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It wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a visit with my brother. Innocuous, low key, familial bonding. But he insisted and I thought it was only right that I follow through.

“It’s Saturday night in New Orleans,” he argued. “It’s our duty to go out there and do this town some damage. Don’t you want some action?”

I don’t think he had any idea what he was asking.

Dinner was easy enough. We talked about nothing in particular and I smiled politely when he ogled the coeds walking in and out of the place.

“What?” he pushed. “Don’t you have any sex drive left? Does it all just disappear in your early 30s?”

“Why don’t we just say that action’s a little different for me than it is for you and leave it at that,” I countered. He looked a little perplexed, but the subject dropped. An hour later when we were riding the street car, he brought it back to the fore, spurred on by the three young lovelies who got on the trolley two stops after we did,

“Look at that, man. Now that’s talent. Don’t you want a piece of that?”

“What I want...” ...

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