Frank Perez: The Lost Weekend
The late Frank Perez in the Dauphine Street Book Store in 2025, photo by Ellis Anderson
August 2026An errand to pick up some toilet paper turns into an unexpected encounter in a French Quarter bar.
~ by Frank Perez
This project is underwritten in part by Rose Ali
This project is made possible in part by a grant from the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Foundation, Inc.
This project is underwritten in part by Kelly & Linda Baker
This project is underwritten in part by Rosemary James, volunteer Managing Director of The Pirates Alley Faulkner Society
Many moons ago when I was younger, I was working as a concierge at a hotel in the CBD that no longer exists. It was the busy season—Spring break, conventions, festivals—and we were slammed and short staffed. The money was good, but working double-shifts every day for several days in a row was beginning to take its toll on me. In short, I was exhausted and looking forward to my first day off in almost two weeks.
At the time, I lived in the D.H. Holmes building on Bienville Street. As I approached Canal Street, I considered going to Café Lafitte in Exile to unwind, or maybe to the Alibi on Iberville since it was on my way home. But I was so tired, I decided to just go home.
Back home, I settled in on the couch and was snoring within minutes.
I slept in and woke up rested yet still tired. I had nothing on my schedule for the day—no engagements or appointments, nowhere to be, no one to see, no unfinished tasks to complete, nothing to do. It was glorious. I happily resolved to not leave my apartment the entire day.
But then I realized I was almost out of toilet paper.
I ruefully concluded I would indeed have to leave my apartment. I grudgingly got dressed and as I left the building on my quest, it occurred to me that it was a lovely morning for a Bloody Mary. My friend Will was bartending at the Double Play at Dauphine and Conti, so I figured I would stop in for just one.
Frank (middle) as a young man with both his grandfathers, courtesy Frank Perez. Read more about his grandfather, Earl, in this piece by Frank.
As I turned to walk down Dauphine, I thought about how different the Quarter is in the morning compared to at night. At the Chateau LeMoyne, a few tourists were struggling with their luggage. A friend rode by on a bicycle and waved at me. At the corner of Conti, loud music was emanating from Déjà Vu. I briefly thought about grabbing some breakfast, but no. My only mission today is getting some toilet paper. And a Bloody Mary.
As I approached St. Louis Street, I noticed a good-looking young man pacing outside the entrance to the Double Play. He would occasionally look in the window or loiter at the door and then resume pacing. When I got close enough, I recognized him as a guest at the hotel where I worked.
I greeted him and invited him in to have a drink with me.
“I’m not gay” was his quick reply.
“It’s okay,” I said, “They let straight people in.”
He reluctantly joined me.
The bar was fairly empty. A few old men from the neighborhood were drinking coffee and catching up on the latest gossip. Another was reading the newspaper. A lady was feeding the poker machine and chain-smoking. Two drunk guys who were clearly still out from the previous night were awkwardly kissing and groping each other. The cleaning lady was mopping the floor. Will was signing off on a beer delivery. There was no music playing. A morning news show was on the television.
Frank on the balcony of his French Quarter balcony during COVID. Read his COVID diaries here.
My new friend—his name escapes me—and I sat at the bar and ordered our drinks. Will asked him where he was from and the three of us fell into casual conversation. Eventually the guy says, “So this is a gay bar, huh?”
Will, in his thick Chalmette accent, sardonically quipped, “What gave it away? The Rainbow flags or the two guys making out?”
The three of us chuckle and then the guy unloads a barrage of questions: “Are you guys gay? When did you know you were gay? How did you know? What’s it like? How does it feel?” And so on. Eventually, the guy goes to the bathroom and Will comments, “What a closet case. He’s been lurking outside the bar all morning. I’m glad you brought him in. He’s kinda hot.”
The guy returns from the bathroom and starts asking more questions. I finally asked him directly, “Do you think you might be gay?”
Long pause. Nervous look.
“No. I mean maybe. I don’t know.”
I asked, “Have you ever had sex with another man?”
“No, but I’ve thought about it.”
“But you’ve never done anything?
“Well,” he says tepidly, “One time I …” And then he made a reference to produce that I won’t share here. You can use your imagination.
Then I propositioned him. “I live two blocks away. If you want to come home with me, we can fool around and then you’ll know for sure.”
His eyes flickered with hope and fear and dread and desire.
“Okay, but you can’t tell anyone.”
I assured him that would not be a problem and off we went back to my place.
Without going into the graphic details, allow me to say we “got acquainted” and he had his answer. Yes, he was gay.
As he was leaving my apartment, he asked if we could do it again, and I said, “Sure. Here’s my phone number. Let me know the next time you’re in town.”
“No,” he says, “I mean right now.”
Well, to make a long story short, I spent most of the day with him in my apartment. At the end of my day of rest and relaxation, I was exhausted. Happy, but exhausted.
I never did get that toilet paper.
Frank in the Cabildo, June 2025, photo by Ellis Anderson
