Bleeding by the Bayou: A Story of Cycles

I’m in the bathtub at Marie Laveaux’s Annex in New Orleans and I’m about to reach orgasmic bliss.

Finally.

After all of these years searching for ways to feel connected to the source of my sexual energy, it only makes sense that I am on the verge of explosion, inside of a building which used to be owned by a VooDoo Queen.

The morning light is creeping in from all corners of the closed curtain hanging above the bathtub. A golden outline is spilling its way through the darkness, in what appears to be a perfect circle. I watch the light illuminate the window, and while I do, the rectangle and its ridges disappear. There is only a circle of golden light.

Water is beginning to spill from the tub as my breath is becoming quicker. The sound of my breath, along with the sound of the water lapping against me as I move up and down, is a song. It’s a song I’m hearing for the first time, yet it has always been buried deep in my collection of music.

I listen, then look down and notice the blood. Blood which flows from deep inside me, is now beginning to dance in slow swirling circles around the bathtub. The sight of it causes me to close my eyes. I close my eyes, not because I’m afraid, but because I’m being given an invitation. This isn’t the first time I’ve received this invitation, but this is the first time I’ve been able to recognise it in the moment.

I am being invited to leave behind all other senses, and to just feel.

***

“I’m at my wits end!” He shouted as we approached Bourbon Street.

“I don’t want to be alive.” He was drunk and the energies surrounding us, amplified his mental anguish.

“I know. I hear you.” I said.

“I’m at my wits end, too.” I lied, although at that moment I may have believed my words to be true.

A few days ago, I was at home in Asheville, wondering about my intentions for this trip to New Orleans. My boyfriend was with me while I processed. He was worried about me traveling alone. I tried to convince him that I was being called to the city to experience the music, and to explore the history. Part of me believed that too, I guess.

Perhaps sometimes it’s necessary for us to trick ourselves as much as we trick other people, when it comes to the depths of our own bravery.  Sometimes, it can feel safer to assume the role of a tourist in the quest to explore the nature of our own souls.

A few days ago, I was at home in Asheville and I had a boyfriend. Now, I was standing on Bourbon Street after breaking up with my boyfriend earlier that day. I was standing there, alongside someone else.

“I’m either going to kill myself, kill you, or kill someone walking.” He said as we sat at the counter.

I waited to get the attention of a young woman working behind the busy Bourbon Street bar.

He reached for his wallet and started pulling out the credit cards inside. Slapping them on the counter one by one, he attempted to mimic the motions of a Tarot card reader.

“I guess the cards will tell. Will it be me? You? Or someone else?” He said, as the bartender noticed us.

“Can I please have a vodka soda, and two slices of pepperoni pizza?” I asked her.

She nodded, then raised her brow at me, as a silent inquisition regarding my safety in the situation.

“I’m good. I’ve got this. Thank you.” I said, and felt gratitude for her, and for all of the women in this world who look out for each other.

The pizza came. Logan chose to ignore the food in front of him, and kept entertaining the demons that had surfaced instead. For a moment, I felt nervous. I felt a familiar sense of duty to take control of the situation and change it. I felt a familiar false belief that I possessed the power to do so.

I watched the spectacle of his behaviour for a bit longer, while simultaneously feeling the surge of chaotic dark energy begin to course through my feet as I stood there on Bourbon Street.

I was able to recognize this energy as it moved upward from where I was rooted. I felt the energy, but it did not consume me. Baring witness to what was happening, while also allowing myself to feel everything as it moved, and ignoring all urges to try to stop it, to try to change it; this provided me the answer.

Move.

We must continue to move.

Leaving my vodka soda behind, I grabbed my slice of pizza and began walking.

I took a bite of the pizza while I walked, and didn’t look back.

Whether Logan was following in my footsteps, or continuing to be consumed by the murderous side of a collective mania, was no longer my concern; it was never my concern.

Move.

I must continue to move.

***

Logan wound up walking with me, away from Bourbon Street that night. He even chose to follow my lead when it came to eating the slice of pizza. As I suspected, his energy was quick to change as we made our way out of the crowds, veering free from the epicentre of manic chaos, and back to the hotel. I’m sure the pizza also played a role in his sudden transition from murderer to just another drunk guy.

It didn’t really matter. I wasn’t concerned with investigating the details of the chaos the way I usually am.

I just wanted to keep moving. To keep walking, keep dancing, keep leading; whatever.

I needed to move.

The city of New Orleans possessed a power that was somehow allowing me to step into my own.

***

The next day, we woke up, and drank a cup of coffee at the hotel.

“You wanted to murder me on Bourbon Street, last night.” I said.

“I know. I’m sorry.” He said.

“It’s okay.” I said.

“I guess we should get back out there.” I said.

We finished our coffee then left the hotel.

Most of the day was a blur. I tried to stay connected to myself while the intense energies of the streets danced their way through me.

In and out. In and out. In and out.

Managing a way to stay connected to myself was enough of a challenge, so I ignored most of what Logan was saying while we walked. I’m sure he didn’t mind. He is constantly talking, and I don’t believe it is because of a need to be heard, as much as it is a need to empty his head of the noise.

I saw a butterfly during our walk, and believe it or not, this image is the clearest memory I have of the whole trip.

I looked up from the sidewalk, and the transparent glow of orange wings illuminated by the sun, caused me to lose my breath.

“Look. A butterfly. It’s beautiful.” I announced.

As if the butterfly could understand my words, and wished for us to be further spectators of how beautiful she truly was, she landed on the leaf of a balcony plant.

We stood directly underneath her, and watched while she slowly opened and closed her wings. She allowed the sun to dance in and out, in and out, in and out.

With the astounding architecture of a historic building as her background, she kept moving.

“She’s beautiful!” I announced again.

“Wow. It’s really rare to see a butterfly like that here in the French Quarter. Thanks for pointing it out.” Said a stranger, who must have joined us at some point during our spectating.

“Of course.” I said and bowed my head in response, even though I didn’t agree with him.

This was my first time in Louisiana, so maybe he was right. Maybe butterflies don’t hang out in the French Quarter. Who was I to know?

Still, I didn’t believe him.

I didn’t believe it was as rare for people to see a butterfly like her, as much as it was rare for people to stop to look.

***    

That night, we wound up at a bar called The Dungeon. It was located somewhere off Bourbon Street, hidden at the end of a narrow, dark alleyway. Before entering, we were told that photography was not permitted in the establishment.

There was a blonde bartender wearing all black. I watched her while Logan was outside telling the doorman a long story, one in which the doorman wasn’t expecting. He just wanted to check our ID’s and vaccination cards.

I found the bartender very sexy. I find all women sexy, unless they act ugly in character. Women are beautiful. They make me feel excited by their power, and safe by the ways they choose to use it. Of course, there are always exceptions, but this is generally how I feel.

Feminine energy has a way of bringing me back to my own power, and the source of my sexual being. Otherwise, I’ve always found it challenging to access, let alone connect with this source.

Logan finally entered the bar, and I nodded at the doorman. He nodded back. We smirked at each other in unison; a silent understanding of both being experiencers of Logan’s lengthy stories.

Logan sat next to me, and for the first time during our trip, I noticed his beauty without interruption. I’d been too distracted by everything else in New Orleans to see him clearly until that moment.

We ordered our drinks, then I was given the details regarding this so-called Dungeon of a bar. Logan told me that on the second floor, there was another bar where people were known to engage in public sex. Chains, handcuffs, and other bondage equipment were said to hang from the walls. That explained the “No Photography” speech upon our arrival.

“Let’s do it.” I said to him, after hearing only a brief share of what he knew about the place.

“Really? I didn’t think that would be something you wanted to do.” He said.

I surveyed his face and the posture of his upper body. He’d always been sexy to me, and I found it romantic that he appeared to be just as sexy, sitting there in the dark.

In and out. In and out. In and out.

I tried to find my breath.

“Do you really want to? Okay, let’s go.” He said.

I uncrossed my legs, then arched my back.

“Give me a minute.” I told him.

“Where are you going?” He asked.

“To the bathroom. To check in with myself.” I said.

In the bathroom stall, I pulled my romper down to my ankles, and sat with my legs spread. Somehow I always forget how bold of an act it is to wear a romper in public, until I’m sitting there completely naked inside a bathroom stall.

Deep breaths.

“What do we want right now?” I asked the holy trinity of my mind, body, and soul.

“Do we want to go upstairs to have a playful experience? Do we want to be taken by Logan and brought to orgasm in front of strangers? Do we want to take Logan and bring him to orgasm in front of strangers? Do we want to do this at all?”

After asking each question aloud, I waited for a feeling to respond.

The only real answers exist inside of a feeling.

“No. Not right now.” The answer was clear and there was no need to analyze the reasons why.

I pulled up my romper, then washed my hands while staring at my eyes in the dimly lit reflection of the mirror. I exited the bathroom, making my way back to Logan.

“Come on. We’re leaving.” I said to Logan.

“What? Why? How did you change your mind so quickly?” He asked.

“I checked in with myself.”

“Let’s go.” I said.

He followed me out of the alley and away from The Dungeon.

Somewhere in between the sidewalks and the other bars, I began to bleed. My menstrual cycle wasn’t supposed to start for another eleven days, but there I stood bleeding through my romper, somewhere in the streets of New Orleans.

***    

I am in the bathtub at Marie Laveaux’s Annex somewhere in the French Quarter.

Blood is swirling in small circles around the tub. There are so many small circles, and they appear to be dancing with each other while they move. I can feel the blood swirling and spinning, even with my eyes closed. I can feel the air outside of the tub, vibrating with the same breath as the rest of the city. I can feel the sun through the curtain and I can follow its warmth from beyond the window, all the way down to the Mississippi River.

I can feel him inside me as I move.

In and out in and out in and out.

I hear Logan grunt, then all of a sudden I am brought out of just feeling, and back into my other senses.

My movement is as slow as his breath is becoming, but I don’t stop.

I keep moving.

In and out. In and out. In and out.

Finally.

 

Photo by mana5280 on Unsplash