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They See Your Every Move

“Hey Bob, do you have a dildo?”

“Huh?” I was a little groggy, as Shelby was asking me this while was waking me up from a snooze on the living room sofa.

“A dildo, do you have one?”

“Um, no … why?”

“Well, we’ve got X in the middle room and he really wants me to use one with him. Do you have any toys we could use?”


Many moons ago, in the mid 80s, I used to live in the French Quarter, with my boyfriend, who we now know as Blanche. One day, we noticed that a couple of (real) girls had taken occupancy of the slave quarters behind our apartment. They were quite the pair, one all dolled up in couture and the other quite gorgeous like a young Elizabeth Taylor … a raven-haired Ivory girl, not trying so hard to be done-up, but all the more gorgeous for being natural.

At first, they were only there on weekends, and were very quiet neighbors. We didn’t think too much about them, but, of course, wondered who they were. None of the other neighbors (or realtors; yes, we asked) seemed to know either. We concocted a story that they were a nice lesbian couple from Connecticut.

After a month or so, they started bringing their dog … a wheezy little pug whose name escapes me (I never did like pugs). Our cocker spaniel, however, was very interested in sharing a balcony with the dog and we started talking to the girls.

Turns out they were not lesbians, but were “entrepreneurs” from New York who had several vague business connections a number of very well-connected executives in both entertainment and finance.

“Well you know darlin’s, I have a nightclub on Bourbon Street,” Blanche tells them, “so if you ever want to entertain, let me know and I’ll save the best tables for you.”

We showed them our place, they showed us theirs.

Blanche comes back and tells me it looks like a nicely appointed whorehouse.

“Shut up,” I said. “They’re very nice girls. Why you gotta be so down on people all the time?”

Months went by, and we slowly learned that my beloved Blanche had hit the nail smack on the head.

Shelby was a real life Barbie doll who never was seen in the light of day without full make up and full Chanel. Sally was a nice, but troubled girl who’d been discovered dancing in a DC area strip club and was recruited by one of those 3-lettered agencies to be a dominatrix for a defecting Russian spy. That’s another story.

The girls had become friends in NY and shared a swanky apartment overlooking Gramercy Park. Shelby had a crush on one of the music stars she’d been “working” with and had developed this master plan to win his love.

This plan involved a Faberge Easter Egg hunt (they made some good money, these girls), which would lure X (one half of a two-man pop group from the 70s and 80s) to her lair of love. That, she swore, was the main reason for getting the apartment in New Orleans. “What better place to romance a musician?” she’d ask me.

After months of planning, the arrangements were finally made for X and his cohort Y to come to New Orleans and Shelby would lead X to the egg.

As had come to be the custom, the ladies entertained in our place (as we had a Royal Street view, a better balcony out front and an airier apartment). So, there we were, having drinks with the boys from the band, Shelby schmoozing her X and leaving me to chat up the very charming Y about life on the recording road.

The girls took the guys to Blanche’s show and then they were off for some Bourbon Street adult entertainment. Shelby had a thing for taking her friends to the he-she shows. I opted for Lafitte’s.

Fast forward to a few hours later, where I’m passed out resting on the sofa.

“Shel, I really don’t think there’s a dildo in the house, but let me go double check in the bedroom.”

I shuffle down the hall to our room, where I turn on the light and wake Blanche up. “You will never believe what’s going on ...” and proceeded to bring him up to speed.

Coming out of the bedroom, I told Shelby the sad truth: we were boys without toys. Ever gracious, she said she’d improvise.

Turns out not only did X want something up his bum, but he was more interested in schtupping Sally than Shelby. Ever the trooper, Sally obliged her roommates request to help out.

Blanche and I tiptoed out of our French window onto the side balcony of our apartment; where we stood there outside, peeking into our middle room like two schlocky private eyes, silently giggling in disbelief, watching a pop star bang his “girlfriend’s” half-asleep girlfriend while getting a French-manicured fisting from behind.

Sally may have given up the goods, but Shelby never did give up that Faberge Egg.