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She said her name was Annalise. We met at the Greyhound/Amtrak station on Canal Street. She was a true native of New Orleans. To be accurate, they were called coon asses. She was dropping quarters in a cigarette vending machine when she tapped me on the shoulder. “Hey, Mister, do you have change for a dollar?”I looked up from the newspaper that I had found on the bench. Her smile was hypnotic, her tee-shirt, damp from sweating in the ninety-eight degree weather. It was obvious that she wore no bra. Her hair was long, thick, and jet black.it was damp with sweat but still, very pretty. Her skin was tanned and if she hadn’t been so young, I would say leathery. I dug in my pocket for change. Producing two quarters and a few pennies, I dropped it in her small hand and said, “There you go. Keep your dollar, just let me have one of the smokes when you get them.”She stuffed the dollar back in her hip pocket and smiled. “Thanks, it’s a deal.” Turning back to the machine, she finished her purchase. Quickly opening the pack of Lucky Strikes, she offered me one. I took two and put one behind my ear for later. She grinned and took one out for herself. Looking her over, I judged her to be twenty, no more than twenty-two years old. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. “Where ya going, Sha?” She asked with a thick Cajun accent.Striking a match on the concrete bench, I lit my smoke, and offered to light hers. She bent down, sucking the fire into the unfiltered gasper. “I’m not going anywhere,” I answered,  “I just came in to cool off a minute.”“Yeh, it’s hot,” She declared, “I hang out here sometimes too. You know, for the air conditioning.”New Orleans in August. Heat and the damned humidity. To be honest, I would rather the heat and even the hurricanes than to be anywhere that I would be cold. I didn’t mind the sweat. She sat and told me her first name then said, “But you can call me Anna.”“I’m Terry,” I said, holding out my hand, “But you can call me Terry.”She gave me a confused look then laughed. She nodded and took a draw on her smoke, sucking it deep into her young lungs. I was thirty-five at the time. Had the week off and nothing to do. We sat, smoking and chatting about the weather and not much else.She was oddly familiar but at the same time mysterious. Not like meeting a stranger, but that’s what we were. I watched her close her eyes and lean back on the cool concrete of the bench. Her nipples pushed against the thin fabric of her worn-out tee shirt, Mardi Gras, written across the chest in purple and gold. I took another draw, and said, “It’s too cool in here today. Want to take walk around with me?”She didn’t answer, just stood and followed me out. We were in no particular hurry, just strolled, not holding hands but maybe a little close for strangers. Leaving Basin Street Station in our slow-rolling wake, we rounded a curve and crossed the empty street into what would later be renamed Louis Armstrong park. At the time, it was called Congo Square. A man was playing his trombone on a shaded bench, just fifty yards or so from us. Another played the trumpet further on. The afternoon heat sent trickles of beaded sweat down the center of my back, my white shirt soaking bahis şirketleri up the moisture. I took one last draw on my cigarette and dropped it on the sidewalk, crushing it underfoot. She smoked hers slower. In silence we walked past the old lady that was always there, feeding the pigeons, through the square and onto Rampart street. Slowly making our way to the Vieux Carre’, or French Quarter. I lived in a small apartment by the river. The building had once been a French hotel, a brothel, and several other established, albeit somewhat lawful, and that,  in varying degrees, businesses over the last hundred and fifty years that it had stood. If the walls could talk. “You want to come up?” I asked, “I have some beer in the fridge.”Again, no spoken answer, she just made that expression that told me, she didn’t have anything else to do. There was no elevator. We walked up the wide curving stairs to the second story. My apartment, small as it was, was in the north corner. After opening the door, she walked past me to the small balcony that looked over the dirty cobblestone street below to the muddy river that crept by in silence. It was my favorite spot to spend time. Only big enough to put two chairs, I smoked and drank beer there.I went to the icebox and pulled out two bottles of Miller High Life. Opening both with my church-key, I hung my arm over her shoulder, beer in hand. She turned her head, smiled at me then back to the river. She took her time watching the people, just ten feet below us, busy or just strolling. “File’ Gumbo,” yelled a street vendor, pushing his cart slowly past.“Hungry?” “Yeh, Sha,” she answered,I walked down to the street and caught up with him, half a block down. She watched me from the balcony, walking back up the street with two paper bowls, covered in tin foil. I held them up and she smiled down at me. By the time I returned to the room, the door still wide open, she had cleared off my small table. I didn’t have any chairs in there so we sat on the two milk crates that were under the table. “There is some bread in the cabinet,” I told her as I peeled the aluminum from the bowls. She opened the wooden door that hung on loose hinges and took out the loaf. “You don’t have much in there,” she said. “I don’t cook,” I smiled, “We can get beignets in the morning. Cafe Du Monde is just a block over.”She smiled as if to say, I was taking a lot for granted, but then said, “That sounds good.”We sat, eating in silence, and drinking beer. I tore a piece of the loaf off to sop the dredges of my gumbo. It was getting on to three in the afternoon, the sun on my side of the building now, a long golden beam shone through the balcony door making the rest of the room seem dark. Annalise pushed her bowl back and wiped her face with a paper towel. “That done hit the spot,” she said. “It was good,” was my response. I was leaning back on the crate, my legs stretched out in front of me. Thinking of lighting that other cigarette. I pulled the bone from behind my ear and placed it on my lips. Annalise smiled, then took it from me, “I have something better.” She pushed her hand into the pocket of her cut off jeans and pulled out a small bahis firmaları bag of weed and a pack of Zig Zags. “Want one?”Without answer, I took the papers and laid one out on the table. Just a pinch of the Mary Jane and I rolled it, holding the blunt for her to lick. She smiled and ran her tongue across the paper. I pressed it and lit another match. We weren’t worried about the odor. This was the Vieux Carre’, after all. The river breeze and smells from the trollers and shrimp boats would hide that. One long draw, deep and heady. She took the bone and did the same. I held it as long as I could then slowly exhaled. The effect was immediate for me, not being something that I enjoyed daily. I watched her blow the smoke up at the ceiling, saw the fan blades turn slowly, churning the discarded fumes. Looking back at Annalise, I saw her dark eyes on me and the smile on her lips. She put the joint back to her lips and drew in another lung full. This time she stood facing me, she sat straddling my lap. I watched as she held the joint above our heads and put her lips to mine. I inhaled as she exhaled, taking in what she gave me. I leaned back and again, held it in. When I opened my eyes, Annalise was crushing out the roach in my ashtray. I exhaled and pulled her to me. She blew the last of the smoke at the ceiling fan again. Marijuana and the scent of her perspiration filled my nostrils.She smiled at me and ran her finger through my sweaty hair. We kissed for the first time and tasted gumbo and the spiciness of the marijuana on her tongue. Our tongues played and danced as we made out. I heard a radio playing on the street below. It must have been the hippie that lived on the bottom floor. The music filled the air and our silent teasing was urged on as Sammy Johns sang, “She woke up and took me by the hand, we made love in my Chevy van.” The sexy lyrics and the cool beat were perfect for making love. Analise was getting more into our making out. She sat back and pulled her tee-shirt over her head and wrapped it around the back of my neck, pulling me to her breasts. I kissed each almond-colored nipple. She moaned her approval.I was becoming aroused and uncomfortable, my cock bent and trapped under her slight weight. My hands wrapped around her hips, pulling her to my body a bit. Her tits were right in my face so I went back to them. Her nipples were big and puffy, erect, and hard. She pulled my head to her, urging me on. I went to work, sucking those nipples, a bite every now and then, just to hear her moans. The weed had me a bit fumble-fingered. I was having trouble unbuttoning her five-oh ones. Frustrated, I stood, holding her by her ass. She wrapped her legs around my waist and we kissed like lovers. I made a ninety-degree turn to my left and dropped her on my bed. She was laughing as I pulled her shorts down her hips. She wore no panties, but that’s just how coon asses were. Was I a coon ass? No. I had only been living here since I was seventeen. My parents moved here for work, but that fell through. When they left, I decided to stay and try to get work on a shrimp boat. I was strong and able so I found a job and have kept it ever since. The kaçak bahis siteleri things you think about, huh? She had a thick, black pubic bush. Sparse black hairs on her unshaven legs and belly. It was nineteen seventy-three. To see o woman with shaved legs here was like getting ice cream from that gumbo vendor. It wasn’t common. I pushed my palms up her legs to her meaty thighs, the perspiration causing her leg hairs to stand straight out. Pushing her thighs open, I laid between them. Her aroma was of feminine musk and sweat. My cock was throbbing in my khakis. I parted her bush with my fingers, feeling her wetness. Her pink fleshy folds were pretty and inviting. Venturing further I flicked my tongue across her clitoris, tasting her. My eyes roamed the area of her sex, surprised to find a small tattoo of a devil with a heart impaled on his fork. My tongue continued its assault on her larger than normal clit. She was very sensitive there. I sucked and flicked it, causing her moans to increase in volume and insistence. Her fingers on my head pulling me close and at the same time stroking me lovingly.  I felt her tremble and her hands dropped to her sides, forming fists. She softly pounded the old mattress and then it happened. She balled the sheet in her fingers, clutching it and pulling it.“Oh, yes,” she whispered loudly, “Don’t stop, don’t.”Her head fell back into the pillow as the sunbeam started to reach our bodies. She came hard, biting her lip to stifle a scream. I was rewarded with a spray of juices from her pussy. “Fuck,” she groaned, “Fuck. It feels good.”  I lapped at her like a man lost in the desert that had stumbled upon a spring. Her nectar was as sweet as honey from a young hive. I just couldn’t get enough. I drove my tongue deep and her orgasm washed her body through a hurricane of pleasure. A storm surge of gigantic proportions, such as she had never known, took her to exhausting levels.Almost as suddenly as it had hit, it had left her panting. The combination of the orgasm and the weed had ended with her exhausted and sated. I softly kissed her thighs as she fell asleep, dust dancing in the sunbeam that washed over her young body. Her soft breathing told me she was out. I pushed myself to my feet, removed my sweat-soaked tee-shirt, and found my Lucky Strike on the table. I would let her sleep. With a shake of my head and a smile, that I couldn’t explain, I lit my cigarette and walked to the balcony. Sitting on the concrete banister, I leaned against the lead-painted wall and watched a freighter glide past on the Mississippi River in silence. After the big ship had passed, it left me staring at a billboard across the river. There were a man and a pretty blond woman. The man held a beer and the sign read, Falstaff, for your light-hearted moments. I blew a cloud of blue smoke from the cigarette into the air. “Gumbo,” the vendor called, pushing his cart back up the street, “File’ gumbo.”I watched the old cook stop and serve some men that trotted down the plank of one of the big trollers, then push on again, up the street, calling his sales pitch. I thought of the girl lying naked in my bed, and how the vendor had no idea. I looked back at her.She slept like a baby, in the shadows. The sunbeam now to her left. I could make out the black bush between her legs that were still spread. Her breasts lay bare and pretty on her chest which heaved with every breath. 

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