N.O. is the new OC

As in any trip with Merce there was a cute def guy, this time his name was J. He was a cute boy from Mississippi (a Latin OC Luke lookalike) his hearing aids glowed in black-light, which I would have never noticed if he hadn't leaned in each time I said something. God, he had an amazing jaw. (Some guys are breast guys, some are size queens, I ... like jaw lines and side burns.)

Our bed and breakfast in New Orleans was actually quite nice and not as scary as you'd think considering Michael made the reservations online (after Google-ing the words "gay men New Orleans" — but that's Michael for you).

He'll also tell you that he didn't have sex in a dark warehouse, "IT WAS AN ABANDONED HOUSE!" because somehow, that sounds classier as in "model home in Orange County". Or at least it's supposed to, but like I said, that's Michael for you.

Sexploits aside, he's a good kid. Not that sex is bad, because it's not, but ... oh hell, he looks younger than both Merce and me but he's neither younger or less entertaining. For instance: he called the b & b's front desk five times before we could find it. They knew our names and personalities before we even arrived. He befriended the check-in lady, I befriended the night staff. His connections gave us extra towels, mine gave us expensive Marti Gras beads. We also befriended three sisters from Texas, who we called the Lunch Ladies. We shared stories about our stay, more specifically we traded scandalous stories from the previous day for food and tour recommendations — a fair trade, I'd say. We have tons of stories, but to make them we need to be very well fed.

The rest the hotel room gave us was the other important factor. Our room was tiny, there was no full length mirror, or panel to panel vanity station in the bathroom. There was no tub, and no seating space save for the king sized bed. The walls were purple and the fireplace didn't work, it was for show only; and what we wouldn't give to spend one more week there in what was in our mind the perfect trip.

At one point I arranged to have both Merce and Michael out for dinner so I could have quality time with Dan, a 5'8" blue/blonde boy from back home in Chino ... I mean Yuma. I didn't kick them out, I'm not a bastard, I was looking out for them. They shouldn't be spending so much time watching the first season of the OC on DVD. Granted they should be schooled in the exciting world of Ryan, Marissa, Seth, Summer, and of course all things Chrismakuh. But once they start talking like Summer I know I've done my job. "Okay, ew."

I wouldn't call Michael the slut of our group, that wouldn't be entirely accurate as you well know. But I, myself am more of the dating type. We both collected guy's numbers but I was happy to schedule two official dates with Aaron and Dan (and a handful of spontaneous pseudo-dates in between).

There were sluts in New Orleans, don't get me wrong. There were the gorgeous and hairless-eighteen-year-old-looking-strippers who danced on the bar. Actually, I'm sure most of them were older than that, but a 5'9" twenty-some year old guy with an amazing swimmer's body and boyish good looks dancing in Spiderman underoos is kinda ... well, hot. So in some way's I'm an OC Seth Cohen type, only instead of Wonder Woman lasso of truth fantasies, mine have more to do with male web-slingers.

He was breathtaking too — that stripper — especially when I saw him taking a break, alone, smoking his cigarette across the street in his second story loft. I met some locals who went to high school with him; I found out his name, his age, and a juicy tid bit that he's quite the nelly boy when he talks, despite his attempt to keep quite and drop it like it's hot. On the other hand, I could live without the fake bulge in his "shorthes." (That's the phonetic Spanglish equivalent for "tightee-whities" for all you non-Latinos ;) I'm sorry for all the old geezers who actually believed he was that well endowed or a top.

The staff behind the bar was also quite extraordinary. Lawrence gave me free drinks every time I waited in his line. They also let me bypass the line to get inside the club with my handy VIP pass. I believe this made me the Cameron Diaz (from The Sweetest Thing) and not the Selma Blair that they thought I was. (By the way, Michael still has to dry-clean that shirt he borrowed due to a certain black light reflective stain he acquired in an abandoned warehouse — okay, ew.)

Merce, Michael, and I had a perfect trip. We got our fill of the Bayou, we ate soup with half a crab sticking out, and we didn't have to drive anywhere — except out of the parking lot. Michael claimed he could back out better than he could drive forward through the converted stable which now housed cars. We dodged all the walls, but damnit if Michael didn't at least back into the only trash can dragging into the street with us and laughing the entire time — but that's Michael for you.