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SMUT STAND REPORT: Oct. 4, 2014 (New Orleans)

WHEN: 5.5 hours (8:30pm-2am), Oct 4, 2014. WHERE: in front of Michael's Bicycle, Frenchmen Street, New Orleans.  OUTPUT: two pieces of microsmut and five full-length works, including a lazy morning blowjob; a desperate fuck in the restroom of a bar, complete with the doorknob rattling; and a good thorough eating-out with strong overtones of cuckolding.

I need to remember to write these reports up within a day, max, following the smut session in question. I take pictures of all the custom pieces that I write, but it's not always easy to recall my customers, on that busy busy street.

This night continued the trend of referrals. One middle-aged woman came sweeping up earlier in the evening; her young friends had gotten their two pieces done the night before, and nothing would do but having her own done. She was able to be marvelously articulate about the positions and sensations that she really enjoyed—sleepy slow morning sex—and she actually said, "My fantasy is something that we do often anyway." Would that everyone could say that about their own sex lives!

Closing out the night were two dueling parties, both related to weddings. A fellow who had just been a groomsman in a wedding that day wanted to get a piece for himself. He talked too much during the interview, and used the word "consensual" too often for my comfort, like he had memorized a vocabulary word of the day and was using it just to show that he knew it, but he was otherwise nice and had the cash. Not 30 seconds after I had tucked his money away, a stag party came up. This was the second time this group had come by, in fact. They had stopped in front of me an hour earlier, but when I had suggested getting someone's cell phone and texting when a spot was available, no one had taken me up on it. So they had taken their chances and somebody else had grabbed the next spot.

At this point, the groom-to-be turned to my actual customer, the extremely consensual groomsman, and began begging with him, loudly, please, he needed some smut, could he go first. My customer took it in good cheer, but argued back loudly. Things were starting to get very loud, and I lost my patience. SHUT UP. SHUT UP, ALL OF YOU, I yelled to the mob in front of my stand. My command rang across the sidewalk; the mob quieted, all except the two principles, who were still talking to each other. I SAID SHUT UP, I MEAN YOU AND YOU, and pointed at both of them. The overwhelming vibe of the space at that moment was, "Yes, ma'am." It felt good.

We got it sorted to everyone's satisfaction, how things were going to go. At the end of the night, I couldn't reach the bridegroom-to-be for his interview, and wrote it off as a lost cause. But one of his friends happened to show up, and asked if I could do something for the groom, even without the interview. I was like, well, what do you know about his sex life? "A little." I can swing something on an index card, I said. Rather than charging $5 up front for it, as I would for a normal piece of microsmut, I said I would treat this transaction as the poets do, and he pay me what it's worth after he got it. I knew he was desperate to get something from the smut lady, so I knew he was going to come back, and I was counting on his guilt on behalf of the stag party, for putting me through so much hassle. He would pay handsomely for this little piece, I guessed. And he did: $20 for four lines about his friend, his friend's fiancée, and a drunken blow-job in the mirror.

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