Cemetery Date in the Big Easy (NO THIS IS NOT NECROPHILIA!)

After a job interview at the MegaMarket super grocery store on Airline Highway I’m riding my bike up Metairie Road toward New Orleans. I’m meeting Katrina Uribe for a daytime date. We’re meeting at St. Patrick Cemetery right in the middle of that concentration of cemeteries just across the Jefferson Parish-New Orleans Parish line. It might sound like an odd place for a date, but not for this girl. I’m pedaling in May warmth. We’re already getting a dose of pre-summer heat, just a little reminder of the hellish season that is just around the corner for us down here in the subtropics. I’m sweating a little, but not too much. I’ve got my longish hair all slicked back with gel which I did in preparation for the interview. I mess it up a bit as I ride along trying to get it to look normal.

I arrive at the cemetery and stash my bike away. Not that it’s going to get stolen at a graveyard, but I don’t want to just leave it sitting out in the open either. I stand around wondering if Katrina will show. I’d set up the date while we were both wasted at an uptown house party. I was messed up on Rumple Minze at the time as being unemployed I have to drink whatever I can get my hands on. Angel Genzale, the girlfriend of the drummer in the band I play in, had given me some huge swigs of the noxious liqueur mixing it with some of the cheapest beer around. So I don’t know what kind of stupid moves I had put on the nineteen-year-old six-foot blonde whom I remember in my inebriation as being a raging knockout. I’m not exaggerating, but I must admit, I could be wrong about her beauty as prior to today’s meeting, I’ve been fucked-up whenever socializing with this young lady. On those occasions I felt that she should be modeling in New York or Paris or Italy, somewhere exotic. Instead she’s stuck in backwards ass New Orleans.

After only about five minutes of waiting I see Katrina walking through the cemetery gates.

“Hey handsome,” she smiles walking in my direction then gives me a gentle hug.

It’s a bright sunny day and I am completely sober. So now I’m looking deep into her face, scoping out her figure, the whole works like one might whether it’s politically correct or not. And I am pleased to find that she is every bit as hot as I had perceived on each intoxicated occasion I had interacted with her in the past.

We walk down a white gravel road of sorts. Katrina has Fred Lane’s French Toast Man playing on her mobile device.

“I love what you do on stage. You totally go nuts. I wish I could do that,” Katrina giggles referring to my band’s latest performance.

“Yeah…, but, ya know..., we’re not that good. Kurt and Paul wanna play avant-rock…, and me, Wes and Jenkins wanna play stuff that's more like Iggy, Motorhead, the Misfits and ah…, the Dolls.”

“I love the Dolls… New York Dolls, Toy Dolls.”

I’m thinking, “Fuck the Toy Dolls, they’re a novelty act!” But keep it to myself.

Then we’re meandering between the above-ground graves. The dead aren’t really buried here because of the sea-level thing. We’re in the middle of a bunch of small mausoleum type graves with white walls squeezing between them close to each other. Closer and closer rubbing together from time to time.

We stroll around the expanse space, down a chalky unpaved lane, wander through a copse of trees. Except for some groundskeepers we’ve got the entire place to ourselves.

Katrina reclines on a grassy incline next to a small pond under oak trees draped with Spanish moss. I’ve got one arm around her back lightly holding her right shoulder.

Coquettish, Katrina with a naughty smile asks, “Do you wanna see my bra?”

“Sure,” I respond.

Then she unbuttons her white blouse exposing a black bra. She’s got real nice cupcake breasts. There are small incisions that have been made at the front point of the cups of the bra through which her hard nipples poke.

I make a move to kiss her but she holds me away for a second. “You can’t kiss me, I have a boyfriend.” She covers her mouth shielding it with her right hand.

I pull her arm away, she doesn’t put up much resistance. Then we’re making out.

We stand after a bit of this. Katrina fixes her blouse and we just walk aimlessly, stop to kiss here and there, holding hands, embracing near a small pyramid shaped tomb.

Katrina is lying on one of the lower gravesites. This one is about two feet above the ground. It’s pretty much just a concrete slab. We’re no longer in the shade of oaks, but shrouded in blazing spring sunlight. Katrina’s top is open again and I take the liberty of pushing her bra up above her breasts so I can put my mouth all over them. Then I’ve got my left hand down into her jeans. It’s kind of hard work because out in broad daylight I can’t rip the pants off and start molesting her properly. From this trajectory I work two fingers into her moist pussy. I can’t get proper penetration because of the physics involved.

Groundskeepers are driving back and forth in a small utility vehicle on the path that passes the grave we’re on. I don’t really have the time to stop and look each time they go buy, but I’m pretty sure it’s the same guys every two minutes or so, getting a free show. I ignore them and focus on the passion. Right there, while anybody who wants can take a peek, Katrina, barely audible, whimpers, “Put three fingers in.” And we continue our activity atop some poor saint’s grave.


Photo by Gabby Taffner