Lipsweet of Baton Rouge
The airs in the stuffy bar were achingly thick, stultifying but liberatory. They made the bar, Lipsweet, feel like a warm, inviting bed, though it was only a grimy bar on the outskirts of Baton Rouge. The spit of land on which Lipsweet abided was on the north side of Jolais Road, but the rest of this side of the road was owned by the Prêteur famille. He ain’t say a peep as Simon’s hands caressed over his chest under the shirt and the bar filled up with men. Like Beau, they were Cajuns from the Prêteur sugar refinery and they wore clothes a-caked with soot and grease. Their bodies were clean though, bathed at the refinery after their shift ended, their puckeringly tanned pink and pert muscles bulging against their clothes.
La nuit outside was quiet once the men entréed and their drunken-footed chattery faded when the door slammed shut behind them. Inside Suzette the brunette nightingale sang a chanson triste about a sailor named Claude who lost his lady.