Alley Cat
Prowling for debauchery in New Orleans

My name is Juliette -- I'm a medium-height, attractive blonde with short, spiky hair. Every Tuesday night I look for dangerous sex because I like risk -- it helps me relax. I used to be in the army, and now nothing makes me more nervous than boredom.

See also...
... by Juliette Dauphine
... in the Crave section
... from August 24, 1999

I'm a gal with predatory, masculine instincts.

Scary fucks occur with people you don't know, who have unpredictable, possibly violent behavior. It's chancy, but if you're street-smart you can throw your horny body into the universe and it'll give you the precise nasty rendezvous you're looking for.

Here's what happened last night:

I dragged a sweaty Harley-riding biker into the urine-soaked alley behind Joker's Pool Hall. He was a big, drunk, bearded pig, with strong arms and legs. I helped him rip off my panties and I put a condom on his ugly meat, then he leaned me up against the brick wall, right next to a pile of fish bones.

It was sudden and hot and I thought a dozen guys might pile out of the club to "train" me. The fear keyed my senses with adrenaline and made me feel everything quickly and in slow-motion at the same time. After he shot his wad, the big brute said I was "fuckin' awesome" and he asked me my name. I hate that crap -- I pulled up my panties, I zipped up my jeans, I stepped past the drenched condom that he tossed on the oily pavement by the dog shit.

"Where ya going?" he asked.

I unlocked my Camaro, I buckled up safely, and I zoomed home, past Esplanade Wharf to my home in the French Quarter.

What kind of sex deviant am I?

I'm an Alley Cat, a Cajun gutter-gal who likes her humping raunchy and anonymous in dark, fetid places.


Eat me, you wanking moralists. The orgasm I had hurricaned my pussy -- my labia were still twitching when I crossed the Mississippi.

Once a week, I "slut up" in rip-away clothes to cruise this craven city. I hunt for heated thrills in the following seedy locations:

Truck stops: Highway 59 to Gulfport has a "rest area" where truckers like to park their big rigs in my reckless nookie. I go for the ones with tattoos who look like they haven't slept since El Paso. They think I'm just a hooker, so they're happy when I wave off their twenties. Sometimes they bone me on the picnic tables; I come home with pickle relish smeared on my legs.

Biker bars: I buy crystal meth here and squirt it up my rectum; it makes me so horny I feel like shoving everything in the bar up my twat. When I pick my mark, I make him piston my cylinder standing up in an adjacent alley; if his lower back gives out I find someone else. I don't worry about my safety because I've studied karate, Thai kickboxing, and jujitsu -- theoretically, I can maim somebody three times before they hit the ground.

Housing projects: WASPs sometimes shy away from me with lame excuses like "I never fuck anyone crazier than I am." Black men almost never refuse -- they'll buck me boisterously, without hesitation. The slums by Lake Pontchartrain are an excellent place to desegregate. Underneath the moldering stairwells the homeboys mount me, shouting Gospel slogans like "Hallelujah! Praise Jesus!"

Gay leather clubs: In boy-drag I dress up: leather chaps with a packed jockstrap and my B-cups taped down. I also insert a Reality condom into my sphincter so I'm primed for holing as soon as a tough top grabs my ass. The Pendulum Club has a butt-pirate patio where crowded orgies occur. Leather daddies spank my gluts here and snarl "Take my cock!" as they push their pricks in my ass. I snap back "don't touch me!" if their fingers inch forward -- I have to be a bossy bottom, because girls definitely aren't desired.

When I'm finished with my fling, I drive home to shower and get in bed with my girlfriend.

That's right -- I'm in a satisfying relationship with a lesbian psychologist named Stephanie, who thinks I'm complex and interesting.

Our sex is different -- it's about love and commitment.

The phallus-prowling that I do is excessive and unusual. Why do I do it? I think my behavior has something to do with Mardi Gras, the debauched hedonistic carnival that purifies us New Orleanians. I have to let loose once in a while, or my life weighs me down with ennui.

Juliette Dauphine is a successful day trader.