Chapter 7 Lyrix
Lyrix
The sun was doing the absolute most, pouring straight through the open balcony doors. I stretched, slow and sore in all the right places, and immediately noticed two things: I was naked, and I was alone.
I sat up in the tangled sheets, blinking my way through a mild hangover and some very vivid memories of last night. Maison had me folded up like a fitted sheet and his fine ass was nowhere to be found.
I looked around the room and noticed a tray. Silver dome tops and a little note card.
Wrapped in the comforter, I walked across the room like a spoiled housewife in a luxury drama. My thighs ached, and I was lowkey humming to myself as I reached for the card first.
“Had to handle a few work things. Be back by 4 to take you out for dinner. Enjoy the day. —Maison”
I smiled and lifted the top off one tray and gasped. It was catfish and grits. Perfectly fried. Golden. I swear I could smell the seasoning before the lid even came off all the way.
“Okay, Maison,” I whispered to myself.
I lifted the second dome expecting maybe fruit or something light and instead saw a whole damn stack of money. Underneath it was another note.
“For your adventures today. Don’t hold back. My treat.”
I laughed so hard I almost dropped the tray. Not Maison leaving me breakfast and a little hood-rich per diem. I shook my head and looked out toward the balcony. I could hear music drifting up from the street.
I sat down, tore into my catfish, and made a mental note to never question my Heaux Phase again. Because baby, it was the softest, wildest, most unexpected adventure I’d ever had.
Later that morning, I found myself standing in the middle of Jackson Square, sunglasses on, sipping an iced coffee that I may or may not have added a splash of whiskey to.
Maison had told me to start there, so I did.
The Saint Louis Cathedral stood tall and elegant behind me like it had seen centuries of drama, prayers, secrets, and scandal.
I walked inside for a bit, taking in the stained glass.
It was peaceful in a way I hadn’t expected.
Holy, even. Like the kind of place you walk through and think, Damn, maybe I should get my life together… after this trip, though.
After that, I wandered the square, watching the artists paint portraits, the musicians blowing jazz through old horns, and the smell of beignets and pralines swirling through the air like temptation.
I saw him, one of those men that stand frozen, painted from head to toe in gold like a living statue. He had the tin can beside him, sunglasses on, and not a single muscle moved while people walked by.
Naturally, I had to test him. So I danced up. Hands on my knees, giving a little light twerk, just to see if I could break him.
That man jumped to life like a recharged robot, popping his hips and doing a whole damn two-step. I screamed. I wasn’t expecting all that. He laughed and pointed at me like “You tried it,” and the crowd watching started clapping and hollering.
“Y’all gotta chill,” I said, fanning myself, still laughing as someone snapped a photo.
A few streets over, I ducked into a cute little bakery that had just the right mix of old-school charm and good smells. The display case was stacked with pralines, cookies, and King Cakes.
I pointed at the prettiest one with the purple, green, and gold icing and said, “Let me try that.”
The lady behind the counter handed me a slice with a smile. The second it touched my tongue, I gasped. “Oh my God…”
The lady cackled. “It’s good, huh?” she asked in her thick New Orleans accent.
I nodded, mouth full. “Walmart could never.”
She wheezed laughing. “Yeah, we know. That lil plastic-wrapped circle they sell ain’t got nothin’ on us, baby.”
I licked some icing off my finger and said, “I see I’ve been living a lie.”
She was shaking her head like I was a lost cause just now finding the light. I bought the whole slice and walked out with sugar on my lips, my edges frizzing up from the heat, and a grin stretching across my face.
I was contemplating going back for another slice when I spotted an older man sitting at a small table with an old-school typewriter in front of him. The sign read:
“Poems While You Wait — Tips Welcome.”
He looked up at me with kind eyes and asked, “You want one, baby girl?”
I shrugged, still chewing. “Sure. What you need to know?”
He waved a hand. “Just your name. Let the city tell me the rest.”
“Lyrix,” I said, digging into my purse for some cash. I dropped some cash in his tip bucket as he cracked his knuckles and leaned over the typewriter.
The keys sang like a soundtrack to some moment I didn’t even realize was coming.
I stood off to the side watching tourists, letting the music from a nearby saxophone player swirl around me. It felt like something was blooming in my chest.
After a few minutes, he yanked the page from the machine, folded it gently, and handed it to me like he was giving me scripture.
“Here you go, Ms. Lyrix,” he said. “Let this one sit with you for a while.”
“Thank you,” I said, smiling as I walked away, unfolding the page with curiosity.
“A love letter to the Heaux”
written in Jackson Square, under good sun & sugar air
you spent a year in silence,
whispering prayers into pillows,
scribbling peace into journals,
trying to love yourself without permission.
you thought healing meant hiding.
but what if healing also means dancing?
screaming?
moaning?
waking up in places that smell like sweat and sea salt and beignets?
this city, baby—
she don’t whisper.
she don’t tiptoe.
she don’t wait for a man to call her back.
she lives loud.
she laughs with her mouth wide open.
she spills out her soul in brass notes and bounce beats.
and so should you.
this is the phase where your hips remember who they belong to.
this is the chapter where you flirt with chaos.
where your name is only what you say it is.
a phase where pleasure don’t need a permission slip.
a phase that ain’t shameful
it’s sacred.
you ain’t just learning yourself in peace anymore.
you’re learning yourself in passion.
in public.
in heat.
in rooms that echo your laughter and know your scent.
so flash your smile.
or your titties.
or both.
life ain’t always meant to be lived safe.
sometimes, baby,
the mess is the miracle.
I stopped in my tracks. My heart did something funny. It was like the city had been watching me the whole time. Like the typewriter knew my soul. Like this wild, hot, beautiful trip wasn’t just a vacation, but it was a rebirth.
I folded the poem and tucked it into my purse with the care of a woman who had just been handed the blueprint to her next chapter. Maison had no idea who he was messing with. The Heaux Phase Lyrix had officially entered the chat.
Back at the hotel, I sat cross-legged in front of the mirror, with one of the plush white robes hanging off my shoulders. My speaker sat on the counter blasting ‘Choppa Style’ and baby when I tell you I felt like I had been born in the wrong zip code.
It was something about Louisiana music. The way it pulsed.
The way it made you feel like you were the baddest bitch in the room and a little bit untouchable.
The bounce. The horns. The cocky-ass chants and the deep-ass bass.
Boosie, Juvenile, Big Freedia, Webbie, Lil Wayne, Kevin Gates, Master P, NBA YoungBoy—every last one of them gave you a different flavor of Louisiana.
They didn’t just make music. They made moods.
Every song felt like a celebration of self, even if it was ratchet or gritty.
It was sexy and rowdy and rebellious. It made you move even when you swore you were just gonna chill.
That was the thing I loved about New Orleans the most, they celebrated music like it was a birthright.
They didn’t just listen to it, they lived in it.
I was mid-body roll, lip-synching “Choppa Style, Choppa Choppa Choppa Style,” when I heard a knock at the door. I looked at the clock.
4:08 PM.
Damn.
It hit me then that I had been with that man, dancing in the street, kissing in clubs, and letting him eat me like a praline.
What kind of fairy tale hoe shit was this?
I walked over and cracked the door, peeking through before opening it wider. Maison. Fresh fade. Gold chain tucked in. Dimples popping.
He grinned and said, “I had to knock a little harder so you could hear me over that jamming you got going.”
I laughed and turned my back on him, walking back toward the mirror with a bounce in my step. Still dancing.
And in true New Orleans man fashion, he stepped in behind me and hit the two-step like his life depended on it.
Never missing a beat. Never missing a chance to dance.
That’s what I loved about them. They’d start dancing in line at the gas station if a beat hit right.
Ain’t no shame. Ain’t no standing still.
We were both cracking up, and I felt his arms wrap around my waist from behind.
“Alright now,” he whispered against my neck. “We gotta get going. We on a timeframe tonight.”
I tilted my head and met his gaze in the mirror. “Oh yeah? And where is my tour guide taking me this evening?”
He smiled, leaned in, and kissed me slow. The kind of kiss that told you not to worry about plans. Just show up.
I stared at him, my head swimming just a little.
This is crazy, I thought. Like…I don’t even know this man’s last name. I don’t even know his phone number, nothing. And still, I felt safe. I felt desired. I felt alive.
Maybe that was the whole point of this trip. Maybe I was never supposed to play it safe.
I had always liked New Orleans, but after just a couple days of exploring it raw, unfiltered, and wild? It had officially become one of my favorite cities in the country. No debate.