The unmistakable rumble and clang of a New Orleans streetcar is one of the things Michael loves about the city. When he meets a streetcar operator named James, who happens to be exceptionally cute, he’s instantly smitten. His attempts to orchestrate an introduction are awkward and embarrassing and end up with him face planting on a sidewalk. Regardless, the two men begin a friendship.
Fishing trips, snake bites, hospital stays, street fights, and a brief incarceration are no match for the strength of their friendship, but Michael wants more. He’s confused because James hasn’t pursued sex, something Michael desperately wants. Finally, their night of passion arrives, but there’s one interruption after the other. Will Michael and James ever take their relationship to the next level?
Even on the weekends, I’ll take the green, St. Charles line to Canal Street, switch to either the Canal or Loyola lines and go to the French Market. I don’t cook, but it’s nice to have some fresh fruit in the house from time to time. Most of the artwork in my condo is from the French Market, and it’s proven to be a great place for one-of-a-kind Christmas and birthday gifts.
This one, particular, Saturday -- in early fall -- was an unseasonably cool day. I made my way to the French Market. I bought a mango and some earrings I thought my sister would like, did some people watching, and decided it was time to head home. No one had surprised me with a ring, a wedding cake and a flash mob proposal, so I figured I’d spend a little time watching adult training videos to prepare for my next erotic adventure -- whatever that may be.
I hopped on the red line, switched at Canal and when the door of the green streetcar opened, I saw the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. Well, he was certainly the most beautiful man I’d seen that day. Big, shining eyes sat atop a cute, perky little nose. He had a wide mouth with full lips and very white teeth. Late twenties -- like me?
“Good morning,” he said, brightly, as I climbed the steps and positioned my phone to pay with the Le Pass app.
“Good morning,” I replied, hoping my smile was charming and endearing and not creepy or sinister. I took a seat on the right side, three rows back so I could complete a full, visual assessment of the object of my interest. He was really hot! He looked to be about five feet ten with dark brown hair and light skin. His shoulders were broad and although he was seated in the operator’s chair, I imagined his waist was small. Watching him from behind, my mind started imagining what his cute, little ass might look like. This, of course, generated a response between my legs that strongly suggested I should think of less naughty things before I had to stand and exit at my stop.
He maneuvered the streetcar down St. Charles Avenue, stopping at the appointed points on the route. He greeted all riders warmly -- as if he knew them, or at least as if he was delighted to see them. His sunny congeniality bordered on familiarity, which made me think that somehow, he knew some of these riders. That can’t be true, I told myself. I’d never seen him before and I’m a pretty regular rider.
My next dilemma would be about getting a closer look at this cutie-pie. This was not going to be easy given that I’d be expected to exit via the rear door and not the front where he sat. What I needed was a good, solid excuse to speak to him. Come on, Michael. You’re a smart guy. Figure something out!
I thought about asking some silly, touristy question like, “Where’s the best place to get a po-boy?” or, “How do I get to the cemeteries?” But, if I get to see him again (and again, and again), he’d soon enough realize that I’m a native. I could just walk up to him, and say, “Hi, I’m Michael Gauge and I find you very attractive. Would you like to ask me out?” I literally chuckled out loud at the thought of me doing something like that. It would never, ever, happen! I’m way too chicken. Plus, I didn’t even get a chance to see if he’s wearing a wedding ring.
My stop was approaching rapidly -- well, at least as rapidly as a stop approaches on a New Orleans streetcar that tops out at twenty miles per hour. I was desperate! I had to figure out something. How was I going to get an up close and personal look at Mr. Sexy? As he slowed the streetcar to a stop, I did the only thing I could think of that would cause me to return the front. Looking around at my fellow riders, I didn’t see anyone looking at me, so I surreptitiously tore the bottom of my paper bag, caught my newly purchase mango, and rolled it like a bowling ball down the aisle to the front of the car.
It landed right next to Mr. Sexy’s feet and I secretly congratulated myself on my outstanding mango rolling technique. Excuse now provided, I hurried to the front of the car, looked at Mr. Sexy and said, “I’m so sorry. The bag broke.” I held my torn sack up to prove my absolute innocence in this contrived affair.
