It’s New Orleans, one of my favorite places to be because it is so damn crazy. I was walking past a residential area when I heard muttering; I squinted and I could see a flashlight in one of the graveyards. I thought it was just a couple of teens playing around, maybe spray-painting the tombstones. But, then I heard, “No, I am not opening it! I just got my nails done!” I was intrigued and moved in for a closer look. There were a bunch of young sissies standing around a couple of open tombs; only the final cover remained between them and the corpse. “We have to do it, ya’ll or Master will be angry,” one of the more logical ones said. My ears perked up: these sissies belonged to someone. I focused on them and could see that they were really not prepared to do what they were instructed to do; after all, who wears high-heels and short skirts on a job like this? Finally, the logical one opened the casket, struggled with the body, and then demanded help. The others helped lift the body, and then it became apparent what they were doing: they were stealing the clothes off the dead people! Most of them gagged as they did this, but I was impressed with their resolution and continued to follow them. “Now, girls,” the sissy whose nails were recently manicured said, “remember that we must prance our little sissy hearts out! Master is watching and we cannot disappoint him. No stealing beads, but everything else is fine. Beads must be earned from flashing!” And, along they marched, this very interesting crew. I walked down Bourbon Street as far as I could without getting absorbed into the crowd; and, sure enough, there was a man sitting on a balcony with a cigar…and a woman, wearing a dog collar, at his feet. Our eyes met and we had an understanding; I smiled as the crowd became even more boisterous. Yes, the sissies had arrived!
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