Memorable

The Decency of Decadence

Chronicle of an Open Marriage #26

Aislyn was getting ready for the big parade. She’d smeared eyelash adhesive all over her chest and now was sprinkling glitter on it. A lot of glitter. Glitter formed a second skin on her bare chest and breasts. And glitter was all over our hotel room, glinting on the sink and floor.

She looked spectacular. She had long black ears on. Bunny ears? To me, they looked like the ears on the donkeys that take people on carriage rides around the French Quarter. She had fluffy red pasties affixed over her nipples, tight red matador pants with rivets up the outside seam, a little white bunny tail taped above her butt, leather harness-type adornments draping over her thighs, and an immense red net boa resting across her shoulders and hanging down almost to the ground.

I, on the other hand, looked like a topless schoolmarm. Unlike my travel companion, I hadn’t brought costumes. I don’t have any at home. I’d pulled on a swishy patterned skirt — it was so hot! — that fell below my knees, and a pair of sandals, then stood before the mirror at a loss.

“Put on some pasties,” Aislyn commanded, handing me a bag full of stick-on pasties in various colors and designs. I chose a silvery-blue heart pattern that looked a little bit like mermaid scales.

“Cut this up for your top,” she pushed a fishnet body stocking into my hand, along with a small pair of scissors. That worked pretty well… Was I a sexy mermaid zombie now?

“Take a mask.” There were half a dozen Mardi Gras masks arrayed on a shelf. I liked the silver one best. Then I pinned up my hair, added two press-on hearts to my cheekbone, and felt appropriately attired.

Outside our window, the Southern Decadence parade was forming up. We happened to be staying at the same hotel (the arty and perfectly situated Royal Street Inn) as the Grand Marshal. We came down the stairs and stepped out into the hubbub, where Aislyn’s husband and their friend (now also mine) were already in the mix.

We spotted a krewe of red ponies, a kind of role-play in kink that Aislyn had told me about on the plane. “Get in line! Get in line!” an organizer was shouting. With her animal ears, leather harness, and bright red pants and boa, Aislyn fit in beautifully with the red ponies. She got in line.

Now normally, you can’t just join up with a krewe in a parade. They’ve coordinated their outfits and possibly music and dance steps. They’ve had pre-parade meetings. They’ve formed a cohesive group. But on this particular day, we just happened to be in the right place at the right time. At least, Aislyn did.

I didn’t look anything like a pony.

But what’s this? Right behind the ponies, in clear view of Aislyn (who was formerly known as Bethany in my Chronicles, but requested a new name), a krewe of older women was forming. What luck! I am also an older woman! :p

What’s more, they were wearing silver, black, and blue, and so was I, kinda sorta… Aislyn and I had spoken to one of the leaders earlier. She’d taken our picture outside the hotel. Now she sat atop a three-wheeled bicycle with a big cooler nestled on the running board on the back.

“Is it okay if I walk behind you?” I asked timidly.

“Oh, yes. Please do!”

And that’s how Aislyn and I came to march three miles half dressed in the sweaty New Orleans heat before the happy crowds who lined the sidewalks in the French Quarter for the Southern Decadence parade.

Altogether, we were in New Orleans for six days. My head was turned around many times on the trip, just as it’s been turned around many times in the past eight months, since Hubs and I opened our marriage of almost 40 years.

Many of the stories I read about polyamory contain warnings. And sure enough, we’ve had a rough patch here and there — the latest one being embarrassing enough (I behaved like a dumb ass) that I haven’t felt like writing about it for days on end… (But I will soon. I promise!)

Overall, though, I’m here to report that our experience has been overwhelmingly positive. And often, that positivity has taken this shape: Things I was taught were “bad” turn out to be good. Things others label as “sins” are in fact blessings. And what I formerly considered decadence is actually wholesome fun.

Here’s one example. One day meandering around Jackson Square I came upon a nice young man juggling knives. He was standing on a table, on a board, balanced on a rolling cylinder, and a pretty big crowd was gathered around. He wore a microphone headset, and kept up a charming, comedic banter. I joined the crowd to watch the show, but was soon annoyed to realize that three men carrying big ugly signs were doing their best to disrupt it.

Ostensibly, the hecklers were Christians. At least their signs proclaimed as much. Yet their behavior was anything but. They also had a microphone — a bullhorn — and kept up a steady droning speech about sinners and the Bible the only purpose of which was to ruin the show.

I know that to be true because there was no way in hell to interrupt these goons. No one wanted them there. No one was listening. No one encouraged them to continue. But they didn’t care. They wouldn’t stop.

Instead, they stared straight ahead with glassy eyes. They refused to interact with passersby. And what if, as they urged, someone actually decided to “repent?” How were they even supposed to do that?

It wouldn’t have been possible with these guys, since they wouldn’t shut up long enough to hear what anyone else had to say, wouldn’t put down their scary signs so they could open their arms. Wouldn’t even look me in the eye! Or undertake any other kind of compassionate human activity.

Why did they target this young street performer? I guess because they thought he was gay. That’s hateful enough. But also, not one person in this particular crowd was going to be inspired to “repent” by their harassment. So what was the point of them even being there?

Just to cause trouble. To make matters worse. To make other people unhappy and upset. Do you call that decent? I call it decadent, which the dictionary defines as luxurious self-indulgence.

Later, while I was marching in the parade, I came across the three men again. This time, thankfully, the parade sounds were loud enough to drown out their droning lecture. But we still saw their signs.

How ironic, I thought, that these men think wrong is right. That in the face of a joyous celebration of human sexuality and acceptance, their response is to try to shut it down. To pile on the shame. To shove their own twisted fear down other people’s throats.

Thankfully, I don’t think anyone at the festival listened. They were too busy having fun and glorying in their beautiful, sexy bodies, an activity that continued long after the parade ended and long into the hot dark night.

What happened next? Read Chronicle of an Open Marriage #27. Find all of my stories about opening our marriage on the list below, or about sex in general on this one. Get an email whenever I publish. And have a satisfying day.