... Frankie Minot Tells of the Rape of Preston Foley ...
I must admit all the Gentlemen at my home on Dauphine Street, not the least of which was Yours Truly, were veritably Licking their Chops that Sunday Night when Fenton Rochilieu's Proposition, which I has accepted, came to Fruition. Several Gentlemen of the Tremé drove up with Preston Foley in the Trunk, and as my Household had been alerted of his imminent appearance, we had taken the interim Period of Waiting to smoke a not inconsiderable amount of marijuana, and after listening to Gordon Lightfoot's Greatest Hits, we put "England Swings" by Roger Miller on the System on auto-repeat in anticipation of the Experience.
And before you could say "Catch a Nigger by the Tail" there indeed was Foley's, carried ass-first thru the doorway by several strong men, and the gentleman was duct-taped from toe to head like a bad S & M procedure. Rochilieu asked that he be placed on the Persian rug in the Living Room, which I normally reserve for ESTEEMED guests, but in this case, I was more than willing to make an exception.
For just as Preston Foley had proved himself a foe of the Black Man, he had proved to be an even Greater foe of the Gentlemen here in the Marigny, some of whom are also persons of color. As my home was once a Brothel and is equipped with a special Corridor near the Back Rooms, eet had been decided that he would spend some not inconsiderable Time in my Company whilst his Ransom was being negotiated by Mr. Fleetwhite, who at last proved himself to be good for SOMEthing. But E GADS was Foley in a State. One which we quickly put to rest.
My close friend Darrell was ready with the video camera as a number of the younger gentlemen relieved the fellow of enough Duct Tape for them to turn him over clean on his back, his naked ass lofty in the air, and as we continued to enjoy Mr. Miller's strains of
England swings like a pendulum do
Bobbies on bicycles two by two
Westminster Abbey, the Tower of Big Ben
The rosy red cheeks of the little children . . .
They proceeded to administer to Mr. Foley an appreciable number of experiences, one after another, the likes of which I do not think he had even ever imagined he could fathom.
I watched, naked, from the corner, and soon aroused by the spectacle of all my younger gentlemen friends taking their pleasure, I exclaimed, "Jack me off! Jack me off!" and at once I was obliged by Harold, a friend of Marshall's, while the machinations continued upon the person of Perston Foley, on my Persian Carpet, given me, incidentally, by my mother, who passed in 1974, before Kermit Broadmeyer had ever THOUGHT about New Orleans, thank God.
At last I was encouraged to take part in the Festivities, and as such, I began whistling "England Swings" while I worked on Mr. Foley with a retired bottle of Taylor's Crème Sherry, at last removing the tape around his mouth (none too gently) as I demanded he sing along with the song, lest he be insulted with the rather larger caliber of an empty bottle of Bombay Sapphire Gin.
Eet ees aMAzing how many words to any given song a man will remember when confronted with such a prospect.
Gaping at the dapper men with rosy hats and canes . . .
My Lord, I believe myself to be almost inGRAtiated to Mr. Rochilieu and his friend, Mr. LeFleur.
Fallin' out the windowsill, frolic in the grass . . .
And at last, I was conVERted to their Cause, such as I understood eet. I even discovered enough spare change in Mr. Foley's pockets to purchase a quite nice bottle of brandy, which my friends and I consumed in his Presence. Just prior to having had our Fill and placing him in what my dear mother called the "Bitch" room, in the Corridor, in which I myself was once placed when discovered enjoying myself at what should have been my bedtime, a photo of a young Monty Clift on my adolescent pillow.
And bless his heart, that is where Preston Foley spent the night. And the next one, as well. And Bless his Heart, the next one, as Fenton and Raphael discussed their next Course of Action.
I was only glad to be but a small part of the Emancipation of New Orleans, with my Garden District Nigger in the Cellar and my music playing on the System. For once, I slept soundly to dreams of my dear mother.