Queer travel expert Jack Kenworthy turns 250+ city adventures into your guide for safe, vibrant, and inclusively fabulous global journeys.
Every Labor Day weekend, New Orleans explodes into a Technicolor fever dream known as Southern Decadence — part Pride, part carnival, part orgy, and fully unlike anything else on earth. Think Mardi Gras got drunk, fucked a leather daddy, woke up in sequins, and decided to never be straight again. That’s Decadence.
By day, the French Quarter is a sweaty catwalk of harnesses, drag, wigs, glitter, and more skin than the Louisiana humidity can handle. By night, it’s a queer labyrinth of bars, dancefloors, balconies, and alleyway make-outs that blur together into one delirious hymn to pleasure. You don’t attend Southern Decadence — you surrender to it.
This isn’t your sanitized Pride parade. This is filthy, fabulous, and flagrantly unapologetic: a queer bacchanal where bodies grind, strangers become lovers, and the city itself feels alive and complicit in your sins. Whether you’re voguing on Bourbon, sweating through disco classics at Horse Meat, or screaming at a drag queen in a sauna towel at Bette Bathhouse, one thing is certain: you’ll leave with fewer clothes, more stories, and glitter lodged in places you didn’t know existed.
And when you finally stumble back to your hotel? There’s only one choice: Hotel Monteleone. This isn’t just a bed. It’s your oasis, your recharge station, your glamorous anchor in a storm of sweat and sequins. With the legendary Carousel Bar spinning you into decadence each night and crisp, five-star sheets to collapse into each dawn, it’s the one constant in a weekend that refuses to sit still. If you’re doing Decadence right, you’ll need a hotel that can keep up. Monteleone doesn’t just keep up — it twirls with you.
So buckle that harness, slap on the lashes, and prepare yourself. This guide isn’t polite. It’s raw, raunchy, and reverent to the queer inferno that is Southern Decadence. Read on, sinner — salvation comes in sequins, sweat, and a Monteleone martini.
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Thursday – The Tease
Southern Decadence doesn’t start with a bang — it starts with a tease. Thursday night is the soft opening, the first sip of champagne before you end up drinking straight from the bottle. It’s the night for the freaks who know that foreplay matters, that anticipation is half the fun, and that sometimes it’s better to dip your toes in glitter before diving face-first into it.
Ease yourself in at Kajun’s Karaoke Bar: this is where the night begins messy, queer, and gloriously cheap. Imagine a mic that has seen more drama than your ex, pitchers of beer flowing like liquid courage, and a rotating cast of locals and visitors who treat karaoke like performance art. This is not American Idol. This is drunk queers belting “Total Eclipse of the Heart” at 1 a.m. while someone in a crop top and a cowboy hat tries to harmonize. If you’re lucky, you’ll find yourself swept into a table of strangers who will become your family for the weekend.
But karaoke is just the warm-up. The main event is Lust & Filth at AllWays Lounge, a Marigny neighbourhood institution that feels more like your best friend’s campy living room than a performance space. Think velvet curtains, neon glow, irreverent art on the walls, and a stage that has seen more glitter and lube than Broadway. Thursday is the “lighter” night — if you can call amateur performers stripping, lip-syncing, and rolling around in fake blood “light.” It’s raw, political, unfiltered, and queer to the core. Friday is for the pros and goes full XXX, but Thursday gives you that beautiful chaos of artists taking risks, sometimes succeeding brilliantly, potentially failing spectacularly — and either way, you’re screaming and tipping.
When the curtain closes, the night doesn’t end. The crowd spills into the Marigny, where you’ve got options depending on your mood. If you’re feeling leather-cruise energy, head to The Phoenix Bar — it’s dark, sweaty, and perfect if you want to lean against a wall and see who leans back. If you’re craving something softer, try The Friendly Bar, a neighborhood queer dive where the drinks are strong, the vibe is easy, and nobody cares if your eyeliner is smudged.
Thursday is the tease: the night that sets the tone, cracks the door open, and whispers, “You’re not in Kansas anymore, darling.” Don’t blow your load too early. The weekend hasn’t even started.
Friday – The Frenzy Begins
By Friday, the city is vibrating. The tourists have arrived, the wigs are brushed, the harnesses are oiled, and the French Quarter feels like it’s inhaling glitter. Thursday was the tease; Friday is the slap across the face that reminds you: yes, you really did fly all this way to sweat, scream, and maybe make a few questionable decisions you’ll cherish forever.
If you want to kick things off with a little Louisiana flavor, hop on a swamp tour. Companies like Cajun Gator will pick you up from the city and cart you out into the bayou, where you’ll glide past moss-draped cypress trees and lock eyes with actual alligators. There’s something profoundly sexy about nature’s big daddies sunbathing while a queer boatload of city kids shriek and snap selfies. It’s a reminder that Decadence isn’t just about the parties — it’s about being in a place where the natural and the unnatural dance together in perfect sync.
Back in the Quarter, get dressed and start classy. Order a Sazerac, New Orleans’ signature cocktail, at Peychaud’s in The Celestine. It’s housed in an old convent, which makes drinking here feel just a little sinful — and isn’t that the point? Sip, spin your stories, and plot the night ahead. Because once you step onto Bourbon Street, all pretense is gone.
The beating neon heart of Southern Decadence is Oz. Everyone knows it. Everyone ends up there. It’s campy, chaotic, body-positive, sweaty, and often packed shoulder-to-shoulder with queers from across the South. The music might be pop, house, or some unholy mashup of both, but the vibe is always “you’re not in Kansas anymore.” Buy the VIP weekender ticket pass in advance if you hate lines — or if you just want to flex that you value your time as much as your ass.
Just across the street, Bourbon Pub & Parade holds court with drag shows spilling out onto the balcony, beads flying, and queens working harder than your therapist.
And if cocklails and jazz feels a little too civilized and Oz’s glitter leaves you craving something darker, head down to Rawhide Lounge. It’s not just a bar; it’s a baptism. Think leather-soaked walls, bodies pressed into corners, and a dance floor pulsing with filthy, techno-adjacent beats that feel like they were engineered in a dungeon. There’s a dark room so dark you’ll discover new senses, a place where shadows mingle, sweat drips, and Decadence strips itself back to its rawest form.
Rawhide is the counterpoint to champagne flutes and spinning carousels. It’s where the night takes its teeth out, bares them, and dares you to follow. Dirty, dangerous, delirious — exactly the kind of balance New Orleans nightlife has always promised. Friday is Southern Decadence in full bloom. It’s the night where the foreplay becomes a frenzy, where strangers become lovers, and where you learn the golden rule of the weekend: hydrate, darling. Glitter looks better when you’re still standing.
Saturday – Disco, Darling
By Saturday, you’re no longer easing in. You’re fully submerged, marinating in sweat, sequins, and three days’ worth of poor life choices that somehow feel like excellent ones. Saturday is the centerpiece, the glittering jewel of Southern Decadence — the night you pull out the outfit you weren’t brave enough to wear back home, the one that makes strangers gasp and exes regret.
Ease into the evening with a stroll down Royal Street. While Bourbon is chaos incarnate — straight tourists, sticky cocktails, and the occasional bachelorette screaming into the void — Royal is its sultry sister. Antique shops, art galleries, wrought-iron balconies dripping with ferns — this is where you sip a frozen daiquiri and remember that New Orleans isn’t just drunk, it’s devastatingly beautiful.
Dinner calls for something a little extra, and nothing says indulgence like Hotel Monteleone. Crawl into the Carousel Bar early for a spin (literally), then ascend to their restaurant where crawfish and lobster arrive like jeweled offerings. The service is as polished as the floors, and you’ll feel like a drag queen between costume changes — hungry, glamorous, and ready to devour.
Then it’s time for the main event: Horse Meat Disco. This isn’t your average club night — it’s an international queer institution that somehow landed in the Big Easy. Imagine disco classics and remixes thundering through a grand hall, mirrors catching the sweat on hundreds of bodies, and DJs who know exactly when to slip in a track that will make the whole crowd lose its collective mind. Sequins shimmer, harnesses squeak, and if you’re not dancing, you’re doing Decadence wrong.
And just when you think you can’t possibly give more, the afterparty drags you back to Oz, where Saturday bleeds into Sunday in a haze of pop remixes, bathroom gossip, and balcony make-outs. Somewhere between 4 a.m. and sunrise, you’ll realize you’ve transcended the line between tourist and local — you’re part of the organism now, a glittering cell in the body of Decadence.
Saturday is glamour with grit: sequins in the gutter, disco beats rattling your bones, and a sense of communion that feels half church, half orgy. This is the night you’ll replay in your head all year, the one that makes you book a ticket back before your glitter’s even washed off.
Sunday – The Big One
If Thursday was foreplay, Friday the frenzy, and Saturday the glitter bomb, then Sunday is the climax. This is the day Southern Decadence spills out of the clubs and into the streets — not just queer nightlife, but queer life, messy, loud, and defiant under the Louisiana sun.
First things first: sleep in. Sunday morning is not about brunching politely with your aunt. It’s about conserving energy and planning the group look that will make people stop you on every corner. Whether you’re coordinating harnesses, painting yourselves like neon saints, or going ironic with full Puritan drag, this is the day you dress not just for yourself but for the collective scream of the crowd.
By 5 p.m., the French Quarter transforms. The Southern Decadence Parade begins winding its way past historic queer landmarks. There are no barricades, no velvet ropes, no velvet anything actually — just a heaving, joyful mass of queers and allies moving together in a blur of sequins and sweat. Street drinking is not only allowed but practically demanded. One hand holds a plastic cup of booze, the other waves at a passing float, and somehow both hands end up groping someone in a thong you’ll never see again. It’s church, if church involved poppers and bead-throwing.
And just when you think you’ve peaked, the afterparties ignite. Bar-hopping through the Quarter becomes a pilgrimage, every doorway spilling music and sweat. But the crown jewel is Bette Bathhouse & Beyond — a grotesque, camp drag sauna fantasy that manages to be equal parts hilarious, filthy, and unforgettable. Think drag queens in towels serving vocals, steamy rooms fogged with more than just steam, and performances that veer between high camp and high art. You’ll leave questioning whether you were just at a show, an orgy, or both.
The night, of course, inevitably ends back at Oz, because all roads in Decadence lead to Oz. At this point, you’re half-naked, fully delirious, and possibly dancing on a platform you don’t remember climbing onto. The line between parade and afterparty dissolves. You’ve become one with the glitter.
Sunday is the soul of Southern Decadence: radical joy, sweaty communion, and a celebration of queer life that refuses to be polite. Miss this, and you’ve missed the point.
Monday – Strut and Stumble
Most festivals would wind down on Sunday. Not Southern Decadence. Here, Monday is the glittery encore, the messy curtain call, the part where half the crowd has already fled to airports but the real queers know: the best stories happen when you think you’ve got nothing left to give.
Start slow, because your body probably hates you. Brunch is mandatory, and if you’re lucky enough to be staying at Hotel Monteleone, the Lobster Benedict will bring you back from the brink of death. Pair it with a Bloody Mary and remind yourself that the Carousel Bar opens at 10 a.m. for hotel guests — perfect for one last spin before facing the day. Think of it as communion, but with gin.
By noon, the only place to be is the STRUT Pool Party at Virgin Hotels. This is not your neighborhood YMCA pool day. This is drag superstar Sasha Colby turning chlorinated water into a catwalk, DJs keeping the energy high, and every inch of the pool deck covered in queer bodies strutting, lounging, and living. It runs until 7 p.m., which is perfect because you’ll need that long to get both tipsy and sunburned. And when you need a breather, head downstairs for happy hour cocktails before diving back in. STRUT isn’t just a pool party — it’s a victory lap, the ultimate exhale after days of hedonism.
But Decadence doesn’t let go easily. When the sun sets, Bourbon Street beckons one last time. Oz is still pumping, Bourbon Pub & Parade still has queens working double-time, and the streets are sticky with spilled drinks and leftover glitter. The crowd is smaller, looser, more delirious — the people who didn’t quit, the ones with nothing left to lose except maybe a few brain cells. It’s pure, sweaty, triumphant survival.
Monday is when you realize Southern Decadence isn’t just a weekend — it’s a lifestyle. It’s about showing up one more time, even when you should be on a plane, because you know joy like this doesn’t come around often. You strut. You stumble. You laugh. You sweat. And then, finally, you sleep.
Decadence ends not with a bang but with a glitter-drenched, half-naked collapse into bed. And somehow, you already can’t wait for next year.
Tuesday – The Fade Out
Tuesday morning arrives like a cruel joke. The city is quieter now, the streets washed down, the beads swept up, the basslines fading into memory. You, however, are still finding rhinestones in your sheets and wondering if that bruised knee came from dancing, kissing, or something even better. (Answer: yes.)
Checkout day is bittersweet. If you’re staying at Hotel Monteleone, you’ll savor one last slow morning in its crisp sheets, maybe sneak down for a final Carousel Bar spin, watching the mirrored panels glide by as if the weekend were still turning. This hotel isn’t just a place to stay — it’s been your anchor through the madness, the one space where luxury meets liberation, where queers gather in sequins and sweat and feel at home. When I say book it, I mean it: the Monteleone isn’t optional, it’s part of the ritual.
Packing is an art form. Your suitcase is half clothes, half glitter, and fully incriminating. You’ll carry home outfits that reek of smoke machines, Polaroids you don’t remember posing for, and maybe a phone number scrawled on a cocktail napkin that smells suspiciously of tequila. TSA will find sequins for months. And so will you.
At the airport, you’ll clock other Decadence survivors instantly — bleary eyes, harness strap marks, a faint trail of body glitter that customs can’t confiscate. You’ll nod, a silent recognition: we were there, we survived, we sinned gloriously together.
Southern Decadence is not a festival. It’s a pilgrimage. A sweaty, slutty, delirious communion where the altar is a dance floor, the sermon is shouted from a drag queen’s balcony, and the holy water comes in a plastic cup with three shots of bourbon.
It’s where bodies press together in the French Quarter heat, where you learn that desire is not a sin but a sacrament, where the kinkiest dungeon and the campiest cabaret exist side by side and somehow make perfect sense. It’s about fucking, yes — loudly, proudly, sloppily — but it’s also about freedom, chosen family, the radical act of taking up space in a world that would rather you shrink.
Here, leather and lace are liturgies, sweat and sequins are scripture. Every moan, every kiss, every laugh is another verse in the gospel of excess. And when you finally stagger out on Tuesday, body broken but spirit reborn, you’ll understand: Southern Decadence isn’t just an event. It’s a reminder that queer joy is untamable, unkillable, and absolutely unapologetic.
Book the flight. Book the outfits. And for the love of drag, book Hotel Monteleone — because if you’re going to live through the filthiest, fiercest weekend of your life, you deserve a hotel that spins with you, holds you, and sends you home wrapped in five-star sheets still dusted with glitter.
Decadence doesn’t end when you leave New Orleans. It lives in your bloodstream, a fever dream of sweat, sex, and survival that no shower can wash away. And honestly? You wouldn’t want it to.
