Bourbon st. 

It’s not the fact that you tell me I look good today. It’s not you snapping at my ankles down several blocks of Bourbon street before ducking through doors labeled “Big Daddy’s.” It’s not the fact that you are the 4th man on this street to comment on some shiny piece of me. It’s not your bared gums, jaw hanging loosely from your skull held together by fine saliva threads. It’s not the two story liqour can you’re groping- although what kind of grown-ass man drinks strawberry margaritas at 2 pm on a Friday, or ever – and it’s not your thick knuckled fingers–

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