I was debating what to call my blog on how I spent this past long weekend in Toronto. Either “The Best Sex I Never Had,” “Theater of the Absurd” or “Fag Fantasyland.” And I don’t mean in a good way. Hell, I shouldn’t complain: I bedded down with ten guys in four days, a combination of webbies and whorehouse buddies (Steamworks is Toronto’s leading bath house), ranging from a 26 old printer’s assistant to a 34 year old accountant to a 42 year old nuclear engineer to two partnered forty something bearded rugged specimens of manhood … you get the drift. Oh, and did I mention my short (like me) hairy 35 year old from San Paulo with whom I had a 10 minute love affair – we kissed most of the time before he left my room at the whorehouse.
Ah, but connecting was so much work I think for what I spent on this trip (getting Canadian dollars, the international plan for my smartphone, etc., etc.) buying a few hotties with that sexy Canadian farmboy dialect off rentboy would have been easier.
The web in Toronto was as fucked up as anywhere else, maybe even more so. Sure, I got plenty of hits, either on the web hookup sites or my Samsung Galaxy apps like Growl’r, Scruff and Mister (yea, now I had two devices to babysit for sex), but most weren’t for me and those that were or who I reached out to lived in some sexual fantasyland. “Yea, daddy, I want your Daddy dick sooo bad …” promising to text later or even be over by 8 and then suddenly they were never heard from again, as if they had been abducted by aliens whose specialty was homo-flesh. And when I had a number and actually got the guy live on the phone off guard, he acted like his masquerade had been discovered and the little perverted pretend world he had created while we were on line was just that.
I’m convinced – and T only confirmed it again – more and more guys, including young and humpy ones (though I’ve learned from Facebook never to trust the pics), are using the web with all its dirty talk and dirty pics to get off rather than use it as I wanted to, as a means to an end: sex in the flesh.
Friday night at Steamworks, I was a star, fucking four goodlookers, including my bearded partners and my San Paulo lover in two hours, and getting one of the best blow jobs in my life from the fifth; Saturday night I was box office poison. Seems the smooth little boy body twink bus had pulled up and just like none of them were looking for a Daddy, none of them wet my whistle either
And, as in most gay mecca ghettos I’ve traveled to over the past few years, unlike in Lauderdale where you find a mix of ages in most of our bars, Toronto’s scene was classic Generational Divide. All the young, mostly girly guys with their faghag girlfriends hung out in Woody’s, hands-down T’s most popular bar, which served as the Pittsburg hotspot in “Queer As Folk,” while the over 40 crowd huddled like refugees in Black Eagle, T’s leather bar. The leather scene is aging rapidly – I predict in ten years when most of us will be using walkers, these bars as hideouts for cowhide will be gone. Ironically, I still think Fort Lauder-bottom has the hottest leather bar in the U.S. right now, the Ramrod, which is going 6 nights a week. Meanwhile, many of twenty something gays I encountered were camp-femmy to the extreme. Cute, though obnoxious when you’re 25, sad and pathetic when your 55. Is this the future prototype for gay men in America?? Thank God I’m at the tail end of my ride.
While Woody’s was hopping almost every night I was in town, Black Eagle was – shall I use the politically correct term? – “quiet” Thursday and even Friday night. Saturday night, however, was the exception. The bar had just re-opened its lower renovated level and after ditching Steamworks and its twink train, I was enveloped in the kind of masculine crowd I craved for. A few guys I had chatted with on line or had seen my profile on one of the hook-up sites came up to me and made me feel welcomed. One even bought me a beer – NSA. And this shirtless rapidly aging exhibitionist still turned a few heads while I strolled around, so no complaints.
One thing Black Eagle has over our Ramrod is a rather large lightless backroom, which was sweaty wall-to-wall Saturday night. Sorry, I need the visual to get my motor running.
Sunday afternoon before hitting Steamworks which had half price rooms, and after plowing my girly hairy muscle bear back at my place (“You’re my Master, I’m your slave,” he murmured which was code for “I’ll just lay here like a debutant while you fuck me.”), I stopped by the Black Eagle for its fabled afternoon barbeque in its huge upstairs sun-bathed outdoor patio. Ah, it was like that scene in “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane” when Bette Davis slowly comes out of the shadows into the light. They were old, all so old, you know at that stage where guys are using their harnesses as brasseries. And who should this gayboy who spent a small fortune to come to T to meet hot guys strike up a conversation with than who I thought at the time was a leather lesbian. That is until “Sal” corrected me by informing me that she, who had been married and had a 25 year old son, was in the final stages of reaching a life goal as a he. Sal flashed the hair growing on his forearm as proof he was on his way. We had a very interesting and enlightening conversation.
I did some of the typical tourist shit like going up T’s phallic symbol, the CN Tower, where I fulfilled my vertigo quota for the year; and the Royal Ontario Museum and its impressive dino exhibit. But what I most enjoyed, yes, even more than the sex, was the urban bohemia atmosphere of the Gay Village where I stayed in a small gay guesthouse off Church Street, T’s Castro. People-watching as I had my Eggs Benedict with salmon at one of the outdoor cafes was a treat for a Floridian used to hopping in and out of his car. It reminded me of my salad days when NYC’s West Village and its Christopher Street were my catwalk. I was fortunate; outside of rain on Thursday, I was blessed with sunny high 70’s weather throughout my stay, though a couple of the guys I tricked with told me it should have been much much warmer – global warming at work again?
Two things that really pissed me off involved ATT and Air Canada. I spent over a hundred bucks for an international voice and data plan so I could use my smartphone in Canada where Rogers Telecommunications has a monopoly. Back in the States, ATT assured me everything would be OK. Then I land and find my phone was useless. I managed to get through to a trouble-shooting number at ATT but the tech told me that I’d have to be near a landline phone so he could walk me through the steps to activate my Galaxy. Duh? What guesthouses – or even upscale hotels – have phones anymore? But miracle of miracles, halfway into my “slow boat to China” bus from the airport that stopped at every fucken hotel in downtown Toronto, “Rogers Roaming” appeared on the screen of my phone like the Second Coming of Christ. Now I’d be able to get those Scruff ego-spikes from those hotties – in Australia! (P.S., the guesthouse had wifi and I had lugged my laptop as my Plan B.)
Secondly, I had taken Air Canada to Montreal twice and now this time to Toronto and on all three trips, long after I had booked the flights and hotels, AC e-mailed me to say they had changed the time for my return flight to the States from some convenient civilized afternoon hour where I could take mass tranz back to the airport and leisurely deal with Customs and Security to some God forsaken early bird slot. That meant getting up at 4 a.m. to take a double-the-money-of-the-bus limo to Pearson International and allow time for all the other bullshit. I was half-dead when I got on the plane at 7:35 a.m.
I say only half dead, because to kill time while I waited at the gate, I responded to some of the leftover hits I had gotten on Growl’r, only to find these guys were up too, only for work, not to catch a plane. We exchanged dirty talk and penis pics and I soon felt like I had had a couple of sexual encounters without ever unzipping my fly.
A fitting summation for a weird weekend: a raging hard-on and nowhere to go with it. One of my virtual paramours suggested I check out the airport john, but you know what a shy guy I am. But I still plan to j-o over one of those pics where the cock of my hairy humpy buddy from British Columbia is still dripping cum as soon as I finish this blog.
Shit -I’m done!