Zydeco Lost Weekend http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KXub_y9kvjE&feature=related Did I ever tell you the one about Hurricane Gustav—and the Republican Convention in New Orleans? Well, they evacuated the goddamn city as you know—and that’s how I ended up in the No Tell Motel in Houma, Louisiana with a bunch of born-again Palin Mobsters for the weekend. Jaysus Christ, they were all from her whacko Wasilla Bible Church back in Alaska—and all they wanted to do was get drunk and do that old “Laying of the Hands” trip on yours truly in the motel. But I wasn’t into Barracuda con games—and besides I don’t usually like to mix up sex, fornication and politics :-). So anyway, at least, I got a chance to have a kinda class reunion sort of thing—with an old college lover-boy from way back when at LSU. In fact I got to visit with Maurice Boudreaux—my first true love back then when we were freshmen in Baton Rouge. Yes, Maurice was my very first true Zydeco lover. He was from Houma—one of the most homely young men I’d ever met in my life. He was more than just homely—he was downright ugly. How ugly? Ugly enough to make a loving mother weep—ugly enough to make a grown man cry and deny that he’d ever spawned such a alligator-boy offspring as Maurice my roommate back then in college. Maurice Boudreaux was so ugly—that the beautiful magnolia trees on campus would wilt and shudder when he passed by. He was so ugly that all the pretty coeds on the Quad in between classes—would flee into the Library and hide in the stacks just to get away from him. Yes, Maurice Boudreaux was my ugly duckling Prince Charming back then in the early ‘60s—basically because Boudreaux was my surprise roommate there in Smegma Hall on campus way back then. Everybody I suppose has their own little ugly ducking horror story to tell—about their college freshman dormitory dayz. And mine’s no different— than anybody else I suppose. Well, maybe a little juicier. The important thing though was this—Maurice Boudreaux was on the gym team. Built like a brick shit-house—Boudreaux had that kind of body that those young Greek godz with a divine physique must have had back then. Surely the kind of athletic build that would’ve made Jove weep for Ganymede—or Helen of Troy slobber all over her pretty-boy Paris. It was just a hop, skip and a swish or two—down Fieldhouse Drive and over to the vast Temple of the Muscles gym where Boudreaux and the gym team worked out. I loved that old ’30 art deco style of the Huey P. Long Fieldhouse with its graceful wrought-iron balconies, potted palms and ancient Olympic-sized swimming pool. Past the ancient Indian mound full of gawd-knows-whatever skeletons in the closet buried there, past the colonnades of blooming magnolias and pecan trees gracing the campus boulevards—then up the staircase past the creaky-floored basketball courts, and into the second floor gym where the gym team worked out. The cream of the crop of Louisiana’s muscle-bound bayou Creole boys was all there—swinging from the high-bars, pirouetting on the pommel horses, hanging moodily in the air suspended from the rings, posing like beautiful crucified St. Sebastian angels, bodies bouncing on the trampoline and doing what comes naturally to young built athletic gods of Zydeco Land. Naturally I fell in love with Maurice the minute I opened the dormitory door and there he was naked in bed playing with himself—he was a simply divine Delta dreamboat just waiting to be had. I couldn’t keep my hands off him—he was so hot. I insisted that Maurice not take showers after his workouts—so I could give him a tongue-bath back in dorm, burying my nose flat against his huge sweaty armpits just waiting for me to imbibe and inhale the ode de male cologne emanating from every pore and crevice of his exquisite body. Why did all the girls on campus think Maurice was ugly? I guess it was because—they’d get one look at that huge thick water moccasin crawling down his leg inside his pants and run for dear life. It was truly a manmade monster—worthy of only the bravest lips and most daring tongue-tips. It wasn’t long before I got totally addicted—to his Creole goodlooks and hot bayou pouty lips. I slept every night with Maurice—bundled up in his strong arms. His huge biceps had a nervous life all of their own—they’d flex all night long in his deep sleep, giving me goose-bumps all night long. His flat hard stomach and erect pink nipples and bulging bellybutton—they’d twitch and wiggle long past midnight just for my shameless enjoyment. Maurice’s tight wrap-around legs—were like big thick water moccasins. Actually more like writhing, aching anacondas or muscular pythons—choking my neck and straggling me every night. My Zydeco love grew and arched up above like his lovely twisting torso—spanning the Mississippi River like the Huey P. Long Bridge. Plus deep down there inside Boudreaux’s pale white smooth-as-satin huge chest—his heart thumped and thumped in all its sullen Creole heart of darkness. He was full of some kind of strange ennui—some sort of adolescent humid primeval primitiveness. It thumped and moved and slithered around down inside him—like a giant alligator garfish slinking through the dark subterranean, mysterious swamp-night. It was just awful—awfully nice. Maurice was my Creole Zydeco Loverboy—out of some gone jizzy Jurassic Park legend. He had a deep moody loneliness inside him—that needed somehow to be worshipped, assuaged and comforted. It made me feel kinda like a scared, nelly Fay Wray—rudely kidnapped away to some mountain hidden den there on Skull Island. I was awfully afraid—but somehow sympathetic for that moody young Creole King Kong man of mine. Every night was a Zydeco lost weekend—those sexy semesters surely would never end. I couldn’t sleep at night—I slept all day long and skipped classes. Somehow I made it through my freshman year—despite all that pouty perverted dormitory love. You see there was this strange kind of transgressive mental telepathy that started running through my veins and arteries. The more Cajun/Creole love I got inside me—the more my latent psychic tendencies began to grow dontchaknow. It was like being Edgar Cayce in drag—or Madame Sosostris in a Tarot trance. This rather exotic kind of “queer” Zydeco love osmosis worked well with my homework—all those novels and textbooks I was supposed to read. With Boudreaux as my boyfriend—it was as if all those nasty nightly seminal infusions opened the floodgates to me sucking up class assignments. Those nightly love-gobs turned out being—like much needed and well-deserved Forbidden Planet mind-boosts from the wise and ancient Creole-Krell gods. Thus I magically was able to absorb both my homework—as well as the ebb and flow and oozing seminal libido of my exquisitely fine Louisiana lover-boy. My various and sundry Allen Hall English class reading and writing assignments were important to me—I managed to squeeze them in through the keyhole of my burgeoning hormonal imagination as much as I could. When I couldn’t sleep, I’d prop myself up in bed next to Maurice—and read things like Genet’s Journal of a Thief and Andre Gide’s The Immoralist. To get a feel for what the old Fag Masters had to say—about what I was going through. It seems like I’d always been in love with Maurice—feeling him up with my greedy octopus eight arms, eight legs and eight lips. I had no shame—I was simply shamelessly in love. Even my fingers had octopus suckers on them—to help me cling to Maurice’s fine smooth dark-skinned physique. Pretty soon when I’d get nervous about things—I’d notice something very strange. I noticed that my armpits would get damp—and exude a simply marvelous odiferous French male ode de cologne. It was like I was oozing Boudreaux through all my pores—his jambalaya jouissance jizz running through my veins. It was oozing in and out of me—coming out through all the pores in my skin. All I had to do was smell my armpits—and I’d get awfully faint. Maurice started inviting me—to visit his family on weekends. Boudreaux’s young cousins back home—he must have had a million of them. They smirked at my effete college boy ways at first. But after a couple of weekends—they began to like me. I was good at it—better than their girlfriends. I wasn’t bashful about swimming nude either—or getting them off and making dirty love in their pirogues. They used big crawly craw-daddies for bait—they’d bite the heads off and suck the juice outta the heads. They tried to gross me out—but after awhile they finally realized that I kinda liked to suck the squiggly-wiggly heads too. Well, they raised their eyebrows even further—when I got my lips on them too and sucked the sweet living love-juice outta their heads too. And so that pretty soon they knew I meant serious business—and they’d show up every weekend when I was there. Each weekend I got to know the Boudreaux boys better and better—all the young cousins wanted to meet me for some strange reason. I wonder why? Maurice smirked—he started pimping and charging for my knowing lips and greedy smile. We played cards late past midnight—sipping JAX beer and listening to Zydeco Creole music on the radio. The Boudreaux boyz were all built like Maurice Boudreaux—it ran in the family. I got to know many of them intimately—like going for long pirogue rides at night in the swamp. With pale ghostly moonlight—shining down through the gnarled spooky Spanish Moss-draped cypresses and oaks. It was all very penisly picaresque and prickly picayune. (From the Provencal picaioun—meaning "small coin," "trivial" or "of little value." After awhile it was all so ho-hum and natural to me—doing my famished, obsessive, genital-genealogical romantic research with the exquisite Bourdreaux Family Tree… There was something about the cypress stumps in the swamps and their gnarled roots in the bayou moonlight late at night out there—it seemed to have worked its way into the very DNA of those moody young Cajun/Creole/Caribbean/Mulatto handsome Frenchmen. Some of the more ugly ones were really hot—I’d become a deformity lover. I had a special love for young male Creole pinheads and gimpy, dumb, Cajun harelips. They were like throwbacks to more primitive times—the more primitive the better. I wanted to taste it—to become it. All the way… That visit during the Republican Convention in New Orleans was just what I needed. Looking back on it now—I probably couldn’t have lived that way down there now again though. The humidity would surely do me in—and those late night poker games drinking JAX and smoking Louisiana Red would surely be the end of me now. The best time to party and be in frenzied love—is when you’re young and needy. The humidity down there must’ve already rotted some of my brain—making it even more rotten than it is today. And the mildewing, creeping fungus growing like mold on cheese down there—must surely have rotted away more than just all my books page by page down there? I think some of my dainty queenly cerebellum—must’ve gone Creepazoid and somewhat cravenly creviced on me. All those cumly spermazoidal long-drawn-out Creole spasticities—must surely have wormed their way deep into the primeval recesses of my slithering, Jurassic, reptilian brainstem? I’d wake up sometimes in the middle of the night—with strange cravings for tart big thick pickles and tangy unspeakable treats. As if I were somehow unexplainably pregnant—with weird recidivist rigor mortis wishbone urges from back then. Those baroque bayou dayz and nights—haunting me with flashbacks to those gone hippie dayz of high times and shameless Son of Dracula lurking desires in the magnolia night? The Muse of the Mississippi—and the Big Easy blues I knew so well back then. Or rather maybe it was the other way around? That Old Man Mississippi and that Streetcar Named Desire—they knew me better than I knew myself back then. I was like Blanche Dubois—depending on the kindness of strangers. How many nouveau Zyd romances and Zydeco lost weekends—had the Deep South Delta given me outta the blue? I told Maurice that surely I wouldn’t fit—back into that Creole/Cajun bayou/swamp milieu anymore. Even though he wanted me to move back down there—and pickup where I left off. I thought about it a long time—how I’d missed those lovely Delta deltoids and bulging bayou biceps. Oil had been discovered on his father’s various lands and real estate. There must’ve been—a million new young cousins sprung up all around from those fertile Boudreaux loins. He was a wealthy man now—and had a big family. There was plenty of room—in the Boudreaux family for me again. I told him surely the Deep South would get even with me—and seek revenge for me getting all those seminal, manly juices I’d sucked on all those long lost weekends. Milking it night after night—from all those squirming, wiggling young crawfish heads.
. Surely there’d be some kind of revenge—for all my lascivious lusts and groaning groins? All those lost squandered offspring juicy squirts—and all those heart-aching oozing progeny wasted going down my greedy gullet? All those lost Zydeco weekends I spent—seducing from the fine lean Boudreaux loinchops every drop I could possibly get. Every last unabashedly, unashamed spastic wiggle I got back then—outta those dark-haired, sullen, pencil-moustache, trembling upper-lips. All the shameless spawn I sucked outta the swamp—all those cute catfish love affairs. Those long lost weekends and water moccasin midnight rendezvoused romances. I told Maurice I could still feel his Boudreaux vibes running up and down my spine—whenever I got close to him. Yes, the Mississippi Muse—so moody, thick and melancholy. Sluggish, muddy and slow—smooth as dark molasses. Those nights when we’d take a break from doing homework—parking out by the levee in my beat-up old Cadillac convertible. Smoking a ju-ju—feeling the vibes of the humid evening. The slow sluggish pull of the Mississippi—as I got Maurice off. I’d bought it from the janitor who worked in the dorm—not bad for a lousy $100. It only lasted for the fall semester—but it was worth it. It was definitely a gas-hog—but it had a nice big alligator-skin backseat. It made me feel like the Kingfish— Huey P. Long. When we went for long drives—down along the Mississippi. I’d let Maurice be my chauffeur—feeling him up in the passenger seat. A new generation of Boudreaux boys—had sprung up since back then. Maurice introduced some of his new young cousins. They were cute and lonely just like the cousins before them—and they needed some of that same loving attention. Especially the snotty smart-alecky ones—they needed somebody like me. An experienced old Mardi Gras queen—to wipe that smirk off their faces. Maurice laughed—and gave me a hug. He knew I’d be back soon.
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