A Night in Montreal

Montreal is and was beautiful. It was night, chilly, and raining. We had been enjoying our vacation a great deal. We had lived on expensive food, art, and strip clubs for almost a week. We were just beginning to get good at it, though our vacation was almost over. Since it was going to be our last late night in Montreal, we decided to hit a strip club. It was a dive. Most of the strip clubs I’ve seen in Canada are dives. It must have something to do with the free price of admission. The girls weren’t very good. They weren’t in especially good shape and they really didn’t dance with much conviction. I didn’t believe them.

As a rule, the alcohol in strip clubs is terrible and expensive. There is always a two-drink minimum. That’s how they make their money. This place was no different. Still, I was getting buzzed and enjoying it. Just as I was resigning myself to the fact that our vacation was almost over and a buzz in a dive strip club was going to be the last breath of it…some drinks showed up. We hadn’t ordered them. They were screwdrivers. The girl delivering the drinks said, “The couple over there sent them.” My stomach dropped and I was afraid to turn around for fear of what I would see. We were definitely in the mood to pick up, but not sure what these people looked like. We’re both pessimists by nature, so we were apprehensive. We turned around to look. To our astonishment, they both looked good. They were both about 30, and smiled back at us with a wave. We went over to sit with them. They were Americans from New Hampshire. We thanked them for the drinks and talked for a bit. He was a photographer and I don’t recall what her profession was. We decided to hit another bar. The coolest bar in Montreal is Foufounes Electriques. If it’s not the coolest bar I’ve ever seen, it’s at least in the top five. We went there. It’s a great place to sit, talk, and drink. Magnificent ambiance.

The hour got late as we drank and retold stories about drinking and screwing. I don’t know when the bars close in Montreal, but sometime within an hour or two of midnight we followed them back to their hotel room on the other side of town. They didn’t have any more alcohol handy but none was necessary. Everybody was sufficiently lubricated. Things got moving pretty quickly. She was a beautiful woman, and looked very natural undressed. I don’t have any special preference for shaved or unshaved pussy. It seems like in recent times the trend towards very tightly groomed, if not completely shaven, pussy fur is the standard. I was shocked and thrilled to find this woman completely unshaven. I don’t necessarily have a fetish for that type of thing, but it was a welcome change of pace. I don’t think that I had seen one unshaven like that since I was in high school and I don’t think that I have since. It was very exciting, smelled incredible, and left me concerned that I might turn into a werewolf and tear her apart. They weren’t nervous or uncomfortable at all. That fact was surprising because this was their first time swinging or having any type of group sex. While I ate and fucked this woman, my wife sat astride her husband and rode him for quite a while beside us on the bed. We all behaved like dogs until about four am. We said goodbye and walked back to our hotel as the inebriation cleared.

The Xmas Luncheon

An open bar is a rare gift. Look it straight in the mouth and check the teeth. All the free top-shelf bourbon I can drink? At an office party? On my employer’s tab? You mean, in front of my pretentious, overpaid, well-to-do, piece of shit, art director coworkers? Bring it! I’ll drink your expense account dry, jackass! I’ll pour expensive whiskey down my throat until I pass out in my seat and piss myself. It'll take three people to carry me back to my desk. Merry fucking Christmas!

The Necessity of Limitations

Observe the mantra of the arrogantly pretentious, pseudo-creative buffoon: “No Limits.” This statement, though superficially innocuous and creatively inspiring, is a load of sophomoric tripe. So far removed from the grit of real creation is this utterance that it isn’t even qualifiable as an ideology or mode of operation. It is a childish illusion. Limitations are the framework within which all tangible creation occurs. Limitations provide the ground upon which you stand. Without limitations, one is left groundless, non-referential, irrelevant, and often altogether unintelligible. The confines of language (as art is ultimately a language) provide the architecture and context for a statement. Meaning is made possible by limitations. Precision is made possible by limitations. Creation is made possible by limitations. The absence of limitation, confinement, boundary, and rule is the absence of form and structure. This is not to say that immutable, inflexible, permanent values need be established and respected. Values are only values. There is no cause for allegiance to a value. Values should be constantly re-evaluated in order to remain current and relevant. They should be relevant in the context of creation. To be red is not to be blue. This is a limitation. These colors are only as we define them, and that definition entails that they are not anything other than what they are. Limitations do not imply lack of vision or innovation. They provide structure. It is the correct balance of limitation and creativity that nurtures an ideal environment for the creation of art.

The Vibrator

It was July. We had all come from completely different places. They were our age and apparently pretty wealthy. I’ll admit that it made me self-conscious. We’re not poor by any stretch of the imagination, but I’d never been around young people with that sort of money before. I don’t know what he did for a living. He may have earned it all himself. He may have inherited it. I don’t know. I know that she worked in retail, which is certainly respectable, but retail doesn’t pay like that. So the money was clearly coming from him, one way or another. They were both very nice people, incredibly gracious and generous. We went out for drinks with them and then followed their Jaguar back to their place. We relaxed in the Jacuzzi in their backyard and drank more. They told us all about their boat, how much fun it was, and how we should hang out with them on it in the future. We followed them upstairs to one of their guest rooms, all tense nerves in wet bathing suits. We stripped, and started. It was a little awkward. I was embarrassed and angry with myself for feeling that way. I struggled to force an erection and eventually succeeded. Self-consciousness is a motherfucker when you’re trying to get a hard-on. We swapped a little. The women went at it a bit. Eventually my wife and I finished each other off. They were still going strong. They were nakedly fucking, smelling of alcohol, sweat, and hot semen. They were completely committed to it, shaking the bed, and nearly the whole room with it. As it turns out, a doctor friend of his had hooked him up with some Viagra, which will allow you to cum, sustain your hard-on, and just keep fucking, endlessly. I was not chemically enhanced. It was awkward. The chemistry wasn’t right. It may have been my fault. We did it to do it, and for that reason, we just wanted to exit now. There were no bad feelings. There were just no feelings at all. As they were finishing, he asked my wife to shove a vibrator up his ass while he fucked his own wife. I’m sure he would have preferred that it was me and not a vibrator at all, as he had made allusions to that scenario earlier in the evening, but I was clearly spent. Just wanting it to end, my wife obliged, albeit a little reluctantly. We just wanted to get out of there. At around 3am, we left and found our way home safely. I felt terrible about it afterwards and I was frustrated that I had let my own internal bullshit compromise what should have been an incredible time.

A Hangover

The air is cold on my ribs and I’ve got the shakes. My liver is furious with me and he’s not leaving any room for doubt in my mind. He wants me to know that he’s upset. That’s fair. I deserve it. My stomach doesn’t play around, though. He’s fine. I rarely puke. My stomach is world-class. He can hold just about anything down. Additionally, I’ve met the morning with aggravated allergies and I can’t breathe through my nose. My pounding headache is simply the cherry on top of the giant sundae that is this miserable 200 pound jackass. I need to be at the gym in an hour.