Free Twisted Oak: A Sexual Odyssey by Neige Blanche

anything so cute.
    “Oh, Mr. Delacroix,” I said with delight.
    “Madam.” He bowed and offered his hand to assist me into the carriage.
    “Thank you, sir.” His eyes lit at the salutation and he jumped up beside me.
    “Good morning, George,” he said to the driver. “This is my friend, Nez, and this is her first time in the city. Let’s give her the grand tour of our wonderful home.”
    George was a middle-aged black man with skin as dark as Mr. Delacroix’s hair. He was dressed in work pants, a flowered shirt, and a floppy wide-brimmed hat. He had a long piece of grass in his mouth and did not seem able to take his eyes off me. It made me uncomfortable and I checked my pebbles. Everything was tucked in. I had to admit my get-up was a little crazy, until I looked around and found that I fit in perfectly, even looked tame compared to some other people. Men were dressed in drag, a woman was wearing a Wonder Woman outfit, and various hybrids of vampires wandered about. One young woman about my age had nothing on but a lace bra and blue jeans. Bums dressed in rags sat on the bench in front of the cathedral. A shirtless man with torn overalls was riding a unicycle in circles. One strap was broken so that his private parts were visible.
    “Right, Mr. Delacroix. We’ll do the deeeeeluxe tour.” With a click of George’s tongue, the mule started out. Clop, Clop, Clop . . . the noise I had heard outside my window all week.
    Each building had history that George would illustrate with vignettes and personal stories. Little alleys and tucked-away courtyards; carriage houses turned hotels, restaurants, bars, and shops.
    “Oh, Mr. Delacroix, will we see Sunny’s bar today? He seemed anxious for us to go.”
    “Yeah, cher, we’ll head that way around cocktail hour when it’s fine and proper for a lady to be at a bar.”
    His serious tone made his remark seem contrived and old-fashioned. I chuckled.
    “Na-na, I’m serious about that, and don’t ever go unescorted.”
    “I didn’t take you as the old-fashioned type.”
    “You’d be surprised.” He took my hand. “Now look here, cher,” he said as he pointed a perfectly manicured hand toward a building we were approaching. “George, hold up.”
    “Wooaaah, now.” The black man pulled on the reins and the white mule stopped.
    “‘Look here’?” I pretended to sound incredulous. “That’s bad grammar, Mr. Delacroix.”
    “Will I be punished?” he asked with an evil grin. “You have a riding crop to use.”
    My face was bright red. George sat looking straight ahead.
    Mr. Delacroix jumped off the carriage and offered his hand. We stood before an iron gate to a beige stucco building walled in with matching stucco about twelve feet high. The plaque on the wall said Ursuline Convent, 1752 .
    “This is the oldest existing building in the Mississippi Valley. French Colonial architecture,” Mr. Delacroix said. My eyes took in the lonely majesty of the place and its solid hold to the ground.
    Mr. Delacroix continued, “This is where Monique came when she first landed in the Louisiana Territory. The boat actually dropped her off not too far from the hostel where you were. Back then that area was all wharf with gristmills, ice and fish houses, and big cotton and rice warehouses, not to mention slave exchanges.”
    My heart stopped. “Was Monique a slave, Mr. Delacroix?”
    “No, thank god.”
    I gazed at the building. “Why are all those shutters closed on the top floor?”
    “Ah Nezzie, that’s the best question, but before I answer, I’ll tell you that if you ever need proof of Monique’s existence, it’s found behind those walls. But you must take it upon yourself, if you wish. Monique doesn’t give up her secrets easily.” Mr. Delacroix sighed. “As for the shutters, they remain closed and will for eternity. They’ve been that way for about a hundred and fifty or so years; that was when it was discovered the priests had made the upper floor of