Hand Grenades, Fire Plugs, and the Real Meaning of “Oz”
A Wide-Eyed First Trip to the French Quarter
The first time I went to New Orleans, specifically the French Quarter, I was wide-eyed and wildly naïve. I was in my early twenties and hadn’t been out for very long. The streets were packed with people in various stages of intoxication, and I’d been told there were two essential things I needed to know.
First, if anyone said, “Hey, I bet I can tell you where you got your shoes!” I was to respond, “I got them on my feet!”
Second, I had to hunt down and drink one of Bourbon Street’s most infamous staples: the Hand Grenade.
When I finally spotted a mascot dressed as a bright green grenade dancing on a street corner, I knew I’d found the right place. And not only did I down one Hand Grenade, I downed two. For someone who didn’t drink much at the time… let’s just say two did me real good.
Following the Mystery Liquids Road
As I stumbled down the street, alive with jazz, or maybe country, or maybe the blues (honestly, it just depended on whether you stopped to listen or kept walking), I remembered something else. Before the trip, I’d asked friends about the gay scene and which bars or clubs I should check out. Their answer was immediate: “Dorothy, you gotta go to Oz!”
Unrelated, but always funny to me, it wasn’t until years later that I learned what a “friend of Dorothy” was. Turns out, it was me all along.
But I digress. I eventually made my way to Oz, following my own version of the yellow brick road… which, in the French Quarter, was less golden pathway and more a puddled mix of mystery liquids and discarded beads. Let’s just say there’s a reason no one wears open-toed shoes there.
The Muscle Daddy and the Wizard’s Wish
Inside, the first thing that caught my eye wasn’t a something, it was a someone. A short, hairy, very muscular stripper with a beard and mustache, dancing on the corner of the main bar in his underwear. I’d later learn he was what you’d call a muscle daddy (or a fire plug, as my Texan friend would say). And there was absolutely no question how he’d gotten the job.
I was mesmerized. I walked up to where he was dancing, fumbled in my pockets, certain I had at least one single, and tentatively raised it in his direction. The encounter was a blur of pure excitement:
- He grabbed my hand, smiled, and knelt down.
- He guided my hand down his torso, slowly, until I’d felt every inch of him.
- He kissed me on the cheek, went back to dancing, and asked my name.
I was in overdrive. This really was Oz, and the Wizard had just granted my undisclosed wish. I made sure to get change for more singles and paid my fire plug two more visits before the night was over. His name, I learned, was Armando.
The Bomb and the Balloons
The music was, for lack of a better word, pumping. I made my way to the dance floor, which was packed with mostly shirtless patrons grinding to The Bucketheads’ “The Bomb! (These Sounds Fall Into My Mind).” I fell right in with them, shirt still on. I was still very conscious of my weight at 25.
Before the song ended, a cute guy danced up next to me, smiled, touched my shoulder, and leaned in to whisper, “Hey, do you like to party?”
My response… remember, I was still incredibly naïve: “I like cake! I like balloons!”
He laughed and danced away. And that’s when I learned what that question really meant.
But to this day, I still prefer the cake and the balloons.
