My Life as a Gay Man: Montreal – III
On Friday night, GI Joe’s, Montreal’s rough and tumble bath house, 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 – surprise, surprise! – 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, though, proved a dud at the bar and the web, so I drifted over to G.I. Joe’s around 7.
It was there that I met Ramey in all his hirsute glory.
A very very furry, bearded forty-something Pakistani guy with a swimmers build and Euro looks, he 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. There for the next two hours, we relished over one another’s cocks and deified one another’s fur with constant mutual strokes only two hairy men knew how to give to one another. His supremely hairy butt – much furrier than mine – was particularly delicious to my tongue. As expected, his English was also better than mine and I found out in the little conversation we shared, beyond babbling about our mutual fur fetish,
that he was a wealthy vagabond and Oxford graduate, blowing a trust fund left by a doting grandfather on travel and men.
His country count was up to 38, his man count, well …
After edging one another almost to the point when cumming becomes impossible, we finally let go almost simultaneously and kneeling up on the cot, spurted over one another’s chests and abs. Ramey leaned over, licked his cum off my fur, scooped up my jism off his chest and stuck his sperm-drenched fingers in his mouth.
Instinctively I did the same with what remained of his cum on me, then watched as he walked out of my room.
Since that moment a world away, I’ve jerked off to the image of that furry coco butt in my face dozens of time.
Hell, some nights alone in my bed I can even taste it.
Monday::Gil, unquestionably the hottest man I ever went to bed with