I remember in New Orleans that April night when I got invited to mud wrestle. I was on Bourbon Street, walking by a bar sometime after midnight, drinking a Hurricane. And a barker outside the bar, “Hey, female mudwrestling inside. Lady mudwrestling…”
A sign said, First drink free for spectators. All drinks free for participants.
“Come on in…” the barker barked. Then singled me out from the crowd, “Hey there. You look like you’d be a great mud wrestler.”
I didn’t know how to take that.
“Thanks, I guess.” Raised my glass to him and kept walking.
He ran backward, in little trotting steps, still facing me, still talking. I stopped because it’s hard to drink and talk to someone trotting backward. My friends had stopped and were watching from a distance.
“No seriously. You’d look great in mud.”
“Who wouldn’t? But this is a new dress.”
He looked me up and down.
“That won’t be an issue. Naked mud wrestling.”
“Still sounds messy.”
“We hose you off after.”
“Sounds wet.”
“I’ll dry you.”
“And here I thought you were legit interested in me for my prowess at mudwrestling.”
“No you didn’t.”
Then, less barker-like, “At least come in and watch.”
It was one of those turning points in life. I regretfully turned him down.
© 2019 Susan Walsh
