A Flash Fiction Story by ME...Caitlin Thorpe

What are these beads, really? Are beads just cheap colored plastic tied together with string, or are the beads a symbol of greatness and status in the Mardi Gras world. By the way women act for them, I would have to side with the latter. I mean some beads are better than others. Red shiny hearts, blinking lights, alcohol logos, and beads with panties are sure to get the breasts a bouncin’. Some beads have huge balls the size of cantaloupes, but you know the men who have these big beads have the small balls. Those men will never drop the beads even if you flash a pair of perky C-cups.

From any balcony on Bourbon Street you will able to see an array of different people. One man directly across from your balcony looks like he has been celebrating since the beginning of Carnival. His body is laying in a combination of mud, piss and other bodily functions I am sure. His head is being supported by the mass amounts of beads around his neck that he collected on his voyage. The small beads, and large beads have created a kind of pillow around his head, so all he must do is layback, relax and enjoy the show from ground zero. I wonder where his friends are, and if he will be O.K, but I guess every man must fend for himself in the war zone of Bourbon.

If you look left down the road, you can see a fight breaking out. It is hard to tell what caused it, but I can almost guarantee that it is between two men, one who is angry at the other for making a drunken pass at his girlfriend. What can you expect though when the girlfriend is taking off her top to get the cheap beads? Excuse me, they were beads with a pair of boobs on them, totally worth the flash and the fight.

If you turn right you can see a mob of people that seem to be moving without any effort. The people are trapped in a vortex and some of them may be moving against there will. I’m not sure what causes this phenomenon, but enough people are trying to force their way down Bourbon in the same direction, that they begin to move as one. If I could scream down to the young girl in the yellow tanktop, laughing with her hand grenade, I would say, watch you wallet, but I can’t. I’m sure when the vortex spits her out, her wallet will be gone. At least that’s what happened to me. She should have left her cash in the car.
I save the best view for last. I look directly below me and see a crowd of women aged seventeen to sixty. I look to my right and left and see men with the huge balls, men with the small shitty beads, and men who are just spectating. I look back down below me, and I count ten, no twelve, pairs of boobs. I see an old blue haired grandma with breast that sag to her waist. She received a set of long pink pearl beads for her flashing effort. I see two women holding hands. One shows her double D’s off while the other modestly clings to her shirt. I respect that women for not conforming to the trend, and toss her my favorite beads from around my neck: ones with a giant crawfish. Next I see one woman who is being showered with beads. I wonder why, since she isn’t exposing herself, and then quickly realize that her shirt is just a mirage. He small boobs have huge, perfectly circular nipples that are acting as the eyes for a painting of an owl on her chest. Maybe she is a Chi O…I’m sure her sisters would be proud.

I remember when I was the young girl on the street exposing myself. My breasts were so perky that they almost hit me in the chin. My alveoli were ruby red, and my left nipple was pierced with a silver ring. That was the closer; I had the men going crazy, and all the best beads that the assholes now a days won’t dare to drop. It is a shame how quickly things can change. It is a shame that my breasts had to be removed, and my hair feel out during chemo. It is a shame that in this world, a woman who once had it all, can not even get the smallest of beads for exposing her breast nubs. It is shame that the girl with the perky C-cups walks away bead less and defeated, but if she only knew she had it all. Bead less will always be better than breast less.