When I was 18, three of my friends and I decided to go to New Orleans for the Mardi Gras. During our drive from Dallas, we went through the bayou country and early in the morning came to the town of Opelousas, La. The fun began when we stopped for a red light in the heart of the central business district.

Tony Magneto, a streetwise merchant marine, was with us and he rolled down a window and spoke to an elderly gentleman in a car, which was stopped adjacent to ours. Tony asked him, “Where is the local whorehouse?”

I nearly died of fright and was sure that we would be arrested, but to my surprise, the Cajun laughed and gave us directions to Joan d’Blon’s.

Somewhere along the way we got lost and asked an old black gentleman with a long white beard if he knew of Joan d’Blon. He slapped his legs and cackled and pointed us in the right direction. At this juncture, we knew we were on to something great!

His directions led us across the tracks and down the bayou. We drove up to a large rambling house situated in a copse of live oak trees covered with Spanish Moss.

Upon entering, we found ourselves in a large room with six sofas lining the walls and there was a juke box in one of the corners. There was an alcove to one side and when we went inside, we found a bar. A huge guy with a police badge on his chest and a revolver on his hip asked us what we wanted. Tony said, “We want to fuck!” and the bartender said, “You came to the right place, let me call my wife, Joan.” Joan, a blonde, came in and led us back to the living room.