, a couch, and a reclining chair were all pushed into the center of the room, which made it look even bigger and emptier. The furniture all looked new. The last time I’d been there, none of it had matched and it all had looked as though Misha had liberated it from the city dump. A couple of empty water bottles, some change, and a black jock turned inside out were scattered over the coffee table. He walked over to the wall and flicked a switch. I sat down on the couch.

“Are you having a happy Carnival so far?” I asked, shivering a bit. It was almost as cold inside as it was out, but at least I was out of the wind. Being from Russia, this cold was probably nothing to him, but to me it was like being on an Arctic expedition.

“I love Carnival.” It sounded like I luff carny-full. He beamed at me. “Is so much fun.”

I’d actually met Misha two Southern Decadences ago. My then-dealer had sold me a really crappy hit of Ecstasy the night before—it was more like Tense and Bitchy than Ecstasy. I decided not to waste my money on his crap anymore, and I was prowling the bars looking for a new dealer with different—and hopefully better—stuff. I hate looking for drugs in bars; you never know what you’re going to get, and there’s nothing worse than walking up to happy-looking people with dilated eyes as they bounce in place shaking their water bottles and saying, “Know where I can find some X?” Ugh, I hate doing that. I was getting close to deciding just to do without when I’d walked into Oz, pushing my way through all the pretty boys. A bunch of thickly muscled guys were dancing on the bar in white boxer briefs that glowed in the black light. The dance floor was packed with guys in jeans with their shirts off. The stage was also crowded. A great song was playing, a remix of Faith Hill’s “Breathe,” and I felt like dancing, if I could only shoehorn my way onto the dance floor somehow. I got to the edge of the dance floor and was looking for an opening when I looked up at the stage and caught my breath.

Misha was dancing in front of a bunch of other guys on the stage. His shirt was off, and he was wearing a pair of skintight 501s, damp with sweat. His arms were up over his head as he danced, his lat muscles fanned out and his arms flexing. His pale skin glistened with sweat. He was a big guy, but, unlike most guys his size, he was light on his feet and could move. He obviously was into the music; he was moving to the backbeat, something a lot of guys don’t do. My first thought was, “Mary Mother of God! What a stud!” My second was, “Must be a tourist—never seen him before,” and the third was, “He’s rolling.” I pushed my way through the crowd on the dance floor, touching, getting touched, exchanging smiles with sweating, happy boys until I reached the foot of the stage. A couple of muscle guys in their early twenties reached down and held their hands out and helped boost me up onto the stage. I kissed them each on the cheek to say thanks, took off my shirt, and tucked it into the back of my pants. I moved down the stage until I was dancing next to the big muscle god. We looked at each other and I grinned. “Hey.” I winked at him.

“Hello,” he shouted over the music. “Is good music, no?”

I didn’t recognize the accent as Russian then, but I knew he was foreign. “Yeah, it’s great! My name’s Scotty.”

“Is very nice to meet your acquaintance.” He started giggling, then danced around so his back was to me. I noticed the acne scars from steroid abuse scattered over the thick muscles of his back but was soon distracted by his beautiful butt. His jeans had crept down a bit so I could see the elastic waistband of his Hanes underwear. There were some great big zits on his lower back, but it was still, all in all, one of the most beautiful backs I’d ever seen. He spun around and winked at me. “Would you like some Happy?”

“What?”

He held his hand in front of my face and opened his fist. A small blue pill inside a tiny baggie was in his palm, and then he closed his hand again. He winked again. “Want some Happy?” He gave me a huge smile. His piercing blue eyes were half shut as his hips swayed back and forth as Faith could feel us breathe, watching over her, and suddenly she was melting into us.

“Ecstasy?” I asked, hoping against hope. Gorgeous and an X dealer? Thank you, Goddess! “How much?”

He grinned. “Yes, Ecstasy. Is gift from me to you because you pretty.” He stroked the side of my face with his other hand. “You very pretty.”

Well, why the hell not? I nodded and took the baggie from him, tearing it open and popping the pill into my mouth. I washed it down with a swig from my water bottle. I kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you!” Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?

Half an hour later I was practically hanging from the ceiling. It was the best Ecstasy I’d ever taken, and believe you me, I’d taken some good stuff before. I couldn’t stand still, and sweat was pouring off of me. Every song the deejay was playing was better than the one before, and I was flying. The music was inside of me, and I was dancing like a maniac. I was waving my arms over my head and flirting with every single guy I could make eye contact with. I kissed a few, touched some bodies wonderingly—apparently the most beautiful men in the world had all converged on Oz that night. Misha and I danced together, laughing and joking and talking some more. He told me he’d just moved to New Orleans from Russia, and if I wanted more Ecstasy, all I had to do was ask. Sexy as he was, though, we didn’t kiss or do anything. I touched him a few times, mainly tapping him on the back when he had his back to me. As crazy as it sounds, when you’re on Ecstasy that feels incredible. But Misha didn’t touch anyone, didn’t spoon dance with anyone; he just stayed in his designated spot, dancing and smiling a lot. Sometimes a guy would come along and touch his muscles, and he would smile at him, but after a few minutes he would gently push him away. After a few times, I realized, through my fogged brain, that I wouldn’t be going home with him, but I didn’t really care. I just liked talking to him, being around him—he had this amazing energy I enjoyed. At some point in the night, Misha gave me his phone number before disappearing into the crowd, never to be seen again that night. I felt a little pang when he left, but before long I was dancing with a tall, lean drink of water from Tampa—at least I think that’s where he was from—and I wound up leaving with him later when the drug wore off.

Misha had been my dealer ever since. He never failed me, and he always had good stuff. He was always very affectionate to me, hugging me or giving me a friendly kiss on the cheek, but never in a flirtatious way. At first, this kind of bothered me—I’m not that used to disinterest—but I got over it soon enough. Attraction is a matter of taste, and apparently I wasn’t to his taste that way. But I’d never really seen Misha with anyone; he was always by himself, dancing in his own little world. And besides, it’s usually not a good idea to have a sexual relationship with your drug dealer. That just leads to problems. Believe me, I know.

In the time since we met, I hadn’t really learned much about Misha. I knew he’d grown up in Moscow and had been in the Russian army. Other than that, he didn’t like to talk about Russia at all. He would get a weird look on his face and then change the subject. He loved America, he loved New Orleans, and this was his life now, he’d say proudly. Russia was in the past, and he was never going back. I didn’t know if he had family back there, but I got the distinct impression sometimes there was a serious reason he’d emigrated. I never pushed the subject—it wasn’t any of my business, after all, if he didn’t want to talk about it. I also didn’t know what he did for a living, although I was pretty sure being an Ecstasy dealer in the gay bars wasn’t lucrative enough to pay his rent. But I never asked. The dealer/client relationship automatically puts up some barriers.

He sat down next to me on the couch and patted my leg with a smile. “Is good costume, Scotty. Real sexy. Are boyfriends the same?”

I nodded. “They look better than me.” They did; I wasn’t just being modest. Frank hadn’t been overly thrilled about going out dancing in the tights. Colin and I were both naked underneath ours; Frank insisted on wearing a thong because the tights were “too revealing.” Even with the thong you couldn’t miss his package, though. He had no idea how popular he was going to be on the dance floor.

He shook his head. “Not believing you.”

“Wait till you see them. Will you be out later?”

He nodded, his smile spreading. “Love dancing in crowds. Mardi Gras wonderful.” He reached under the couch and pulled out a metal strongbox, which he unlocked. “How many you needing?”

“Sixteen.” Frank and Colin didn’t know it, but I was buying enough for us to take one a day through Fat Tuesday. I figured it was a pretty safe bet to assume they’d both like it and would want to do it again. I was also picking up David’s for him. David wasn’t comfortable around Misha; he always got tongue-tied and said the stupidest things. Misha wasn’t even his type; David usually liked small guys, preferably of Latin descent. But Misha had the kind of body that overruled the concept of types. He was everybody’s type.

Misha whistled. “That many? Is not good for you.”

“It’s not all for me—” I started to protest, before realizing he was laughing at me. I got my wallet out of my boot, counted out the cash, and put it down on the table. He started placing pills into little plastic ziplock baggies.

His cell phone rang. He had the ring tone set to “Mamma Mia” by ABBA. He reached into his pants pocket and looked at the display. He scowled. “Must take call.” He stood up and clicked it on. “Hello?”

He walked out of the room without saying anything, but I could hear someone talking very loudly through the phone. I couldn’t make out any words, just that whoever had called seemed to be really pissed off about something. Then he shut the door behind him, and I couldn’t hear anymore. I sat there on the couch for a couple of minutes, waiting, then figured I might as well help him out a bit. I started putting my pills into the baggies. I counted out four for David and slipped those into my left boot. I counted out three for tonight and put those in the same boot. The rest I put into one baggie, which I put into the change pouch in my wallet, then slipped it back into the other boot. I glanced at my watch. A few more minutes ticked by, and he still didn’t come back. I started tapping my foot.

“Come on, Misha,” I said under my breath. I wanted to go, but it seemed rude to just leave without saying good-bye. I looked into the lockbox, which he’d put on the floor. I saw several vials filled with blue pills like the ones he’d given me. There were vials containing pills in different colors—several little amber bottles I recognized as containing GHB—and there were little plastic baggies with white powder (crystal? coke? Special K?) and even a hefty bag of pot. There was a stack of bills that looked pretty thick shoved into one corner of the box; the top bill was a fifty.

Maybe he can support himself dealing, I thought, closing the lid and setting it back down on the floor.

Then I heard his voice in the next room. He was yelling, but I couldn’t understand anything he was saying. The wall muffled his voice, and he might have been yelling in Russian. Then the noise stopped, the door swung back open, and he walked back into the room.

He looked paler than usual, and as he sat down I realized he was shaking. “Are you okay, Misha?”

He shook his head. “Am fine.” He looked at the coffee table and then at me. “You finished bagging for me?” There were beads of sweat on his forehead, despite the frigid temperature in the apartment.

I nodded. “Yeah. You know, you shouldn’t leave your strongbox open and alone with someone, Misha. I could have just walked out of here with it.”

His eyes narrowed to slits for a minute, but then he grinned. “No! I trust you—you would not do. Not Scotty. Other people I not trust, no, but you?” He patted my leg again. “You I trust. You friend.”

I was oddly touched. “Thanks, Misha, that’s sweet of you to say.”

He looked away and opened his mouth to say something but then closed it again.

“Misha? Are you sure everything’s okay?”

“Everything fine.” He shook his head. “Um, you mind going? Wish could stay, talk some more, but expecting someone.”

“Of course. The boys are waiting for me.” He walked me to the door, where he gave me another hug, holding on much longer than he usually did.

“Happy Mardi Gras,” I said, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. “And if you need someone to talk to—”

“Happy Mardi Gras to you.” He gave me a long look, giving me the impression again that he wanted to say something else, then stepped back and closed the door.

I stood there for a minute. What on earth? Something was definitely bothering him. I debated knocking on the door again to make sure he was okay—and then talked myself out of it. That dealer/client discretion thing kicked in; I wasn’t that good a friend of his. If he had a problem, he probably had real friends he could talk to.

You are really getting paranoid, Scotty, I told myself. I stood there on the stoop for a few minutes, trying to pick up the sense I’d had earlier, but it was gone.

I walked up St. Ann to the corner at Bourbon and grinned. I was still cold, but there was a big enough crowd in the street down there to create warmth. I picked my way through the crowd, saying hello and exchanging kisses with friends and strangers alike, and finally emerged out in a less crowded area halfway down the street. It was just a sandbar in the sea of people, though; less than ten yards away the crowd spilling over from Lafitte’s began. I’d told the boys to get drinks and we’d meet on Bourbon across from the bar in front of the Clover Grill, so I crossed over to that side and pushed my way through the crowd. The balcony was packed at Lafitte’s, and I could tell by the way the crowd was gathered into pockets that someone had to be showing something for beads. Sure enough, a few seconds later the guys on the balcony erupted into cheers and beads showered down to a spot in the crowd.

The boys were standing in front of the newspaper stand. I stood for a minute, watching them. They looked incredible, and everyone walking past was checking them out. Frank had already discarded his mask, and Colin had pushed his up on top of his head. Colin had his back to me, and in the tights his big muscular ass looked like it could crack walnuts without much effort. His broad muscled back tapered down to his narrow waist, and the tights had worked their way down so you could see the top of his crack. I’m going to have to keep my eyes on them all night so someone doesn’t try to take one of them off, I realized. After all, the gay motto of Mardi Gras was “hold on to your husband!”

Of course, in theory we could all sleep with whomever we wanted whenever we wanted, but theory and reality are two different things.

David wasn’t costuming. His concession to the season was a leather vest and a leather cap pulled down low over his eyes. I slipped David his pills and threw an arm around both of my guys, pulling them in close. “Having fun yet?”

“You were gone a long time.” Frank frowned at me. “I was starting to get worried.”

Not this again, I thought. Is he going to be nervous all night long? “Everything’s fine, Frank. Relax already.” I reached up and kissed his cheek. “Just have fun, okay?”

Colin handed me a bottle of water and grinned. “Well, we both get nervous when you’re out of our sight for a while. I mean, with your history of getting kidnapped—”

“This is true,” David chimed in.

“Why does everyone I love get so much pleasure from giving me shit?” I raised my arms imploringly upward and tilted my head back. “Why, Goddess, why?”

They all laughed, the rat bastards.

We watched the crowd for a while, pointing out hot guys to each other for about twenty minutes, then took our pills. Frank hesitated, and then I gave him a reassuring smile. He closed his eyes and washed it down with a big swig of water. I wasn’t letting them drink liquor that night. The first time doing Ecstasy is enough of a mind trip without involving booze. I personally didn’t like to drink when I was rolling—it made me throw up once—but David always could without a problem. I was Cruise Director Julie McCoy for the evening, so fifteen minutes after we took the pills we walked down the street to the dance clubs.

I could feel mine starting to hit as I led everyone out to the dance floor at the Parade. David’s eyes looked bigger, so I knew he was feeling it too. Colin had a big grin on his face. And Frank—he looked like he was going to get sick. He was breathing hard, sweat beading his forehead, and he kept swallowing. Oh, no, I thought. “Wait here!” I yelled at Colin and David, then grabbed Frank’s hand and pulled him off the dance floor to the front bar area where some couches were placed.

“Are you okay?” I shouted, to be heard over the music.

“I-I-I don’t know.” He looked at me. His pupils were huge. “I feel really funny, Scotty.”

I shoved him down on the arm of the couch and put my mouth on his ear. “Relax, Frank, you’re just starting to feel it. Don’t fight it—just don’t fight it and you’ll be fine. Go with it. You’ll see.” Frank grabbed my hand and squeezed it. His hand was soggy and trembling. “Smile, Frank.”

He took a deep breath and smiled at me. “Oh, wow,” he said. His pupils were getting bigger, and his legs were starting to shake as well. I grabbed his hands and pulled him back up to his feet. “Bounce, Frank.”

He looked at me. “Bounce?”

I started bouncing. It was starting to hit me, and the bouncing felt good. He started bouncing too.

“Do you love me, Frank?”

The smile got bigger, and the tension around his eyes softened. “Yes, Scotty, I do.”

A wave of emotion crashed around me. “I love you, too, Frank.” And I reached up and kissed him and felt his entire body begin to tremble. Our lips held together, and it was amazing, as though we’d gone into our own little world, and there was nothing else and nobody else in the world that mattered. I pulled back from him. Frank’s eyes were half shut, and I’d never seen such a big grin on his face. He looked so beautiful to me then that I wanted to just grab him and hold him tight, press him up against me . . .

Damn, this was good Ecstasy!

He was still trembling. “Come on, Frank, let’s go dance.” I pulled him back to the dance floor.

Colin and David were already out there, dancing and smiling from ear to ear. I could feel Frank starting to dance behind me, and we pushed out to join Colin and David.

“This is fucking awesome!” Colin shouted at me.

Frank just kept grinning.

“Woo!” said David, spinning around with a goofy smile on his face.

Then I recognized the opening notes of the dance remix of Wynonna’s version of “I Want to Know What Love Is,” and it was like the deejay was playing it just for me. I screamed “Woo-hoo!” and threw my arms up in the air, my cape falling off my shoulders, and I started spinning around, losing myself in the music. I started singing along—my inner drag queen always seems to come out when I’m Xing—and then I felt someone behind me, and I looked over my shoulder to see Frank and felt him grinding against me, and then his arms came around me and he started kissing my neck, and then Colin was backing into me from the front, and I put my arms around him and started playing with his nipples, and he shuddered a bit and the three of us stayed that way for a few moments, our bodies locked together, sweating and trembling and loving the moment, loving each other, and then another wave of joy came crashing through me and I broke free from them and spun away, and then David was tapping me on my back, and I grinned at him, and then Wynonna mixed into Britney Spears’s “Everytime,” and the dance floor was filled with other guys, and shirts were coming off, and the mirror ball descended from the ceiling, and green laser lights started hitting it, reflecting and bouncing off the steamed-up mirrors around the dance floor, and I grabbed the boys by the hand and dragged them over to the stage and I hopped up, with them jumping up on either side of me, and I stood there, looking out over the heads of the guys on the floor, and I stretched out my arms over the crowd, and it became my crowd, and I started dancing again, the boys dancing on either side of me, and I started performing for them all, letting the music just take me higher and higher and higher. . . .