It was May 31, my flight on Air Canada was uneventful and professional, but the traffic from Trudeau airport to Ron and Luc’s Maison Dejardins in the Gay Village was a nightmare. – construction everywhere and a major tunnel was closed while they drained it following a storm. My Haitian cab driver, a Montreal resident for the past 12 years and on his third wife, kept the chatter going. We talked about politics in the US, politics in Canada, politics in Haiti, and about his grown son who was a successful family law attorney practicing in Columbus, Ohio. But having done the ride two years before almost to the day, I could see it was taking twice the amount of time.
“You don’t have any appointments, do you?” he asked.
“No, no problem, “I lied.
You see, there was Paul, a forty something dark, bearded guy on Manhunt I had tried to connect with on my last trip. The night before we chatted online and he agreed to meet me at a coffee shop on St. Catherine’s, the main drag in the Village, at 8 Thursday night.
I found one of my guesthouse proprietors, Ron, downstairs awaiting my arrival. Slightly shorter than me, and a bit older and a bit grayer since I had last seen him, he was still barrel chested and beefy but this time a bit leering in his disposition. Like one of those old men in the bath houses who looked like they wanted to devour me. As he handed me the keys for the upstairs apartment I had rented again, I sensed he wanted more than just the American dollars I paid him in for the stay to avoid the taxes.
Dropping off my stuff upstairs, I quickly ran down to St Catherine’s to hit Priape, the sex shop, for poppers and lube, two items that might cost me problems in airport security and then customs. I was pleasantly surprised for a vast stretch of the street, St. C’s had been transformed into a pedestrian promenade which I found out later they did every spring in late May, which is why I hadn’t experienced it on my last trip. All the bars and restaurants had decks jutting out onto the carless street, which was already brimming with people though I couldn’t help but be bothered by the fact that Montreal’s legendary leather bar, Black Eagle, next to Priape, was populated not with rough and tough levied leather boys but tired old middle aged men there for happy hour.
Back in the apartment, I took a quick shower and dressed in shorts and a tank, strolled back down to S. C’s and my appointment with Paul. Only he never showed. I made sure to scrutinize every face in the place, inside and outside, imagining what he might look like fatter or older, but came but empty. So I had been stood up on my very first night of my second – and perhaps last – visit to Montreal.
But Ray always has a Plan B which actually had been my Plan A from the start – to hit GI Joe’s, the butch bath house a few blocks down, for the evening. Invigorated by my new found freedom – and my coffee and brownie – I went back to the apartment, grabbed my cock ring, tit clamps, lube and poppers and waltzed over to GI Joe’s.
The crowd there that night, however, was a disappointment, both in quality and quantity. Only about ten or so guys were there at any one time, none of them special, though I did have a few cocks to play with. Returning to Black Eagle at about 10, ready to strip my shirt off in the still comfortable high sixties temperature, I found the crowd non-descript and young, not leather at all. Had things changed here, too, as they had in almost every guy and leather haunt in the U.S.? I decided to keep my shirt on.
Two French Canadian twinks were standing by the pool table blocking the way to the upstairs bar. “Excuse me,” I murmured. The taller of the duo stared at me menacingly. “Excuse mois,” he repeated sharply several times. OK, first I’m stood up, then I come up almost empty at the bath house, and now I got a Frenchie scolding me in a bi-lingual country and a tourist section that lives off Americans and other Canadians. Somehow, this trip wasn’t working out.
But before I went to bed – to sleep – I opened up my last message from Paul, the guy who had stood me up earlier that evening at the coffee shop, and sent him this:
“Been busy since I got in so this is the first chance I had to let you know I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you as planned. My flight got in late and traffic from the airport was a bitch. So I was never able to get down to the Second Cup. In fact I fell asleep and didn’t wake up until after 10 when I went to GI Joe’s and had some fun. Sorry …”
Now, I had flipped my location on six different hook up sites from Lauderdale to Montreal, but unlike my last trip when I lined up some guys before I left, I had gotten almost no “pre-trip” hits and this hitless wonderland continued through the weekend. And just like in Lauderdale, where I’d get e-mails from guys in Chicago, New York and Des Moines but none from the local guys, here in Montreal I got hit on by guys from Toronto, Vancouver, and British Columbia. Go figure. The hook-up sites as a source of virtual sex and getting off so prevalent in Lauderdale had gone viral.
The one exception was Jacques. A tall, thin, smooth, bearded, cute looking 35 year old guy who worked online from home, he found me on Daddyhunt and came over Friday afternoon as a break from his work. He confessed that he actually lived next door and had seen me naked through his window after I had gotten out of the shower Thursday night. “Very, very hot,” he purred with that deliciously sexy French accent, and apparently my allure remained in place judging by the way he enjoyed my dick up his ass.
Even on Friday night, though, GI Joe’s business did not really pick up, and while I wooed or was wooed by a couple of ordinary looking guys, I left the place like I had on Thursday, “unconsummated.” Again, the guy bars, crowded with older men in the afternoon, were now populated mostly by the young, and the streets were spilling over with str8 twenty somethings either visiting the str8 clubs that had popped up in this once very gay neighborhood, or just milling around, in a menacing gang-like fashion, that put me a bit on edge.
The pleasant spring weather continued on Saturday. I had a brunch of salmon Eggs Benedict at one of the street restaurants and watched as a slowly growing train of guys, some young, some older, entered the Oasis bath house just across the street. Given the dismal showing at GI Joes, and the lack of activity on the web, I figured the Oasis was my best bet for the afternoon. After all, where else was there to fuck?
Well, I was wrong. I was the hairiest guy in the place, in fact just about the only guy in the place with any kind of body hair, and it was obvious after an hour lying lasciviously in my room that the smoothies were not interested.
So Saturday night after one beer at Eagle Noir, I returned to GI Joe’s where a fuck/suck fest reminiscent of the bath houses of the 70’s awaited me. I must have sucked or gotten sucked by at least a dozen guys in the five hours I was there, fucked a few more, and finally blew my load with a very, very burly furry guy who, like me, was into heavy nipple play.
That’s not to say that the night was not without its awkward moments. Like the 6’5” roughly hewn leather man who pinned me down to the mattress, or Rob, my guesthouse proprietor, who appeared from the shadows in one the downstairs orgy rooms, murmured he had lusted after me ever since my first visit, and who proceeded to lower himself to his knees and swallow my dick. I wouldn’t have minded it so much if it weren’t for his teeth.
And Montreal’s reputation as The Land of the Uncut remained strong with many of the guys sporting sausages between their legs ready for skinning.
Sunday afternoon proved a dud. That bar with the roof top level that had proven so popular on my last visit was confined only to its street level, and facing a 6 am pick up to the airport the following morning, I drifted over to G.I. Joe’s around 7.
At first I had thought I had wasted another twenty Canadian dollars – it looked like there were five guys in the place besides me – when I came across a very dark, hairy, bearded good looking forty-something Pakistani guy with a swimmers build who was in the video room pulling on his long, cut cock as two other non-descript guys watched him, mimicking his hand motions with their own limp noodles.
I stood beside him, he turned, groped my chest then beckoned me to follow him to his room where we relished over one another’s cocks and fur and shot over our hairy chests.
But all I kept wondering as I sat in the cab the following morning on the way to Trudeau was how, with the money I had spent on this little juncture, I could have just bought the top five rentboys of my dreams without ever leaving my bedroom.