6 comments/ 112857 views/ 15 favorites Virgin on Bourbon Street By: christo It was a little after ten when Brian tiptoed through the dark hotel room to the foot of his parents' bed. "Dad." Too soft. He cleared his throat and said, "Dad." His mother stirred. "Huh?" "I'm going for a walk." "What?" "You said I could go for a walk around the French Quarter if I was packed and ready to go. I am." His mother said, "I don't think so. It isn't safe." "You said I could." "Your father said you could. I say you can't." His father said, "For God's sake, it's a Monday morning, not Mardi Gras." His dad looked at him. "Be back by noon. I mean it." "I will!" He grabbed his wallet and headed for the door. "Leave your wallet," his mother said. "Put your money in your sock so pickpockets don't get it. "Pickpockets?" Brian asked. "Jesus Christ," his exasperated father said. "How much money do you have?" "A hundred and forty dollars." "Let me see," his mother said, and made him count out the seven twenties. His father said, "Come back with all of it. Don't go spending it on junk." "I might stop and get some beignets." "Fine. But that's it. And back by noon." "Can I take the camera?" His dad sighed. "OK." He trotted through the door and it slid shut and there was silence, blessed silence. He was free. He jogged down the stairs and through the lobby and was on Rampart Street in fifteen seconds. Already the air was heavy and damp and he knew it would be another scorcher. But who cared about that now? He was on his own, a man about town, and what a town! New Orleans, the Big Easy. He could see himself back home in Pittsburgh, telling his buddies about the forbidden joys of the busiest street in the world, the one and only Bourbon Street. The past week had been utter hell. They'd flown to Phoenix to spend time with Brian's grandparents. It should have been a lot of fun, golf and hiking and lounging in the pool, but a freak storm rained out two whole days, and then Brian came down with the flu. The trip was a complete loss. His parents drove him nuts, he thought on purpose. He started college in the fall and they were still trying to get him to forget Penn State and go to Pitt. "If you went to Pitt, you could live here and take the bus to class," his mother said, unintentionally making the case against Pitt absolutely air-tight. All he had to do was convince them to let him go. The problem was, he had no idea how. and he didn't know if he had the guts to stand up to them. He walked up St. Anne's Street and admired the pastel-painted houses and their formidable defenses. Every house was guarded by a tall wrought-iron fence, the tops of the fences festooned with barbed wire, metal spikes, even shards of broken glass. He grinned, thinking of some drunken slob, desperate for a quiet place to piss, climbing up and getting a very rude surprise at the top. He took pictures of the most lethal-looking contraptions and moved along. Bourbon Street was mostly deserted but it was still a remarkable sight. He looked downtown and it stretched on forever, block after block after block, an vast avenue of full of forbidden delights. And he had two glorious hours to explore them. It was already getting oppressively humid, and Brian paused in front of a saloon to soak up the freezing air blasting out of its open door. He walked a few feet and there was another bar, it's door open, sub-arctic air creating a cone of cold just outside the door. The frigid air felt wonderful on his skin. It was too much to take in all at once. He walked past a karaoke bar, a souvenir shop, a three-star restaurant, and a place that sold all sorts of voodoo trinkets and other spooky stuff. And the chaotic jumble of bars and shops and restaurants continued to the horizon. There was this little hole in the wall, barely big enough for five people to stand in, that sold frozen daquiris. A pretty blonde girl with very large breasts and a tight T-shirt tended plastic tubs filled with different colored slurries. It was 10AM and she already had a half-dozen customers. Unreal. He walked past a storefront and stopped cold. The sign said, "Nude Girls!", the two-word combination most likely to get the attention of an 18-year-old boy. It was a strip joint, obviously, a low-rent, seedy place with a bright green awning over the doorway. The entrance was covered by thick plastic slats, the kind that keep the cold inside a meat locker. "Nice place," he murmured to himself, trying to imagine the goings-on in a place like this. His mother would literally kill him if he went in a place like this, actually break his neck and dump his body in the woods. Even if she saw him looking at it she'd flip. He thought about taking a picture, just to freak her out, but he knew better. Freaking out Mom was a losing game. He remembered that ghastly day when his mother walked in on him masturbating in the bathroom. Did she turn away in embarrassment, or run away screaming? No. She grabbed him by the arm, dragged him down to the car, Brian desperately trying to pull his pants up, and took him to see their parish priest. There he was subjected to an hour-long lecture on the evils of self-abuse by a 65-year-old man who probably hadn't had an erotic thought in his life. Father Walter, perpetually befuddled, oblivious to the outside world, telling Brian about how spilling his seed on the ground was a ticket to eternal damnation. That's the phrase he used, spilling his seed. That day convinced him how ludicrous his Catholic upbringing was, the hypocrisy, the disconnection from reality. Once he got to school he would never set foot in a church again. He wondered how badly his own sexual health had been damaged by that day. He couldn't know for sure, because he was still very much a virgin, never getting beyond a shy kiss on the lips with a girl. He walked a few yards past the club and lifted his camera to take a picture of a restaurant that had a second-floor balcony with a magnificent cast-iron railing. He was taking aim when a voice behind him purred, "You do know you aren't seeing the real Bourbon Street, don't you?" He turned and there was a woman standing right behind him. She was maybe five years younger than his mother, but she looked like no mother he'd ever seen. She was very attractive, with thick black hair, sly brown eyes, and lips painted a rich, creamy red. Her perfume was exotic and oddly spicy, her scent surrounded him in a miasma of feminine softness. She was nearly a foot shorter than Brian, and her petite body was almost obscenely curvaceous. She was dressed all in white-corset, garter belt, stockings, heels. Her big milky breasts jiggled inside the cups of her corset. Brian looked at her and his mouth went slack as he stared. He couldn't help staring. He'd never seen a woman up close wearing such sexy lingerie, and the fact that he was standing with her in the middle of what is normally the busiest street in the world added to the shock. "What?" he asked in a weak voice. She reached out and tickled his belly with fingers tipped with long, red fingernails. "Here you are having a walk around my town, but you aren't seeing us at our best." She stepped even closer and put a stockinged knee between his thighs. She pointed down Bourbon Street, toward downtown. "You need to come for Mardi Gras, honey. The biggest party in the world. Can you imagine, as far as you can see, people jammed together as close as you and me." She put her other arm around his waist and slowly, gently, tugged him toward the tiny awning covering the entrance of the club. Brian let himself be led, paralyzed by her overt sexiness, his nervous system overwhelmed by the sensation of her fingernails caressing him just above his belt. He was actually shaking. She didn't seem to notice. She said, "Everyone all packed together, everyone having a good time, no inhibitions, no worries." They were under the awning and she turned him so his back faced the street, his big body keeping passersby from seeing her clearly behind him. She slowly untucked his shirt from his shorts slid her bare hand under his shirt. her nails dancing across his belly. "And everyone dressed up in sexy costumes, showing themselves off for everyone to see. This is what I wore for Mardi Gras." She leaned away to give him a better look. "Do you like it? Do you think I look nice?" Brian nodded like a drunk. The woman smiled and pulled his hips against her. His erection stuck out like a chisel. She leaned up and kissed his cheek. "You're so polite." Again her hand disappeared under his shirt, and now her fingers probed the waistband of his shorts. Brian's trembling grew worse. He looked over his shoulder. Other people walked past and paid them no mind, and Brian guessed that this wasn't the most shocking thing Bourbon Street had ever witnessed, a sexy woman toying with a petrified teenage boy. He turned back and her dark eyes smiled up at him. "What's your name, honey?" she asked. "Brian," he stammered. She leaned back for just a second and shook his limp hand. "My name is Vanessa. It's nice to meet you, Brian." He managed a sickly smile. "Nice to meet you, too." She released her hand and her fingers resumed their burrowing in his shorts. "Where are you from, Brian? "Pittsburgh." "Are you in town with your mommy and daddy?" He nodded. "Our flight leaves at four," he said, hoping she would release him from her tender clutches. Her red lips curled in a dramatic frown. "Oh, that's too bad, you won't get a chance to see everything the French Quarter has to offer." Then those creamy lips spread into a mischievous smile. "But I can show you something very special, something you'll remember a long, long time." She took his hand again and said, "Come on, darling." He wanted to pull away. He wanted to jerk his hand free and run, run the seven blocks back to St. Anne's Street and then sprint back to the hotel. Get on the plane, get back to Pittsburgh, get away from this terrifying woman. But he didn't. He couldn't. The spell she'd cast over him with her lips, her scent, her fingernails, was far too strong for him to resist. She pushed aside the thick plastic slats that served as a doorway to the club, and he was taken from the safety of the street. It was very dark inside the club. The overhead lights were off, the only illumination coming from soft lights behind the bar and a bright green EXIT sign above the hallway in the back. Brian could see a circular stage with tables set around it, and a long runway that ran through the center of the club. The big room was empty, except for a big, bearded man whose bare arms were covered with dark tattoos. The smell of stale beer and sharp strawberry disinfectant competed with Vanessa's heady perfume and eventually carried the day. This wasn't what they called a "gentleman's club". It was a dive that had naked girls straddling poles. "This is my place." Vanessa said. "I've been entertaining here for nearly fifteen years. We're a New Orleans institution." She led him by the hand toward the bar. "I'm going to take our guest on a tour," she told the scary bartender. He shrugged his massive shoulders. "OK with me," he said, bored. He stared at Brian with obvious contempt and his terror multiplied tenfold. He'd heard about the crime in New Orleans, how it was for a time the murder capital of the United States. Did people here lure innocent tourists into darkened clubs to rob them, kill them, sell their organs on the black market? He wanted to cry as the woman led him down a darkened corridor and up a creaky staircase. It was totally absurd, this sexy woman in luxurious white lingerie walking up stairs that could have easily been in a run-down tenement. "I want you to meet some friends of mine," she whispered. They came to a door and Vanessa tapped gently. "Is everyone decent?" she said. "No," a bored female voice called from inside. Vanessa smiled and opened the door. She made room for Brian to go in first, and once they were inside she closed the door. He looked around the room. There were four girls in the room lounging around on various pieces of beat-up green leather furniture. None looked to be more than 21 years old. Three of the girls were white-a tall girl with straight platinum blonde hair, a chubby girl with big jiggy breasts and curly, dirty-blonde hair, and a willowy redhead with pale, pale skin. The fourth girl was black, and maybe a few years older than the others. She was topless, and her huge, over-inflated breasts floated on her chest like two volleyballs. "Girls, this is Brian," Vanessa said, wrapping her arm around his waist and snuggling close. "This is his first time in N'Awlins." The four girls looked at him with an odd combination of indifference and amusement. "Hey, Brian," the black girl said, drawling out his name so it sounded like, "Braaan." He looked around. All the girls had dark, disinterested eyes that added an even shaper edge to his nervousness. "I was telling Brian about how it's too bad he's here when it's so quiet around here," Vanessa said. "He needs to come back and visit us during Mardi Gras." "Oh, yeahhh," the black girl said, rising to her feet. Her giant breasts thrust out before her and wobbled stiffly as she walked up to him. "Biggest party on earth." Brian couldn't meet her eyes, her big tits begged for close inspection. She cupped her breasts in her hands. "You're momma probably tells you it isn't nice to stare." Brian felt his face flush red and he looked her in the face. Her smile was lazy, practiced. He felt like he was in the middle of a performance that had been put on a hundred times before, but he didn't know his lines. He just had to follow where these scary, sexy women took him. There was a flash of flame to his left, the red-haired girl put a cigarette in her lips and lit it. It broke his concentration for a second and Vanessa said, "Doesn't Charita have lovely breasts?" "What?" Brian said. Vanessa gently caressed the black girl's perfectly round globes. "Aren't they wonderful?" "They should be, what I paid for them," Charita snorted. "Do you mind if our young friend touches them?" she asked. Charita shrugged, and turned to present her big tits to him. "Go ahead." Brian tried not to stutter. "No, no, really, it's OK, really." Charita said, "You ever touch a girl's tits before?" He shook his head. She raised her arms above her head, tightening her cavernous cleavage. "I bet the girls back home don't have titties like these." He shook his head. She took his hands and put them on her breasts. He squeezed them tentatively, the hard, firm flesh hardly giving under his touch. His pale skin almost seemed to glow when contrasted with the dark, smooth skin of her body. "You have any black girls in your school back home?" Charita said. Brian caressed her breasts with moist palms. "A few." "One? Two?" "Just one," he admitted. She snorted, and put her hand on the front on his shorts. Her fingernails were long and painted with a glossy, opaque finish. "You ever take her out someplace nice, show her off around town, take her to meet your parents?" "She, um, she has a boyfriend," he lied. In fact he barely knew the girl, and felt guilty that was the case. "Righhhhht," she said, her tone showing she didn't believe him. Her fingers traced the line of his erection inside his shorts. Brian trembled from head to foot as her nails found the head of his cock. "You ever jack off thinking about black girls?" He didn't know what to say. "I don't do that." All the women laughed out loud. The room suddenly seemed very small, claustrophobic, the air thick with the smells of perfume, tobacco, disinfectant, and excitement. Charita didn't smile, she just kept stroking his cock through his shorts. "Bet you jack off thinking about a black girl tonight." She turned around, bent over, and rubbed her buttocks against his crotch. She said, "Tell me, what do you like better? Big tits, or a nice round ass?" Vanessa patted Charita's left cheek and eased her away. "What does that matter, when you have both?" Charita smiled at her boss, and said, "He's got a big cock for a skinny boy." "He does?" drawled the redhead smoking the cigarette. She stood and slowly crossed the room. Brian tried to back away but Vanessa held him fast with a gentle palm in the small of his back. She had cloudy blue eyes and wore black raspberry lipstick. She held the cigarette at her side and put her warm palm on the front of his shorts. "That's a big one," she said. She put the cigarette to her lips and blew a milky stream at the ceiling. "Can I see it?" Vanessa caressed the girl's cheek. "Of course, Janine." Brian tried to pull away. It was impossible-he had to see what would happen next. The red-haired girl unbuckled and unzipped him and pulled his shorts down around his ankles. He felt the cool air circulate around his penis. He could hear the ocean in his ears, it was like his brain was full of ginger ale. The world was reduced to his narrow field of vision, which was focused on the pretty girl kneeling between his legs. She wrapped her fingers around his cock and Brian trembled from head to toe. It was the first time a girl had ever touched him. The other girls crowded around close. He felt fingernails tickle his ass and knew Vanessa was standing behind him. She said, "Is this the first time a woman has seen you naked?" "Yes!" Brian gasped. "Besides your mommy, of course. And I bet she's never seen you like this." She tweaked the fat end of his erection and he groaned. Vanessa helped him step out of his shorts and boxers, and pulled his shirt over his head. He was totally naked in front of them now, his cock throbbing with every beat of his pounding heart. Charita knelt next to the redhead and gave her a look. "Well?" she demanded. The redhead peeked around Brian's right hip. "Is it OK?? Vanessa said. "Go ahead, honey." The redhead still held her cigarette in the slim fingers of her right hand and used her left to heft his erection to her lips. Brian squirmed, waiting breathlessly for her to lick him, and when she did, when her pink tongue slithered between his dark lips and caressed the big bulb at the head of his cock he squeezed his eyes shut and moaned like the frightened boy he was. The pretty redhead engulfed the head of his penis in her mouth and began sucking him slowly, her berry-red lips tight around his shaft. Her head went up and down his cock eight, nine, ten times, before Charita put a finger on the girl's chin and eased her lips away. She licked her lips and then put the cigarette to her lips again. She slowly blew a cloud to the ceiling. "Was it OK?" Brian almost cried, "Yes!" but the question was directed elsewhere. "You'll learn," Charita said. She said, "Go on, Ashley." The skinny platinum blonde leaned over and her silky hair formed a canopy over his groin. Again he felt warm lips surround his penis, felt that incredible slippery friction. This girl worked him faster, her head bobbing back and forth as she sucked his dick. She let him slip from her lips and used her tongue up and down his shaft, and Brian writhed because the sensations were too intense to bear. The chubby girl stroked his inner thigh with her long pink nails. He turned to look at her and saw a kittenish smile on her lips. Her lipstick was the same color as her nails. "You like that, don't you?" He nodded hard. "Yes." She scratched his thigh with her nails, raking his skin gently, and it drove him crazy. "I could make you come just with these," she said, now letting her nails glide across his chest. The platinum blonde rose to her feet and the chubby girl leapt off the couch and settled between his legs. She didn't suck him into her mouth, she just wrapped her long-nailed fingers around his pole and started pumping. She jerked him off and used her tongue on the crown of his cock, her tongue as pink as her lips, a stiff, flexible, slippery muscle caressing his tip with maddening speed. She looked up into his eyes and he couldn't look away, she had him totally under her control. Virgin on Bourbon Street "Get him wet, Bobbi," Charita said, and the chubby girl suddenly deep-throated him, taking his whole cock into her mouth over and over, her curly blonde head corkscrewing as she blew him. Her wet mouth made loud slurping noises as she sucked him and he could feel rivulets of saliva dripping down his shaft. Brian was shivering all over, overwhelmed by the sensation, knowing that he was going to come soon. Charita tapped Bobbi on the shoulder and said, "Step back," and the chubby blonde pulled her lips away with a loud "Pop!". She stepped aside and Charita seized Brian's saliva-lubricated cock and stuffed it between her enormous globes. Brian could barely believe his eyes, his pink cock wedged between her dark brown breasts. Charita squeezed her tits shut and the soft flesh felt hot and velvety smooth around him. He flexed his asscheeks, driving his cock deeper inside her cleavage. "Thass it, baby. Fuck those titties." Brian had never even imagined doing something like this, but as his pink cock slid in and out of her valley it felt so good he could barely stand it. He pulled back and thrust, pulled back and thrust, pulled back and THRUST, and thrusting felt like the most natural motion in the world. Thrusting meant pleasure, ecstasy beyond words. He put his hands on Charita's shoulders to get more leverage and started fucking her tits with more speed, going faster and faster, waiting for that moment when he finally couldn't stand it anymore and would come. He hoped that moment wouldn't arrive too soon, that he could endure that terrible pressure at the point of his cock. When he masturbated he tried to make himself come as soon as possible, to minimize the amount of time he was at risk of discovery at the hands of his mother. Now he wanted to have this go on forever. Charita's eyes bored into his, daring him to look away. He couldn't break her gaze. "You got a nice dick for tit-fucking," she said. "I'm going to come soon," he whispered. Her face hardened. "You ready, girl?" Brian turned to see the redhead nod without much enthusiasm. "I'll do it," the chubby blonde said. It sounded like she was trying to impress Vanessa, show how enthusiastic she was compare to Janine. Brian didn't know what they were talking about and didn't care. He didn't care about anything now except coming. He kept fucking Charita's tits and saw Vanessa hand something to Charita, he couldn't see what it was. Charita put a hand on each of her breasts and pulled them apart, releasing him from her tit-sandwich, her cleavage smeared with his pre-come, whipped into a white froth by his piston. Charita's head lowered and slid his cock between her lips. Her mouth moved all the way down his cock to the root. She did it again, and again, sucking him back into a fever pitch of excitement, and then she said, "Get on." The redhead stood there frozen in place, not out of fear, but out of lethargy, or inattention. The chubby blonde took the cigarette from her and took a quick drag, blowing out a cloud as she offered a steadying hand to the redhead stepping out of her white panties. "No, please, please, please," Brian said. He could see what was coming and he wanted them to stop. But another part of him, the part that throbbed between his legs, did want it, wanted it badly. He wanted to fuck, he wanted to come. He wanted to lose his virginity right now and he wanted the pretty redhead climbing into his lap to be the one he lost it with. He looked at his penis as she settled herself over him and he saw that it was oddly shiny, oddly discolored, and he realized he was wearing a condom. Charita must have unfurled one over his penis when she went down on him. He wondered how she was able to do that, but he couldn't waste much time on that particular problem. The redhead settled herself over his lap, her clean-shaven pussy coming closer, closer, until his fat knob rested in her soft pink folds. Fingers with long-red nails closed around his shaft, Vanessa guiding him inside. "Please, don't, I've never done this. I have to go..." "You're mommy isn't here right now," Vanessa said. "Just enjoy yourself." His dick slipped down her cleft, he pressed against her opening, and then he suddenly slipped inside her body. Her eyes showed nothing, no pleasure, pain, surprise, disappointment. Brian's reactions were enough for them both. He groaned, arched his back, put his hands on her hips and pulled her down so he was buried inside her. "Oh, God," he whimpered, a real prayer, not just an empty phrase. It was beyond comprehension, the pleasure of it. To couple with a woman, to penetrate her, to feel her warm and lubricate because of his hardness. He was losing his virginity, right now. He wanted to escape but he couldn't, he was joined with this girl and she had him under her thumb. Or, more to the point, Charita and Vanessa had him under their well-manicured thumbs. They controlled the redhead who slowly gyrated over him. There wasn't enough in her eyes to show that she was enjoying or hating this. She just moved, moved over him, and Brian cried out again, getting so close now. Janine put her hands on his shoulders and moved a bit faster. "He's big," she said. "There are ones a lot bigger," Charita said. The chubby blonde said, "He looks plenty big enough." She took another puff of her cigarette and said, "Let me have a turn." Vanessa shook her head and smiled. "It's too late. Isn't it, Brian?" "Yes!" he said, the world around him turning inside out as his penis swelled, swelled, then split open deep inside the redhead's pussy. He came and it was a pleasure more intense than he thought his body could experience. He tried to scream and he couldn't, he gagged as he hyperventilated and quivered and emptied himself inside the vagina of the pretty girl straddling him. He needed air. He needed time to get over the shock. But the women didn't give him even a second to process what had just happened, how his life had just changed. Janine dismounted and Charita pulled the condom off his softening cock. Vanessa thrust a wet towel into his crotch. She washed his groin and his armpits. "Can't have you going back to Mommy smelling of perfume and pussy." When she finished he saw that his clothes were neatly folded and sitting on the couch. "Go ahead, get dressed," Vanessa said, and he was too befuddled to object. She handed him his camera case and he mumbled, "Thank you." He started to cry, he couldn't help himself, and Vanessa put her arms around his neck. "Oh, baby, don't cry. You've had a busy day, haven't you?" He nodded. She kept her arms around his neck and steered him toward the door. He saw the contempt in Charita's eyes, the emptiness in Janine's, the boredom in Ashley's, the hunger in Bobbi's. Vanessa took his hand and led him down the corridor, the four girls coming along as an escort. They hustled him down the stairs, fast. Charita took one arm, Vanessa the other, and the three other girls formed a loose circle around him. They were more animated now, laughing at some private joke that he didn't get. The bartender was still there, and he scowled at Brian as they sped across the floor. They stopped before the plastic slats and Vanessa said, "Now, you come back soon, hear?" And they gently pushed him through the slats onto Bourbon Street, into the wet, oppressive heat. Brian stood there, confused. He didn't understand what was going on. He stood there and heard the women laughing uproariously. Vanessa said, "Now, ladies, that's what I call drumming up business." They laughed even more. Brian didn't get it. He couldn't see through the slats, but he heard Vanessa voice say, faintly, "We each get one, and Charita and Janine get the extra. They did most of the work. Not bad for fifteen minutes work!" "I would've fucked him!" he heard Bobbi pout. What were they talking about? He checked his watch and found that Vanessa had been right. Fifteen minutes before he'd been walking down the street innocent as a lamb. And in those last fifteen minutes his life had changed. He needed answers. He went to push the slats away and ask Vanessa why they'd done this, given their bodies so willingly and then sent him on his way. But before he even got to the door the bartender was there, looming over him. "The fuck you want, motherfucker?" His eyes were hard and merciless. Brian was an inch taller than him but 40 pounds lighter, and the bartender looked like a man who liked beating on people smaller than him. Brian turned tail and walked double-time up Bourbon Street, looking over his shoulder and seeing the bartender's angry eyes locked on his. He turned the next corner to escape his pitiless stare. He walked for three blocks, trying to puzzle it out. He wasn't so naïve that he didn't know that some strippers augmented their earnings by performing sexual acts. But he hadn't paid Vanessa for arranging his defloration. Had she simply wanted to show the other girls that they shouldn't just wait for customers to proposition, that they had to be aggressive? He kept walking and cut up toward the French Market, heading for the Café du Mond. Maybe some food would help him think, help him make sense of what had just happened. The outdoor café wasn't crowded, and he took at table near the road so he could watch the horse-drawn carriages clop past. An Indian woman with powdered sugar up to her elbows took his order, 3 beignets and a glass of milk. She left to fill his order and he fished around in his pocket to get out his hard-earned cash. He pulled out his wallet, opened it, and got the second huge shock of the day. It was empty. He stared at the empty silk lining for a second, then another, and then the nausea hit him, a hot acid wave rising from his stomach into his throat. He leapt to his feet and staggered back, knocking over his chair. He stuck his fingers inside the empty sleeve as though the thin stack of twenties could be hiding in some unseen cranny. His waitress was about to return with his order and he had no money to pay for it. He felt like a criminal. He ran. He ran until the tears started, and then couldn't run any more. Slowing his body helped get his emotions under control. So that's why the women had laughed at him, why Vanessa had said deflowering him was "not bad for fifteen minutes work". A hundred and forty dollars for a quarter-hour's debauchery. He got her other comment now as well. They each got $20, and Charita and the redhead got the extra money because they had fucked Brian, Charita with her expensive breasts, Janine with the magical cavity between her legs. Vanessa had used him to teach her new girls a sick, twisted lesson, and then robbed him in the bargain. His hands compressed into fists of rage. He wanted to charge right back there and grab Vanessa by the throat and shake her until she gave his money back. Of course that was impossible-the bartender would break him in half. Calling the police would be worse than losing the money. How could he explain how she'd come to get his money? His parents would absolutely kill him. His parents. That was the real problem. Losing the money hurt, but it was just money. But how could he explain this to his parents? Lie and say he "lost" the money? Say he was robbed at gunpoint? No matter how he tried to explain it, his parents would come to the same conclusion-he wasn't ready to go out by himself into the cold, harsh world. Instead of going to Penn State he'd be stuck living at home and commuting to Pitt. Instead of going away to school and making new friends and having the time of his life he'd remain under the thumb of his parents, with an eleven o'clock curfew, constant pestering about having his homework done, Saturday nights having dinner at Grandma's. He wandered aimlessly, not seeing anything except his own dismal future before his eyes. It was perhaps fifteen minutes before he gathered himself enough to take a look around. He was standing in front of a Catholic church, St. Mary's. It caught his eye, his church back home was also called St. Mary's. This one was a small church with a black wrought-iron fence around its tiny grounds. Brian walked up the wet stone pathway to the big wooden door. He wanted someplace quiet to try to think up a story his parents would believe. Maybe in the church he would receive some divine inspiration. He sat and looked around. The church was old, the pews made of dark wood, the dirty gray brick walls covered with a slime of condensation. The stations of the cross were large woodcuts showing Christ undergoing his indignities in frightening detail. The crucifix hanging over the altar was a nearly-life size recreation, two immense beams lashed together with the suffering Jesus transfixed with horrible spikes. It was a church that inspired fear, not love or devotion. Brian sat there and the weight of his sin bore down on him like a huge palm flattening him against the wooden bench. The enormity of what had happened dawned on him. He could have walked away from Vanessa, on several occasions, but he hadn't the fortitude to do it. He'd allowed his body to govern his actions, let his penis steer him into disaster. Now, for the rest of his life, he would think back to the day he lost his virginity as the worst day of his life. He would never again be able to make love without remembering that first time, remembering Vanessa's perfume, Charita's fake tits, Janine's disconnected eyes. He would spend the next four years under his parents' thumb, since he didn't have the guts to cut the apron strings and go his own way. He was a pathetic, reprehensible coward. He cradled his face in his eyes and started to cry. He hated himself, hated his weakness. His parents were right, he wasn't smart enough or good enough to survive in the world. "What's the matter?" a voice said. Brian's head jerked up and a priest was standing there, looking down with concern. He was young, maybe 35 years old, with hair and eyes as dark as his suit. "Oh, nothing, nothing," Brian said. He started to get up to leave, but the priest blocked him by sitting down. "Sure, it's nothing, we get lots of people who come in here during the day and start crying about nothing." He grinned. Brian said, "No, really, it's nothing. I did something stupid and I'm going to get in trouble for it. I'm just an idiot." The priest shrugged. "We're all fallible. We all make mistakes. Mine was wearing black on a hot day like today. Then again, I don't have many options in my wardrobe." Brian managed a weak laugh. "Yup, it's hot out." "You're from out of town, I take it?" Brian nodded. "Pittsburgh." The priest offered his hand. "My name is Father Javier Saviola." Brian shook his hand. "Brian." "So, Brian from Pittsburgh, you want to tell me how you came to be crying in a church in New Orleans at 11 in the morning?" Brian looked at his feet. "I can't." Father Javier said, "No, you just don't want to. But if you have a problem, two heads are usually better than one. Maybe I can help." Brian kept his eyes on the floor. "I don't think so." "Try me. I'm good at keeping secrets." Brian didn't know why, but the idea of telling someone what happened calmed his churning stomach. So he did. He told Father Javier the whole story, about his carnal encounter at the club, about the theft, about the consequences he would suffer because of his weakness. The priest sat with a neutral expression on his face, listening intently, showing no horror or disgust at the tale. When Brian finished, the first thing Father Javier said was, "Are you sure you were wearing a condom when you had intercourse with the girl?" The question surprised him. "Um, yes, I'm sure. I saw the other girl take it off me." The priest nodded. "We need to look at the problem in terms of how long-lasting the consequences will be. My biggest concern was you acquiring some sexually-transmitted disease. But that doesn't seem to be a problem." Brian was surprised at the frankness of the priest's reply. "No, I guess not." "Calling the police wouldn't help," Father Javier said. "It would get you in more trouble with your parents, and frankly the cops wouldn't be able to do anything. These women would just say they'd never seen you before, or that you'd voluntarily paid for their favors." "It would only make things worse." Brian agreed. "Now, the problem with your parents." Father Javier touched his lips with his index finger. "What parish do you belong to in Pittsburgh?" "St. Mary's of the Assumption." The priest smiled. "So we share that in common, we both worship in a house devoted to the Virgin." Father Javier caught himself and laughed. "I'm sorry, poor choice of words." He paused to think, then leapt to his feet. "Wait here a minute. I'll be right back." He walked quickly up the aisle, genuflected before the altar, and then disappeared through a doorway. Brian sat there for five long minutes before he returned, genuflecting again, and striding back carrying an envelope. He sat down. "I checked on the Internet and there is a St. Mary's of the Assumption in Pittsburgh." He grinned again, Brian had never seen a priest so happy-go-lucky. "Just checking to see if you were pulling my leg. So," he handed Brian the envelope, "this should help solve the problem with your parents." Brian took it. The envelope was addressed to Father Javier Saviola, St. Mary's Church, New Orleans. Brian opened it and inside were seven twenty-dollar bills. "What's this?" he said, jerking his head up. "That's the money you lost. You can go back to your parents, tell them you had a pleasant walk around town, and they need never be troubled about your little escapade. And then after you get home, you mail the money back to me in that envelope. Cash is fine, if you don't want to explain why you sent such a generous donation to our parish." The priest smiled, but his expression turned serious. "That money comes straight from our parishioner's donations, and these are not wealthy people. I'm trusting you to pay it back. I'm not making a mistake, am I?" Brian shook his head so hard it rattled. "No, I swear! I'll pay you back as soon as I get home." "Within the month will be fine." Father Javier said. "So that solves that problem. But then there's the issue of your sin." The priest's smile disappeared, and so did Brian's. "It can be difficult to ignore the demands of your body. That does not excuse you from giving in to those demands whenever you're confronted with them." He sighed. "I think you were in a little over your head with those people. Today you've learned a hard lesson. Make sure you learn it well." Father Javier stood. "When you get home, go to confession. We don't have time right now. Go back to your parents, go back to Pittsburgh. Think about today. You've seen that people often do terrible things casually, without regard for how it hurts others. And you've seen that there are always people willing to help you, no matter how deep the hole you find yourself in. Remember that too." He offered his hand, and Brian gratefully shook it. The priest sighed. "Now I have to go to confession, for helping you fool your parents." He genuflected, and headed up the aisle. "Take it easy, Brian from Pittsburgh." Brian clutched the envelope in his hand like an owl winging home with a mouse. He put the money in his wallet and the envelope in his pocket. He managed to enjoy the walk back to the hotel. He smiled at everyone he passed, he didn't look at them as predators looking at him as their next victim. They were his fellow men, and he wanted to hug every single one of them. But. He purposefully walked up a block, onto Toulouse Street, to avoid walking past the strip club again. He cut back to Bourbon a block past the club and paused to take a long look. He made three promises to himself. One, he would pay back Father Javier. Two, he would keep going to Church. And three, he would get back at Vanessa and her girls and that bartender. It would take a bit longer, but he would have his revenge. Virgin on Bourbon Street He walked back to the hotel to find his parents packed and ready to go. "I was starting to worry," his mother said. Brian checked his watch. "It's only 11:30, you said noon." "I know, but I thought you would come back sooner." Brian shrugged and helped his dad carry their bags down the stairs. "So, what did you see?" his father asked. "Oh, lots of restaurants and bars, lots of little shops, some really neat houses..." "How were the beignets?" "Didn't have any, it was just too crowded. I didn't want to get stuck there and be late getting back." "Well, at least then you were thinking straight," his mother said. They took a cab to the airport, sat around for two hours, and then they boarded the 737 for home. Brian sat on the aisle, his long legs stretched out, his mother in the middle, his father by the window. "I decided something," Brian said. "I'm going to Penn State." His mother, trying to doze, sat straight up. "I thought we'd decided you would live at home and go to Pitt." Brian looked straight up the aisle and shook his head. "No. I want to go to Penn State. They have a better business school." He nodded, as though making his decision final. "I'm going to Penn State." "We'll talk about this later," his mother said. Brian kept nodding. "I have to send in my acceptance, we should take a drive up there, look around." From the corner of his eye he saw his mother's head swivel to look at his father. He cleared his throat and said, "Um, if you live at home, you could save up money to buy a car." "Don't need a car if I go to Penn State. I'd rather go to school there than have a car." For the next five minutes they made their objections and Brian answered them in a calm, firm voice. When a tense silence fell over them Brian cleared his throat and said, "I've made up my mind." He waited, not looking at them. The silence lasted a long time. Then his father said, "Well, if that's what you want..." Brian closed his eyes, let the tension of the day ebb away. What a day. It didn't seem real, that all this could have happened in the course of just a few hours. He felt sleep wrapping its warm arms around him. Everything ended up for the best, in the end. Except...except that Vanessa and her girls were back in that dank club, laughing at him, laughing at the little boy they'd fucked and fleeced and made a fool of. He'd get his revenge. It would take time, and patience, but it was something to look forward to. But that was the future. For now, he needed to sleep. And as the engines droned on and on and on, carrying him home, that's exactly what he did.