My Life As Gay Man: Montreal: l

My Life As Gay Man: Montreal: l

It took a trip to Montreal to make it with a Pakistani guy who turned out to be the hairiest guy I ever licked.

And more.

I had visited Montreal’s gay Village twice in the last few years on pig getaway weekends, but the two trips couldn’t have been more different.

My first was in 2009 and I have to say having everything on an eight block or so stretch of the main drag, St. Catherine – the bars, clubs, restaurants and enough bath houses for five urban hubs – made cruising and playing extremely convenient. I also felt a great sense of community, more than even in places like NYC’s Chelsea I left back in the early 2000’s. Here, guys held hands, or embraced or kissed on the street (on the cheeks and the lips) very matter of factly, not to show off or draw attention.

But while, yes, that first day, hearing and seeing French made me feel like I had hopped a plane and gone to Europe, by Saturday the gibberish had gotten a little irritating and just a bit elitist like I had felt when surrounded by the real Les McCoy’s on a visit to Paris two winters ago. For a heavily trafficked tourist area in a country that, after all, is officially bilingual, many of the twinks who staffed the shops or restaurants or even the bath house windows knew about as much English as I remembered of my high school French.

About the only person who impressed me with her bi-linguistic expertise was my black shoe polish haired, multi-tatted, nose-ringed waitress at the outdoor café I frequented for dunch who switched from French to English like I would go from chewing a trick’s left tit to his right.

Also apparent, particularly that late Friday afternoon at the very popular beer bust of one of the roof top bars, was the same generational divide between the young, often effeminate guys with their 28 inch waists, and the older seasoned men that I witnessed in most other urban gay ghettos including my own Lauderdale. At least one good thing: they all weren’t umbilically connected to their smartphones checking out Grind’r like those cell-obsessed faggots back in sunny Florida.

Knowing my guest house, Maison des Jardins, had wi-fi, I schlepped my laptop with me to Montreal to close in on the half a dozen or so webmen I had gotten some preliminary commitments from before I left Florida, and to take advantage of the “I want it now” boys. Two of my pre-arranged tricks proved disappointing, another suddenly came down with the bubonic plague and wouldn’t be able to connect, and a third had such an erratic work schedule that he was ONLY available after 11 on Friday night, my one and only Friday night to explore gay Montreal. Oh, but I’d wait for him.

Sure.

On a positive note, there was Jacques, a forty-something, long haired computer tech, a Daddy Hunt find, with a typical French Canadian swimmers build, uncut cock, and some fur, who biked over to my place where we enjoyed a hard dicked Friday afternoon liaison; and Eduardo, all of 35, and yes, also intact, who e’d me on Bear 411 at 8:30 on Saturday night, was on my couch by 10, and out with smiles on both our faces by twenty of 11. Efficient.

After hitting Le Stud, populated with more of my kind of men but mostly paired off on the dance floor, I drifted over the Eagle Noir, hosting an auction to send their guy to IML.

Lo and behold, I found that a gay art that I had thought had long died – good old fashioned eye-to-eye cruising – was alive and well. One built mother fucker, apparently with no agenda since he was with a bunch of his clones, gestured to me in the crowd and shouted, “You know how hot you are?” Then there was the tall, burly, dark bearded man with the sloppy black T who said nothing but eyed, stroked or groped me each time our bodies rubbed against one another in the crowd. Maybe not drunk enough, or a bit intimated by his stature, I didn’t make the next move.

So who should I rub furry bellies with a half an hour later within the tight hallways of GI Joe’s, my kind of bath house, than my dark handsome stranger who smiled broadly and asked for my room number.

Emile’s English was spotty but we weren’t connecting to discuss American-Canadian relations, and after we had caressed and kissed and played and came, I turned to Emile and asked softly, “c’est bon?” Stroking my beard, he replied with that sexy broad smile of his, “oui, c’est bon.”

Two years later, in May of 2011, I was back in the Gay Village but almost everything had changed – and not for the better.

More Wednesday

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