New Orleans

The streets were alive, filled with neon lights and bouncers ushering people to come buy drinks. I’ve never been in a place that you could just walk around with a drink in hand; everyone was drunkenly stumbling with an overpriced drink and Mardi Gras beads on their neck, mostly likely swindled into making “a donation” to acquire the cheaply stung necklaces (mind you, it isn’t even close to Mardi Gras…at least I don’t think so). It was my second night meandering the streets of New Orleans, and I was starting to understand the layout of the busy streets. Even though it was only a Wednesday evening, there were more people than I’d ever seen in my hometown streets. I was wearing a mini camo skirt and a see-through black top with fishnets to complement my punk aesthetic, which contrasted the revealing dress I’d worn the night prior. I wasn’t wearing any shorts underneath my skirt, so I felt the constant fear of flashing my ass to drunken men staring me down as they passed by. The wind was just enough at times to lift my skirt and make me exposed as I tried to walk it off with confidence. I stood near a shop on Bourbon Street, people-watching while smoking a cigarette, half hoping that maybe someone would approach me to buy me a drink or just occupy my attention. Traveling alone, I’d forgotten what loneliness was like until I spent every night in the back of my car, wishing to be in someone’s arms, a wishful thinking. Tonight was rather boring, truthfully, but I passed the local travelers and chatted them up because I had little else to do. I met a fascinating man who told me his life story as he was busking on the corner while tripping on acid. Soon enough, I decided I should probably make it back to my car before my parking limit ran up, so I reluctantly made my way back. I hadn’t quite accomplished anything fun tonight, and truthfully, I wanted to cause some trouble. I was in New Orleans after all. I made my way back through the well-lit streets until I rounded the corner, finding myself in the less populated dark streets at the end of Bourbon. It felt like he appeared out of nowhere, and soon he’d be by my side, walking with me. I knew immediately that I probably wasn’t going to get rid of him, as he’d noticed me the night before, commenting on how sexy I had been. He was intimidated by my appearance because I looked “so-called mean,” so he hadn’t approached me, but seeing me again tonight, he felt the courage, so he came up to me to compliment my figure. His outfit was mostly all black, with a cap on his head, shadowing his face, so I couldn’t observe his features that well. He asked me where I was going, and stupidly, I said I was trying to find my car, and he offered to walk with me because I said I was alone. Wasn’t that the first rule of girl code? When walking alone at night in a sexy outfit, never tell a stranger following you that you’re alone, but I did. He inched his way closer to me as we walked, and honestly, I’d forgotten where I parked my car, so he took advantage of that moment, and I felt a hand start to slide into my tights and on my ass. I was afraid that if I rejected him, he’d pull out a gun in his waistband and become more forceful, not because he’d told me he was “The big shot dealer of Bourbon Street”. Honestly, I just felt the fear of being a “pretty girl” walking alone with a stranger who’d definitely get me to do some coke. His hands found their way entangled in my tights, ripping them to expose my bare skin. He said to me, “Call me Daddy,” because he was about to bend me over right there, no care for passing pedestrians. At one point, we’d have to turn around because I went way too far, and he grabbed me, forcing me inches from his face, and told me to kiss him. He said, “You’re Daddy’s now, and nobody else was allowed to have you”. I glanced down to notice he had his hand in his pants, most likely rubbing his cock as he touched me. Ass out in the middle of the streets of New Orleans, being advanced on by a dealer of Bourbon, I thought to myself, “Guess I’m becoming a runner now, wearing sexy dresses every night to attract the tourists to buy coke off Daddy.” Thankfully, my car seemed to have materialized in front of me, and I felt the safety of it for a brief second before realizing Daddy wasn’t going anywhere. Out of common courtesy, I asked if he needed a ride back to Bourbon, which he said, “Yes,” so I welcomed him into my car. All I could think to myself was just please this man however he wanted until I was able to get out, then I’d never come back to New Orleans again in fear I’d never be able to escape him if he saw me again. He directed me further away from our origin spot until we parked on some back street, and he grabbed my face, demanding me to put my tongue in his mouth. Daddy told me I was going to “Suck coke off his tongue.” He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, which had a little baggy and a spoon, which he took out, and he snorted a spoonful in each nostril and proceeded to tell me to do the same. Stupidly, I didn’t protest; I just snorted a spoonful in each nostril before watching him put some on his tongue. Then he pulled my face towards him again, forcefully demanding once again I suck on his tongue. Just this time, it was salty, and soon I’d start to feel my lips go numb as we made out, and the fear in the back of my mind started to burn. He told me to tell him I was his now and told me I’d become his bitch who’d walk the streets like a prostitute, luring drunk men to him to make a deal. Luckily, he had a call from what I assume was a regular, by the way they walked to each other, and he needed to get back on the streets to make his money. Soon, he’d be out of my car, and I’d drive away so fast and into a Walmart parking lot, sitting for hours, face numb, in disbelief of what just happened. Maybe my lack of self-worth or my inability to say no led me here. Part of me told myself I deserved it, for as my father once told me after I was molested as a child, “That I had deserved it for dressing like a slut”. Part of me always just accepted the abuse from men because I was asking for it, dressing the way I did. I couldn’t process it, and maybe that was just the coke kicking my brain into high gear as I sat heart racing in shock, even the next morning when I awoke, my nose and my brain still felt numb. As I was driving to see the beach, I started pouring tears, and truthfully suicidal thoughts started to creep into my head as I mentally started writing my suicide note. I attributed these thoughts to being alone, being away from family. It took two days to piece together and even allow myself to process any of it. I keep telling myself I deserved it. I welcomed him like it was my fault. I couldn’t accept that I deserved more than this. I drove ten hours straight trying to run from my head until I finally accepted I’d been assaulted and that it destroyed me more than I could imagine. I felt dirty, used, realizing I could have been taken or much worse, raped, but playing along most likely saved me from the worst of it. I felt lucky, like I couldn’t complain or be hurt because “It wasn’t that bad”. So I lied to myself and told myself the experience was “fun” when inside I just wanted to die. And I accepted the abuse because I’ve been conditioned to believe that’s all I am worth.