Kayden: The Past

by Chelle Bliss

  “Do they have company housing? I don’t have a fucking thing to my name, Derek. The bitch stripped my bank account; I have just enough for a bus ticket.”

  “They do, and they’ll supply the tools and the truck. Worth a shot. Better than sitting in that hell hole, are you still there?”

  “Where else would I be? Text me the info, so I can jump on that shit and get things rolling.”

  “Will do, you okay?”

  “I’ll be better as soon as I get out of here. I need my life back.”

  “And Kayden?”

  “What?”

  “Stay away from women. You don’t seem to have the best pussy picker.”

  “No fucking shit. I’m done, out, finished. Relationships aren’t for me.”

  “Yeah, that’s one way of putting it. Some of the guys from St. Louis went down to NOLA, so you’ll be in good company.” The thought of staying in the south for the winter gave me a sense of relief; I couldn’t deal with another winter in the cold and snow.

  Derek and I talked a few more minutes and then I waited for his text. I felt hopeful for the first time in weeks and slept through the night without the help of a beer. I called Human Resources the next morning and started the application process. It would take about two days for everything to process, and I could start immediately. I decided to get the fuck out of dodge as quickly as possible and bought my ticket that evening. I’d catch the nine p.m. bus to New Orleans and start over… again.

  I wanted a fresh start away from the bullshit and chaos I always seemed to create and the waves of misfortune that followed me like an unending tide.

  New Orleans is a place for new beginnings, a place one could go and get lost and leave old baggage behind, but not the right city for someone who craves alcohol. The party atmosphere’s infectious and all consuming. It pulled me in and wrapped me in her southern Créole charm, making it feel like home to me more than anywhere else in the world. I could be anything I wanted here; I could live life on my own terms.

  Déjà vu hit me as I walked through the door of the apartment. It wasn’t the large home that eight of us shared in St. Louis but a small space with three bedrooms. It’s common in the cable/satellite industry for the employees to live in company housing. The workers are transient and move with the work and money.

  It was evening, and the apartment was buzzing with activity. I’d already stopped by HR and had all my paperwork cleared earlier than expected and got my housing key. I had to sign a million forms, signing away my life and most of my money for a while – I had to pay for the truck, tools, and rent out of each check.

  “Kayden,” a voice yelled. Tom sat at the table in his work clothes, eating a sandwich with pieces falling on his plate. Tom and I worked together in St. Louis, and we’d kept in contact after I left. At least I knew one person walking through the door.

  “Hey man, I didn’t know you’d be here.” I walked toward him and set my bags down on the floor. I held out my hand to him.

  “I just got here a couple of weeks ago.” He wiped his hands on his t-shirt; Tom wasn’t always known for his class, but I still liked him. “That’s Mark and John over there, and Tony’s in the kitchen.” He pointed to each one as he said their name. I looked at the guys and nodded my head, and they did the same. I was an outsider, but with such close living quarters, that wouldn’t be the case for long.

  “Where’s my room? They said they had a single open.” Most of the guys shared a room to cut down on the rent, but the last fucking thing in the world I wanted to do was share a room with strangers and definitely not another guy. It’d cost me a boat load, but after living in a shelter, I just wanted a room all to myself.

  “Right there,” he said, pointing to the first room in the hallway. “When ya start?” He turned his attention back to the sandwich.

  “Tomorrow, I have to go stock my truck and pick up the keys; maybe they’ll have me on the road in the afternoon.”

  “Go put your shit away and come have a drink.”

  It was inevitable. Liquor is part of the diet in this life, just like water when it’s hot, alcohol filled the evenings for everyone. The bottles were already lined up on the counter waiting to be consumed. I’d have to learn how to control myself. The women in my life were what led me to overindulge; without them, would I be able to keep shit in check?

  The bedroom had very little furniture, but that didn’t matter. I’d be able to fill it up soon enough after I started working. We’d be paid weekly, and I didn’t have any other bills or obligations, well, besides the restitution payments to Lisa, but I wasn’t in a hurry to pay that off before I was required. I hung up my few pieces of clothing and sat on the bed and took stock in what I had and what I’ve lost.

  I never had the chance to go back to get my things at Lisa’s. The no-contact order meant I couldn’t enter the property even with permission from her to get anything. I only had the clothes given to me at the shelter and a few small items. I had nothing for the first time in my life. Everything I owned fit into a duffel bag. I could hear the guys laughing, and loud music started to shake the walls, and I felt a happiness and inner peace that I hadn’t felt in a long time. I felt like I had a home again.

  Did I get drunk that night? No, I didn’t. Did I drink? Yes. I didn’t need to get drunk. I didn’t need to show up for my first day of work with a hangover. I wanted to sit with the guys, find out about New Orleans and work, the hot topic of conversation. I listened to all their complaints and issues, but I knew I could work through anything. One thing I did well was work my ass off. I also fucked like a champ and could party like a rock star in my youth, but now was the time to put my head down and make cash.

  I signed up for every type of online ‘dating’ website I could find during my first week in New Orleans. Facebook wasn’t the only game in town. I made profiles on Match, Plenty of Fish, and even a site called Fuckbook. I didn’t want a date – I was told these sites were strictly to hook up with chicks and get laid. I wanted to find someone looking for a little fun and a lot of cock. Each inbox filled up within days, and it was like a buffet of pussy sitting there waiting to be eaten.

  I wrote and chatted with a few women, but they wanted relationships. My line to them always: I’m not looking for a relationship; I just want to fuck. Crude I know, but I laid it out for them. I only wanted one thing from a woman at this point. I didn’t want the problems and complications that seemed to follow me around like a black rain cloud over my head. I found the promise land on Fuckbook and Facebook. Friends of friends on Facebook heard about me and wanted to chat and Fuckbook, I don’t really need to explain.

  I opened my FB messages, and Carrie had sent me a hello. She looked beautiful, but I knew pictures were usually bullshit. I used my picture, but most people try and scam with some random photo they find online. How do I know this? Because I kept seeing the same girl’s photo popping up with different names all over the country. Her photo didn’t send up any red flags, and her message was short and to the point: Hi ya, you’re hot as fuck.

  I loved a girl with a dirty mouth. I hit the chat button next to her name and took a shot.

  Me: Hey. Like what you see? I know I do.

  God, what do you say to someone you just want to bang and don’t really give a fuck who they are or what they’re doing. I wasn’t going to be a dick about it. I wasn’t entirely cold hearted at this point in my life, but I just didn’t want to waste time or make false promises of a happily ever after.

  Carrie: I’d rather see you without a shirt. Got something you can send me?

  Her message gave me pause. Was I being played? I always thought I was the player, but I wasn’t sure about Carrie. Too quick on wanting the skin photos, maybe.

  Me: What are you going to show me?

  Carrie: I have plenty to show. You live in New Orleans?

  A photo filled the chat window – She wore a very low cut shirt and lots of cleavage. Her face was visible in the picture, and it matched her pr
ofile. All the little things you have to watch for when trolling online. So many ways to get duped.

  Me: Yes and you?

  Carrie: Just outside of NOLA but close enough to meet up.

  Me: Nice rack. You looking for a relationship?

  Carrie: LMFAO. Fuck no, why the hell do you think I’m on this site.

  So far, she passed my test with flying colors. No relationship, check. Hot as hell, check. Dirty mouth, check. Doesn’t live too close so clinginess wouldn’t be a factor, check.

  Me: I just want to be clear about it. I don’t want a relationship; I’m done with the bullshit.

  Carrie: Good. Listen, I want someone to scratch my itch, but I’d like to meet for a drink first – in public. I want to know you aren’t some kind of weirdo or pervert, well at least not the bad kind.

  So she wasn’t a dummy. Things were looking up.

  Me: Let’s meet for a drink down in the quarter. I’m new to the area and would like to enjoy some of the city. You game?

  Carrie: Yes, can I bring some friends?

  All the guys here were single, except one, and it sounded like a perfect idea.

  Me: Sure and I’ll bring some of the guys. We’ll make it a group thing.

  Carrie: Great! Saturday night good? Let’s say around nine at the Hustler Club.

  The girl liked strip clubs. Couldn’t go wrong.

  Me: We’ll be there. I’ll let you know if something changes.

  It was Thursday, but I knew the guys would be game for a night out. We sat here every night and had drinks, but I knew they’d like to get out and be surrounded by ladies and naked strippers. I carried my tablet out into the living room and sat down on the couch; the guys were all watching television, busy with their own online entertainment. I looked around the room and felt sorry for the ladies we were about to meet. They weren’t the best looking group of guys and gross in so many ways. They laid around the living room in their underwear with their bellies hanging out and their hand down their pants. It was more than a little disturbing; I needed to see a naked woman in person instead of these burping, snoring, belly scratching things I’ve become surrounded by.

  “Guys, who’s up for Hustler Club on Saturday night? Have a group of ladies we’re meeting.” They all looked at me; I had their full and undivided attention. Pussy always made everything else cease to exist. “You guys in?”

  “What ladies?” Tom asked.

  “I met a girl online, but she wants to meet in public first. She picked Hustler, and she’s going to bring some friends.”

  “Really?” Tom seemed to be thinking about it, but I knew he hadn’t been laid in ages just by looking at him.

  “Yes, I told her I’d bring friends. Listen, even if her friends aren’t your type, we’ll be in a titty bar having drinks. How bad could it be?”

  “I’m in,” Tom said, and all the guys answered the same.

  “Nine, Saturday night,” I said as I walked in the kitchen and grabbed a beer.

  “Finally, something interesting going on in this damn place,” Mark said. “I don’t want to spend another Saturday night looking at your ugly mugs. T & A it is.”

  Tomorrow was Friday and thankfully my first pay day. I needed the money to buy some fucking clothes and pay for a night out in New Orleans. The guys were nice enough to share their food with me all week. I cooked as much as possible since they went to the trouble of buying the food. Most guys can’t cook worth shit, but my mom taught me how to fend for myself and cook a decent meal. Food and drinks were plentiful in this place but not always the best quality at least when it came to food. The liquor was always top shelf – Patron, Myers, and Grey Goose.

  I had something to look forward to this weekend, something other than work. I’d hopefully meet someone looking for the same – a night of passion.

  I bought a new pair of jeans, shoes, and a skin tight black t-shirt to wear to Hustler. I wanted to show off my body and all I had to offer. I didn’t want to leave anything to the imagination. I shaved my head smooth as a baby’s ass and trimmed my facial hair to perfection. I looked at myself in the mirror, and fuck it, I knew I looked good. If Carrie wasn’t game or advertised herself incorrectly, I’d find some hot piece of ass in NOLA tonight. Everyone else had already showered; thankfully, we had two bathrooms, a necessity with this group.

  I walked into the living room and stopped dead in my tracks. “What the fuck are you wearing, dude?” I asked Tom.

  He looked down at his shirt. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Where the fuck do I begin?” I laughed while shaking my head. He looked like a scene out of some cheesy porn. He had on baggy pants and an oversized t-shirt that had a print of the beach and palm trees. Not just a print, but the entire thing was a scene, a photo of the beach. He looked like a walking disaster, and he definitely wouldn’t be getting any pussy in that outfit.

  “Fucker, I just bought this shirt. I think I look damn good.”

  “First problem is you thought. Where the fuck did you buy it? Walmart?” I started to laugh so hard tears were forming in my eyes. The poor guy was dead serious. He honestly thought he looked good, and it made me laugh even harder.

  “Fuck you, Kayden. I’m wearing it. You’ll see; I’m going to be a pussy magnet tonight.” The other guys in the room were all laughing and shaking their heads. No one else had the heart to tell Tom that he looked ridiculous; his outfit just made them look better. “And what the fuck is wrong with Walmart’s clothes anyway, dick?” I had no words, just grabbed my keys and headed out the door with the guys in tow, and Tom pulling up the rear.

  We rolled out of the apartment parking lot just after eight to catch the street car down to Bourbon. I’d already been through the city during my work day, but I hadn’t experienced it at night. The street car stop buzzed with excitement. People were dressed in all types of outfits, corsets and miniskirts to casual shorts and tank tops. I heard anything goes down in the quarter, but I couldn’t believe it until I saw it with my own eyes.

  The streetcar was packed with people, standing room only, as we made our way down Canal Street. The streets were filled with people and cars, all looking to make their way down to the action, the place to be seen and party until you could hardly stand without help from another. Drinks weren’t my goal tonight, finding Carrie and taking in the sights of NOLA were on the menu.

  The streetcar stopped, and Mark nudged me, “This is our stop. Bourbon is right there.” He pointed to the left, and I could see a street filled with lights and what looked like an endless sea of people. I’d never lived in a city that had been known for its nightlife and party atmosphere. Cleveland had a so-so night scene back in the nineties but had deteriorated over time, and Florida didn’t have shit to offer but snow birds and Grand Marquis.

  I followed the stream of people across the street and soaked in New Orleans. The smell of the city is unlike any other place I’ve ever known. There’s a spiciness to it, an aroma of alcohol, sex, and Cajun flare. Men lined the streets with signs offering oversized beers and the most beautiful girls through the door behind them. Everyone fought for business and attention. Girls lined the doorways in just a few strips of clothing, grinding on the frame trying to tempt the passersby.

  I knew in that moment I would be fucking dead if I grew up in this city or moved here in a different time in my life. There’s too much sin available on every corner; I would’ve overdosed or had gluttony tattooed on my ass. The lights from each bar, restaurant, and strip club caused a colorful haze to dance off the faces of the people and illuminate the entire street. There’s an energy to this street that I can’t describe in words because it has to be experienced to be believed.

  “This place is fucking amazing,” I said to Mark as he walked next to me, and the guys strolled further ahead.

  “Yeah, it’s NOLA. They may call Vegas Sin City, but it doesn’t have nothing on NOLA.” He pointed to a group of girls on the sidewalk. Their upper bodies were covered in paint, and they did
n’t have any clothing on except for shorts. “See those girls, they come here all the time, and guys pay to take pictures with them.”

  I couldn’t believe people were so shocked by tits that it required a photo as proof of their wild time. They were here on vacation, but this was my new home. The possibilities are endless in a city like New Orleans. I checked my watch, “Hey, we should find the club and head in; it’s close to nine.”

  “Yo,” Marked yelled to the others as he pointed to the Hustler Club.

  We walked through the crowd; our bodies touching as we bumped into other people trying to make our way to the other side of the street. The Hustler Club had a purple and red neon sign with the tagline ‘Relax… It’s Just Sex!’ I couldn’t have said it better myself. Pictures of women framed the doorway in various positions and levels of nudity. We each handed the barely dressed woman our money and were shown our way through a velvet drape and into the entrance. On the other side of the drape was a red room with tall backed couches made of red velvet that led the way to the main club area. Hustler is a multi-level club with various dance floors and seating areas. I had messaged Carrie earlier in the day, and she told me where they’d be. “They’re gonna be at the bar. Let’s go find them first.”

  The guys looked like kids in a candy store. There was so much going on around us, and these guys didn’t look like the type who actually had the chance to bang a stripper; they could only stare at them and stuff dollar bills in their panties. I’d had my share of strippers and knew they weren’t as glamorous as they looked on the stage. They were a fucking train wreck wrapped in a pretty package. Tom, Paul, and Mark could never land a stripper; it wasn’t that they didn’t have the looks, but they just didn’t have the ‘it’ factor. They were frumpy, lacked any kind of skills when it came to women, and they lacked confidence. Fuck, they lacked everything that could draw a woman in besides a wallet full of money.