I've been at Mardi Gras less than twenty-four hours and I'm bent in half, palms on my knees, trying not to die of heartburn. The three hand grenades I drank are killing me; they're sweeter and stronger than hurricanes, the other local favorite. The packed crowd on Bourbon Street is stumbling drunk and bars won't let you use the bathroom without first buying a drink, forcing more booze into your system, perpetuating the urine problem. By and by, money runs out and streets drip. Watch your step, and plan on disposing your shoes.

Only the wonderful, legendary tradition of breast-baring would allow for toleration of such conditions. You kidding? A boy's dream! I've been waiting to see this since puberty. Every two minutes a camera flashes and boobs are revealed nearby. Epileptics wouldn't survive this strobe light. A co-ed could be topless right next to you and you're so busy looking at some broad on a balcony you miss it. Some guy elbows you to get a pic, and you're like, "Oh no. What happened?" It's about a ten-to-one/guy-to-girl ratio, male gangs besieging each maiden. But don't touch the exhibit, southern hospitality won't allow it; aggressive gawkers are bullied by their peers, seized and removed by police on horseback. Another reason to watch your step.

For our senior trip, three friends and I took turns driving a two-door Dodge Neon non-stop fifteen hours from the University of Iowa to New Orleans. Corey, a native Iowan, was the outsider since Paul, Ben, and I grew up together in Illinois. Corey got the short end of the stick last night. Somehow we lost him in the crowd, gave up, partied and went home to the car (where we slept since the hotels were either booked or too expensive.) When Corey found us I was spread across the back seat and Paul and Ben were reclined in the front chairs. Corey begged us to open a door and squeeze him in. Nope. Later he said he had slept in a Cadillac someone had left unlocked. Yeah right. To his credit however, somehow, Cory can predict when and where boobs will bare; he somehow grabs his camera, flips it on, aims and fires right on point. Amazing. Paul's gifted with constant cheer. I was ready to die of a hangover this morning, but Paul was unfazed, smiling and laughing, passing the joy to all of us. It was Ben's idea to come down here. He's the navigational master, with departure itinerary, gas credit card, car, and without him I'd still be lost in the French Quarter. I guess I'm the trivia guy. I'm always telling anecdotes about music or the south, jawing away trying to make things more interesting.

"Don't barf on your beads, man!" A passer by says. I'm still bent in half, palms on knees, aching. Wait, it's lifting. Paul gave me a TUMS and its taking effect.

"You alright?" Ben says as I stand up straight.

"Yup."

Our foursome walks through the crowd with no destination. Me and Ben paired up front, Paul and Corey walk and talk behind us.

"You guys want to see my boobs?" A mousy-haired redheaded girl says.

This isn't usually how it works. Usually the guys are begging to see skin, rewarding girls with up to $10 three-inch-round beads (which we can't afford.) Ten bucks is a gamble in my book, you never know what's under that shirt.

A second ago, we were at the parade, a float went by, and some nasty broad, lips holding a cigarette with two-inch ash, bony acne face, short butch lesbian hair, no bra, dead eyes, lifted her shirt up one handed, Oh! Shocking. The nastiest little teet I had ever seen.

In normal-world, when you see boobs, it's a girl you really like, and you date her and you've seen her with several different shirts on, surveying the territory. And you like her besides, so the boobs look even better, everything about her is beautiful. But at Mardi Gras, it's just tit: big, little, black, white, fake, tan, whatever. And I love boobs, but I'm getting sick of them.

"No thanks." I say to the redhead.

"Dude!" Ben says and pulls me aside. "You know what that's going to do to this girl's confidence?" Ben's a little drunk and I'm sure the girl overhears us. "I mean sure she's fat," Ben continues, "And weird looking, but come on! Have a heart!"

I pause to look over the redhead who is waiting patiently. "Alright." I say. "Lets see 'em."

"You got to give me beads first."

In no hurry, I reach for the skimpiest beads on my neck, there's about five pounds of them all different diameters and colors, the bigger the more valuable, like currency. My skimpiest strands are way under the pile, and it takes a while to give one to her.

"I want that one." She points to my prized yellow, gold and purple strand with the 2001 Parade King Medallion.

"No, that's okay." I say and give her the crappy strand. Ben gives her one as bad as mine. I think it's actually broken. Yet, for some reason the redhead grins and shows her pepperoni nipples. I glance briefly, exhale, then look into her eyes. She's high on something.

Which reminds me of the girl who grabbed my crotch last night. Me and Paul went into this…I don't quite know what it was, I think it was somebody's home they had rented out… anyway there were bed sheets hanging everywhere, and on a coffee table a woman performed the most sedated strip routine, moving in super, super slow motion. Two people behind her were having sex or lap-dancing on a decrepit leather recliner. The room was surprisingly well lit, but full of smoky haze. I stood against the wall waiting, wondering what was taking Paul so long to piss, when this blond chick approached me. A red rash speckled her shoulders, her hot dry breath wafted onto my cheek. She rubbed her black lingerie tits on me and said. "Hey Cutie. Do you want some?"

"Some what?" I said.

She grabbed my crotch, put her foul puckered lips inches from mine, and said, "You know." She reached around and squeezed my butt. I walked out. Yeah, I could nail this chick right here on the brothel floor and nobody would flinch, but what disease does this whore not have.

Ben and Corey were outside waiting in line for a beer.

"Dude, some girl just asked if I wanted to have sex." I bragged, who wouldn't be flattered.

Corey said, "You got a condom?"

"Yeah." I said.

"Go in there and fu—k her then!"

Ben nodded in bemused agreement.

"That's okay." I cringed. "She was gross."

"How bad could she be?" Corey said, "Seriously, what did she look like?"

Corey glared at me like I was gay and I stared back like he was a pervert. Then Paul trotted out of the place with a big old grin and said, "Dude! I was waiting forever, then a couple comes out of the stall! They were porking in there!" We all laughed and got back to drinking and gazing. Then Corey disappeared. I wonder if he went looking for the whore.

Once the redhead passed Ben and I, she began soliciting Corey and Paul behind us. "Did you see here eyes?" I ask Ben. "She was on something. Wasn't weed or booze either."

"What do you think she's smoking? Crack? She's too fat for that." Ben reasoned. "She's probably a touch retarded though."

I sighed aloud and Ben answered.

"You getting sick of this?"

"Kind of. I'm running out of money too."

"Yeah", Ben says. "I need a shower, my thighs are sticking together."

"Lets go." I say.

I look back as the redhead flashes Corey and Paul. Their eyes are not sparkling like last night, and Corey doesn't even reach for his camera.

"Guys want to go?" I say.

"Sounds good." Paul says. "I'm broke."

"I got a cousin in Memphis." Corey says. "Maybe we can crash there tonight."

A drunk bumps into me, sees my Budweiser hat, hands me a twelve-pack of beer and stumbles away. "Budman." He mumbles. The guys grab one more beer and we sip too wearily.

On the way out of the parking lot, leaving town, we see four fresh looking co-eds: beadless, clean hair, sharp make-up, wide eyes, big smiles.

"Here." I say and hand them six beers. They pause a second, wondering if this offering requires a boob show. Maybe one of them even lifted their shirt. But we already drove away.

Ryan Standley, a University of Iowa alum, is a Chicago native and new writer. His play "The Vase" was a finalist for Sansculottes Theatre Company's 2007 Ten-Minute Play Festival. His short story Seth is in press for Bateau, spring of 2008.