The Case of the Desperate Dom Story – Part 2

A Dan Diamond mystery by j.

The Iguanas were still tearing the place up when I walked down the steep front staircase at Mid-City Lanes and out into the muggy New Orleans midnight. I hated to leave when they were playing “Late at Night,” which I like a lot, partly because it was co-written by a couple of the Iguanas and by some other big favorites of mine, the late great subdudes. But I was trying to cram a lot of music into my one free night in the Big Easy. I’d already heard an early set by Rosie Ledet in the downstairs room at Mid-City — where Rock’n’Bowl will never die — and was on my way to catch the ReBirth Brass Band at the Maple Leaf.

I needed some extra time to stop off at the Popeye’s on Carrolton and get a bag of biscuits. The Popeye’s chicken drive-ins didn’t travel well when they spread north, but the original ones in New Orleans make the Colonel look like a buck private. I don’t go there for the chicken, though. I like the red beans and rice — and those biscuits. In the wee hours, the Carrolton Popeye’s begins selling biscuits for next to nothing so it can start fresh the next day, and there’s nothing better than getting a bagful and driving around eating them while you listen to WWOZ.

On this night, I brought the warm, greasy bag with me as I walked down the street to the Maple Leaf after finding a parking spot for my rental car only three blocks away. I still had my big go-cup of vodka and grapefruit juice from Mid-City, so I joined the people on the sidewalk outside the Leaf instead of going in. There’s usually someone standing there, because the stage is in the big front show window, and from outside you can see the backs of the musicians and catch most of the music. I took a bite from a biscuit and a sip from the go-cup. Was this a great life or what?

When I finally decided to head back to my hotel on the outskirts of the Quarter, I drove out the few remaining blocks on Carrolton and followed the streetcar tracks as they made their big bend and headed back downtown on St. Charles. As I drove along under the branches of the huge live oaks, I was thinking of coincidences. This case began with me dreaming about New Orleans while I was eating gumbo in the Farmers Market, way out on the West Coast end of the I-10. A few days later, here I was, still only a few blocks from the I-10 but now in the primo gumbo spot of all.

When I had returned to my office the day before yesterday, after checking out Destiny at The Castle and striking her off the suspect list, my secretary Stella told me that she’d located only one of the other three people who had done the submissive bit for Suzanne Smythe in her bondage films. His name was Billy Barstow, and he was working as a male stripper at some kind of private club in New Orleans. If he was still taking off his clothes for a living, whether it was for the camera or in front of a live audience, he didn’t sound like the kind of guy who’d hold a grudge against Suzanne for “humiliation on film,” but I needed to check out anyone who might remotely have a reason for sending her those death threats.

So now I was enjoying an Uptown night out, taking a little advance R&R before looking up Barstow. I figured that I’d earned it after the whipping I’d taken from Destiny at The Castle. At least she apologized afterward, sort of. I guess that kiss was some kind of apology. I was still thinking about that when I got back to the hotel and crawled into bed.

The next morning, I felt great. Vodka doesn’t give me a hangover, the grapefruit juice had a lot of vitamin C, and the biscuits provided the necessary ballast. I had checked the phone book when I got into town to see whether the Spitfire Club, where Billy Barstow worked, was listed. I figured it was some kind of private gay club, and I wasn’t surprised when there was no listing. Now, I thought I’d do some asking around, but I decided to check first to see whether there was any chance that Barstow himself was in the book. Bingo! Sometimes you just get lucky.

“This is Billy,” said the guy who answered the phone.

“Hi,” I said. “This is Dan. A friend of mine back on the Coast said to give you a ring if I was looking for some action in New Orleans. You remember Suzanne Smythe?”

“Sure,” he said. “How’s Suzanne doing?”

“Looking good the last time I saw her,” I answered.

“I didn’t know Suzanne even knew where I was these days,” he said.

“Guess she did,” I said.

“Well, were you looking for a pass to the club or for a private session?” Billy asked.

“Private,” I said, figuring that a one-on-one meeting would be the best place to break the news to Billy about my real reason for calling him.

“Are you looking for a dom or a sub?” he said.

Oops! Maybe that club wasn’t exactly what I’d thought it was. Did they have private bondage clubs? It was beginning to sound like it. I figured I’d play it cozy.

“Actually, I’m a switch,” I told him. “I haven’t made up my mind what I’m in the mood for tonight.”

“That’s cool,” he said. “We can play it by ear.”

“Okay by me,” I said.

“Did you want to see me or Matilda or both of us?” Billy asked.

Oops again! This was playing out a lot differently than I thought it would.

“Just you, I guess,” I said.

“Fine, but Matilda will probably be hanging around the place anyway,” he said. “When you see her, you may change your mind.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting her,” I said.

“You know,” Billy added, “I’ve known a lot of girls who were switches, but not many guys. Most of the men we see are bottoms, and we get some tops. Not many switches, though.” He paused for a moment. “I’m one myself, you know. Not just professionally, but when I’m doing it for the fun of it, too.”

“I guess it doubles your opportunities,” I said, wondering whether he was just telling me about his bondage preferences or whether he was hinting that he was bi.

We set a time early in the evening, since Billy had to go to work at the private club around midnight. He gave me an address not far from Mid-City Lanes, where I’d been the night before. I killed the rest of the day walking around the Quarter, mostly browsing in the shops on Royal and avoiding the T-shirt-shop hell of Bourbon Street. I wanted to take it easy in Jackson Square for a while, just sitting in the sun, but I discovered that the benches were gone, apparently because someone thought they attracted too many vagrants looking for a place to sleep. God save us from City Fathers!

I drove out to Billy’s place about 8 o’clock. It was a typical neighborhood for that part of New Orleans, mostly little one-story shotgun cottages. It appeared to be racially mixed, with quite a few Latinos, and there was a Cuban restaurant on a corner down the street. I knocked on the door of the house at the address Barstow had given me, and a tall blond guy wearing nothing but bikini underpants opened it. He looked like a typical California surfer kid, but a little worse for wear now and beached without his board in Tennessee Williams country.

“Hey, you must be Dan,” he said. “Come on in. I was just getting things ready.”

The living room ran across the whole front of the cottage, so it was larger than you’d expect in such a small house. Billy had pushed the broken-down couch and the rest of the furniture back against the walls and into the corners to clear the center of the room. There was nothing sitting there now except a big cardboard box and one of those aluminum sawhorses you can buy in hardware stores. Rings had been bolted into the legs of the sawhorse near the bottom, and pieces of rope were tied to the rings. I could see that the box was filled with paddles and leather straps and other bondage junk. Billy disappeared down a long, narrow hallway that split the rest of the house in two, and in a minute, he came back carrying an ordinary wooden kitchen chair.

“I wish we had a regular dungeon room,” he said, “but this house is pretty small. When we can afford it, Matilda and I want to move to a larger place in the Quarter.”

“No problem,” I said.

I wasn’t too interested in the housing problems of what must be a very odd couple, but I did wonder what folks walking by on the sidewalk thought when a bondage session was going on in that living room. There wasn’t much of a front yard, and the sidewalk couldn’t be more than fifteen or twenty feet away. That was their problem, though, because I intended to cut this session short and tell Billy why I was really there. This good-natured kid didn’t strike me as someone who sent out death threats, and he sure didn’t show any signs of being humiliated by his choice of a career, so I figured that I’d ask him a few questions, pay him for his time and catch the next flight back to the Left Coast. Then this babe came walking into the room, and my plans changed.

Matilda was almost as tall as Billy, and she looked so much like him — snow-blond hair, deep tan and a rangy, athletic build — that the thought crossed my mind that they might be brother and sister instead of lovers. Then she walked up to him, pulled his head down toward hers and gave him a long kiss with lots of tongue. If these kids were brother and sister, they were an even kinkier couple than I suspected. She came up for air and turned to me.

“Hi,” she said, and the way she stretched out that single syllable in a low, breathy gasp sent a tingle running from my balls down the length of my dick and back again, leaving a blooming erection in its wake.

“Uh, hi,” I said. I can always come up with those snappy comebacks.

I’d never seen a shorter, smaller halter top or a shorter, tighter pair of shorts than the ones that Matilda had on. They showed off everything, and she had a lot to show off. She had the long, slender body of an athlete, but her breasts jutted out of her torso like those tin cones that Madonna used to wear, and her round butt bounced and jiggled as if it were planning a breakout from the skimpy shorts.

“I just wanted to say hello,” she said. “Billy said you weren’t interested in including me this time.”

“Well, not exactly,” I said, thinking fast.

“If you want a session with both of us, it’s half off on the second person,” Billy explained, “so it would only cost you three hundred dollars, not four hundred.”

“That sounds like a good deal to me,” I said.

“The thing is,” Matilda said, “I don’t do sub sessions or switch sessions. I’m strictly dom, so you’re going to have to be the bottom. Unless maybe we could both whip Billy and stuff like that, but then there wouldn’t be any contact between you and me.”

“Oh, I like being a sub sometimes,” I said hurriedly.

See how one good-looking broad can change the course of an investigation? If you’d asked me about the Suzanne Smythe case then, I’d probably have answered, “Suzanne who?” What I was thinking about now was seeing how Matilda looked minus what little clothing she had on. I admit it. At times like this, what little brains I have always take a dive down to the end of my penis.

“Okay, then, I’m going to change,” Matilda said. “Billy can get you ready.”

She went back down the hall. I had been hoping that we’d all just strip down for action then and there, but she was the boss from now on. Billy and I looked at each other, and he stood there as though he were waiting for me to do something. Finally, I figured out what it was and pulled out my wallet. He thanked me for the three hundred bucks and tucked the bills into his underpants.

“You can take off your clothes and put them on the couch,” he said.

He stood there smiling at me while I removed my clothing. In a sexual situation like this, it was even more embarrassing undressing in front of a man than stripping for a woman. It was also a little hard on my vanity. I’m in fairly good shape, but my body wasn’t in the same class as Billy’s. I figured that he worked out a lot. Or maybe it was just because he was at least fifteen years younger.

He took a pair of handcuffs out of the cardboard box and cuffed my hands behind me. While he was doing that, my dick began to rise. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to turn around and face him, but I got a break when Matilda returned. No one could blame me for getting an erection after taking a look at her.

Actually, she had on more clothing than when she left, but the new outfit still left a lot of skin uncovered. She had on a black leather bra and short shorts, with garters attached to the shorts and reaching down to a pair of black silk stockings that rose to not far above the knee, leaving a long stretch of naked thigh between the hose and the shorts. She was wearing very high heels, and she had put on a little cat mask, complete with whiskers, that covered the top part of her face. And from a harness around her waist protruded a large dildo in the shape of an erect penis — black to match her outfit.

“Get your undies off, too, Billy,” she ordered. “I feel like whipping a couple of butts.”

He pulled off his underwear, and we stood there with a pair of growing erections while she rummaged through the box of stuff until she found two narrow leather paddles. She positioned us side by side, about five feet apart, both staring at the wall, and then she kicked my feet apart and pushed the top part of my body down until my butt was sticking into the air. I looked across at Billy. He was in the same position, and he grinned at me. He’d obviously been down this road before.

If I looked back through my spread legs, I could see Maltilda’s long, silk-covered legs and her bare thighs and most of her body up to her tits. She held a paddle in each hand, and her arms swung them back at the same time and then forward, and there was a double smack as the leather hit our bottoms. She hit us hard, and my head and upper body jerked up in reaction.

“Get that head back down,” she said, and there was a hard edge in her voice that made me obey immediately.

She began whacking us in a steady rhythm, always landing the blows on each set of buttocks at the same time, never missing a beat. This girl was good. I closed my eyes and clenched my butt and felt the burn build. When she stopped after hitting us each a dozen times or more, she walked between us and stood in front, looking at us with the paddles at her sides. I sneaked a look up at her face, and she had a broad smile. I looked over at Billy. He was grinning, too. In these days when so many young people have a hard time finding a job they like, it was good to see a couple of them who really enjoyed their work.

“Let’s get him on the horse,” she told Billy.

Billy unfastened the handcuffs that had been holding my arms behind my back. When I’m naked in a bondage session and my hands are free, I never know where to put them, so I held them over my genitals. Billy pushed them down to my sides and gave me a warning shake of his head, followed by a glance at Matilda. I knew what he meant. I didn’t want to piss her off either.

She had been looking in the cardboard box again and pulled out a leather hood. She fitted it over my head, and they buckled it tightly at the neck. The mask had a mouth hole and eye holes, but a leather gag and blindfold were attached to the it, and they were strapped into place. Now my head was entirely encased in leather, except for two little breathing holes under my nose. They led me across the floor until I banged into the sawhorse.

They bent me over it, tying my ankles to the legs on one side and my wrists to the ones on the other side. The sawhorse was very tall, so that I was stretched tight with my butt hoisted into the air again. A hand moved across my taut buttocks. It caressed each cheek and then moved down the crack, trailing fingers across my anus. The hand didn’t linger there. It closed on my balls, squeezed them lightly before tugging a few times on my dangling penis. With the hood on my head, I couldn’t tell whose hand it was, and I was relieved when Matilda spoke from just next to me.

“I should have tied his dick up,” she said.

“You want the leather cords?” Billy asked from somewhere in front of me.

“Skip it,” she said. “Maybe later.”

She caught me with the first stroke before my butt was ready, and my yell was loud even through the gag. She’d discarded the paddles in favor of a flogger, with its many long strips of leather, like a cat-o’-nine-tails for a kinder, gentler generation. I’d been whipped with a flogger by Denise on one of my follow-up visits to Miss D.’s, and I didn’t think it hurt as much as a lot of the other whips and paddles and canes. But when the whipper stepped back a bit and snapped the flogger so that the tips of the leather strips flicked into the flesh, it could be an intense experience — and Matilda was obviously into intense in a big way.

She covered my body with her strokes, whipping my butt thoroughly before moving down the backs of my thighs and legs. Then she walked around and flogged my back, before going back to my buttocks — no matter where a whip or paddle roamed, the butt was always the Capistrano of the B&D flock. Mine was feeling fairly hot at the moment, so I was surprised and happy when Matilda stopped hitting me and told Billy to get her a bowl of ice cubes. I had visions of cool cloths being applied to my warm bottom.

I couldn’t hear very well in the hood, but I sensed footsteps moving away down the hall and someone else walking around the living room. A door opened, and I felt a breeze on my upraised butt. There was the sound of some kind of metal flap falling. I heard the door close. The breeze stopped. I wondered whether Matilda had been checking her mailbox wearing black leather underwear with a dildo attached. What would the neighbors think? In the Big Easy, it probably took more than that to faze them.

Footsteps came back down the hall. Matilda told Billy to put the bowl on the chair, and I could hear the faint sound when he set it down. I was expecting to feel a cold, moist rag on my bottom when Matilda put an ice cube directly onto the ring of my anus. I gasped. That was a real jolt, but nothing compared to the shock as she pressed it against my balls and moved it slowly around the tight sac. After a several excruciating minutes of that, she swabbed the ice cube up and down my erection. Then she grasped my penis, bent it farther back between my legs and ran the cube around its head.

She released my dick and brought the ice cube back to my anus. She pushed. The cube popped inside. I only had an instant to think about that when I felt a second cube pressing against the sphinctor. It circled the rim for a while. Then there was a push, and it slid inside, too. The third one was right behind. Matilda didn’t mess with this one — she just shoved it right in and stuck a finger in behind it to poke the ice cubes deeper. I felt as if I’d been speared by a king-size icicle.

While the ice cubes were freezing my rectum, someone began heating up my bottom again. Even though I couldn’t see, I could tell that whoever it was had switched to a broad leather paddle. The loud smacks echoed in the room. I felt long fingernails running down my back. I knew that had to be Matilda, so Billy must be doing the spanking now. The fingers on my back moved around the sides of my bent-over body and began pinching and pulling my nipples. A hand closed on my erection and held it tightly.

The spanking ceased abruptly, and the hands went away. I hung there over the sawhorse for four or five minutes, listening to the footsteps around me. Someone walked down the hall and came back. Finally, I heard someone just behind me, and a finger began lubricating the ring of my anus. Something hard pressed against it for a moment and then slipped inside — something round and thick and long. It pushed deeper.

Was it the real thing or an imitation? Flesh or latex? Something permanently attached to Billy or something purchased in a sex shop on Dumaine? Aretha or Memorex?

“Do you want to switch him around on the horse so he’s in a better position?” Billy asked from somewhere in front of me. I was relieved to find out that the penis up my butt wasn’t home-grown but was made in a factory in, maybe, New Jersey or some other third-world country.

Matilda apparently liked Billy’s suggestion, because she withdrew the dildo. They unfastened my wrists and ankles from the sawhorse and let me stand up. I was stiff from being bent over almost double, but they pushed my body down on the metal crossbar again, lengthways this time. My head stuck off one end and my butt off the other. My dick and balls were riding the rail — a position I do not recommend — but Matilda and Billy pulled me back a bit on the sawhorse, and everything dangled free. My wrists and ankles were refastened, but once I was tied down tightly, the hood was removed.

I couldn’t figure out why they’d taken the hood off, but everything came clear in a flash when Matilda stepped in front of me and I was face to face with that awesome tool strapped to her crotch.

“Which end do you want?” she asked Billy.

“Hold on! Hold on!” I shouted before he had a chance to answer. “Let’s leave Billy out of this. Please.”

The two of them looked down at me. Matilda shook her head as though she’d expected this kind of craven behavior all along. Billy just seemed puzzled.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “This is the main part.”

“I’m sure,” I said. “Really.”

“What makes you think you have a choice?” Matilda said. “Your ass is mine now. If you can’t take what I hand out, you shouldn’t have come through that front door.”

“I guess I didn’t make clear what I wanted,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. But I don’t want Billy in either end. I’m just not into that. Honest.”

“Well, you’re getting it in both ends one way or another,” she said, “because that’s what I feel like doing to you. Billy, go get that vibrator out of my dresser.”

She began unfastening the strap-on’s harness from around her hips, and Billy went off to fetch the vibrator. Matilda detached the artificial penis from the harness and wiped it off with the underpants that Billy had been wearing. She shoved it into my mouth, which had to stretch wide to accommodate it.

“Don’t spit that out or you’ll get the real thing,” she said.

Billy came back with the vibrating plastic dildo. He’d already flicked it on, and it was buzzing loudly. I wondered how Matilda could concentrate on an orgasm when the thing was making all that noise. The dildo was large but not as big as the artificial penis. It didn’t look like a penis or anything else except what it was — a dildo. Form follows function.

“Keep that plastic dick in his mouth,” Matilda told Billy. “I want him licking it and sucking on it like he’s giving a blowjob.”

He held the artificial penis in one hand, pressing it firmly against my mouth, and grasped his own cock with his other hand, slowly stroking it. I guess Billy liked having a good time one way or another, even when he was working. Matilda pushed the vibrating dildo against my anus and pushed it in. Her other hand reached under me and closed around my erection. Some people have trouble doing two things at the same time, but not Matilda. She had no trouble fucking me with the dildo with one hand and jerking me off with the other. Billy was really getting into his own masturbation now, not paying much attention to whether or not I was sucking that artificial penis.

“Billy!” Matilda said sharply.

“Sorry,” he said, and he shoved the fake penis farther into my mouth.

Matilda pushed the vibrator deep inside me and left it there. With two hands free, she was able to squeeze and fondle my balls with one hand while she stroked my dick with the other. That’s the best way in the world to coax an orgasm out of me, and I could feel one on the way almost instantly. I wanted the orgasm to come and I wanted it to stay away. I wanted to reach the throbbing release and I wanted to be right on the edge forever. You know that feeling. Everybody does.

The cum came spurting out. Matilda milked me until the jets had dwindled to dribbles. Then she stood up and patted me on the bottom.

“Untie him, Billy,” she said. “I’m going to take a shower.”

She walked out, leaving the vibrator buzzing in my butt. I looked up at Billy. He’d gotten to an orgasm on his own, and he was wiping the head of his dick with his underpants. He tossed them back onto the floor and knelt down to untie me.

“Would you take out that vibrator first?” I asked.

He laughed. He got up, pulled out the dildo and switched it off. He started working at the knots on the ropes fastening me to the sawhorse.

“I hope that was okay, Dan,” he said. “I’m kind of confused over what you wanted. When you said at first that you wanted a session just with me, I figured you were gay, but I guess you’re not. I don’t get it.” He paused. “Another thing that I don’t understand is how you found out about me from Suzanne. I didn’t even know she knew my name. We just met that one time at the film shoot. That was a big deal for me because it got me started in the business, but it couldn’t have meant that much to her.”

I guess Billy was smarter than he looked, so I waited until he had untied me completely, and then I leveled with him. He was startled when I told him about the death threats, and he assured me that he was nothing but grateful to Suzanne for the start she’d given him. I told him I had crossed him off the list as soon as I met him, but I had wanted to eliminate him as a suspect before I started looking for the final two people who’d been on camera in those films.

“You mean Charlie and Connie?” he said. “I can tell you exactly where they are.”

I was all ears. It looked as if this trip to New Orleans was going to be worthwhile after all.

“You can cross Charlie off,” Billy said. “I got an e-mail from a friend in L.A. last week, and he told me that Charlie took a john to a room in a no-tell motel out on Sunset, and the john turned out to be a vice cop. Charlie couldn’t make bail, and he’s been sitting in the lockup for the last two months waiting to go to trial, so he couldn’t have sent any letters.”

“Okay,” I said, “what about the girl? Connie, right?”

“I know where she is for sure,” he said. “Connie is Matilda’s sister. That’s how I met Matilda. Connie introduced me when we were making those movies.”

“I thought maybe you and Matilda were brother and sister,” I said.

Billy looked shocked.

“Hey, man,” he said. “How could she be my sister? How could I do this kind of stuff with a sister? What kind of guy do you think I am?”

Well, I thought he was the kind of guy who made his living by sticking his dick into random strangers, but I didn’t say that. Who was I to throw stones? I was the kind of guy who had discovered the curious pleasures of having people tie me up and paddle me on the butt. When it came to weird, I was right up there with Billy and Matilda.

“Sorry,” I told him. “It’s just that you look so much alike.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” he said. “That’s what people like when we put on shows at the Spitfire Club. I suppose it’s because they think she’s my sister.”

“How did you get that gig?” I asked him.

“Oh, that was Connie, too,” he said. “She works in the Spitfire Club in San Francisco, and she got us for the jobs here.”

“There’s more than one club?”

“They got three,” he said. “One here, one in Frisco and one in New York. They’re all private, and they’re all owned by the members. They’ve been around for a long time, I guess.”

“These are bondage clubs?”

“Right,” he said. “It’s mostly couples who are into B&D. People with enough money to afford a club like that. The tops bring their bottoms there to show them off. Sometimes they swap. And they have slave auctions. And there are entertainers like me and Matilda who put on shows. And we might get it on with the members.”

“So what does Connie do in San Francisco?” I asked.

“She’s kind of the resident slave girl,” he said. “If no one shows up with a sub some night, Connie is always there. She’s a dom sometimes, too. Mostly a sub, though.”

“Do you suppose you could ask her to talk with me?” I said.

“Well, that’s kind of tricky right now,” he said. “She and Matilda had kind of a big fight the last time we were out on the Coast.”

“What was that all about?” I asked.

Billy looked sheepish.

“Well, I guess it was about me,” he said.

“I hope you don’t mind, Billy,” I said, “but I’ve got to ask you something. You live with this great-looking chick, and the two of you obviously have got something going, but your lifestyle is a little different. Are you gay or not?”

“Oh, I’m into girls big-time,” he said. “The thing with guys is just for money. But sometimes it can be fun, you know?”

I wasn’t sure that I did know, but I just nodded and finished dressing. I had the feeling that Billy could find that kind of fun just about anywhere he went and in any situation. He gave me a card from the Spitfire Club in New Orleans that entitled me to a courtesy visit to the club in San Francisco, and he wished me luck in my investigation. He still had that goofy grin on his face as he said good-bye.

I had a lot to think about driving back to the hotel — not about the case but about Billy and Matilda and their odd life. About this whole scene that I had discovered in the last month or so. It wasn’t so much about a case or a client anymore. I didn’t know what it was about.

This post-punishment introspection had become a kind of routine. When I went to one of these sessions, all I thought about was the experience itself, the smack of a paddle on my bare bottom, the clothespins pinching my nipples, the feel of a girl’s hands knotting a cord tightly around my cock and balls. But when I was on the road back home or to my office, I started thinking about what had brought me there, why those things turned me on. I hadn’t come up with any answers.

The next morning, I called the airline to book an earlier return flight. I got one that left in a few hours, so I packed my bags, put them in the rental car and drove to the Acme for some oysters before I took off. There was a group of out-of-town suits in there being loud and typically obnoxious. I should have known to avoid the Acme, where the tourists are likely to outnumber the locals by about 50 to 1, but I sat there and washed down my oysters with an Abita.

Who knew when I’d get back to Louisiana? I ordered another Abita.

End of The Case of the Desperate Dom Story – Part 2

NEXT: You lost your WHAT in San Francisco?

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