No Milk Please: October 2006

Sunday, October 29, 2006

Kiss of Life

Check out my new remix:

Kiss of Life
(DJ Evil Twin Smooth Gloss Mix)
Sade
DL @ DivShare*
If link is broken, e-mail me.

Other Sade / DJ Evil Twin Mixes:

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Recommended Sade CDs:

Thursday, October 19, 2006

Continued from: Warmth
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When I travel, I try to avoid acting or looking like a tourist because I think it's so bourgeois. I prefer to act dignified and respectful when I am in a different country, like Tara Reid.

My idea of a vacation is to immerse myself in the local culture, as if it were a hot tub. To that end, I looked up where all the happenin' bathhouses were in Montreal. I packed my most stylish and fashionable thongs, you know, the ones that left nothing to the imagination. I was able to pack six of them in an old plastic toothbrush case. Did I call them thongs? I meant colored dental floss.

Montreal of course, is known for their very casual attitude towards male stripping, which is the real reason why we chose it for a weekend vacation. There were at least four male strip clubs in The Village, where our hotel was located, all prominently advertising their handsome, muscular performers.

Here, "showing some skin" doesn't mean stripping down to a thong or showing the outline of a hardon through a wet jock. It meant down to the hard, turgid flesh and wrinkly, tight sacs. I've never seen so many men sporting hoodies and I don't mean sweatshirts. Being circumcised myself, I wondered if this would make their penis extra sweaty in warm weather, or in my mouth.

When we first arrived, whenever I saw any good-looking or well-built men, I wondered whether they moonlighted as strippers. I looked closely at them to see if I could discern their profession from their eyes, from the way they walked or from their breakaway Velcro seams. Whenever I saw poles of any kind, a scaffolding or a lamp post, I stopped to see if anybody was going to walk up, grab it with both hands and start swinging around on it, legs up in the air.

Maybe I could learn some tips from them. Once in a rare while, I would do some stripper moves in the bedroom, just to get my boyfriend going. I find that it's a highly effective way of getting him do things that he normally doesn't do like, the laundry.

Do you think strippers are jaded? I think sometimes, that I would like to date a stripper. Who wouldn't want to date a stripper? Okokok, maybe not Ann Coulter, because strippers aren't virtuous enough for her--she only dates politicians. But besides her.

What would it be like to date a stripper? They've seen it all. What turns on a stripper? Do you think it would need to be something totally crazy, like turning on the TV and ignoring him? I could wear an old pair of tightie-whities with the worn elastic waistband and droopy, wide leg holes, or maybe an old t-shirt with armpit stains to seduce him...

Who am I kidding. I could never date a stripper. They're too complicated for me. I only date guys who have their act at together, you know, at the local drag show. If they can lipsynch to Christina Aguilera, they can sink their lips on my dick.

The hot strippers at Stock Bar, our concierge's recommendation, didn't disappoint. The drinks were stiff, but the men were stiffer. The men were nicely built, very boy-next-door--totally approachable, so I hope they don't mind if I approach them with a wet tongue.

Their sets were only about five minutes long each, so if you weren't into the particular dancer, you can let your eyes wander for a bit and another will be up shortly.

The best part was that at the end of each sexed-out performance, after the slow gyrations and explicit manhandling of their privates, each of the men did a shy little bow, a sheepish grin or a bashful little wave before they went back behind the curtain, as if they weren't really strippers at all, but guys who were maybe, you know, just walking past the club and were talked into getting on stage. They were so charming and polite!

It made me think: Have I misjudged strippers completely? What about Circus Clowns? And Gay Republicans? And the Catholic priest who gave me chlamydia...

PREVIOUSLY: Warmth

Technorati Tags: Humor Gay Queer

Friday, October 13, 2006

Warmth

Even though my friend Bobby reassured me that Brian and I didn’t have to learn French for our trip to Montreal, it worried me a little not to come prepared.

Normally, I would arm myself with some essential phrases when visiting a foreign country: "is there cheese in this?" or "where is the restroom?" or "you can't do this to me, I'm an American!" I would also try to learn the words for a few niceties like "please," "thank you," and "don't worry, it's only a cold sore." I'm very polite.

But it is a bit strange, that the entire Quebec province in Canada speaks a totally foreign language from the rest of the country. I guess in the U.S., it's a bit like going to Arkansas where they speak Barnyard. Not everybody of course; the genteel, well-educated folk there speak Pig Latin.

Until I planned our trip to Montreal, I've never thought of Canada as a foreign country. I've always thought of Canada, you know, like it was as a very large suburb of America. It was gonna be like going outlet mall shopping on a weekend.

I mean, I already love their music: Alanis Morrissette, Sarah McLachlan, Tegan and Sara. Like a well-chosen concealer, I would blend right in. Canadians are probably not that different. They probably raise the toilet seat with the tip of their shoe in a public restroom just like we do in America.

However, if there was anything that worried me more than having to speak French, it was the metric system.

I could probably muster "how do I get to the Biodome" in French, but the reply "turn left and walk 1.5 kilometres" would mean absolutely nothing to me. I am terrified that I may be in situation where my life would depend on buying orange juice in the right size container. How many litres is in a gallon or a quart? The thought of memorizing the conversion factors was daunting. I feel myself slipping into despair.

Our cab driver gave us our first taste of the local color, when an inattentive bike rider cut in front of us. Incensed, our driver suddenly stepped on the gas, driving like a madman. He soon caught up with the biker. He rolled down his window and let loose a barrage of curses. It sounded like this:

"%&$?!!' ' ' ' ' ' ' @% ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ! ' ' ' ' ' ' &%& ' ' ' ' '?!?!"

I felt like I was in a Peanuts cartoon and the adults were talking.

Realizing that we were still in the cab, our driver embarrassedly turned around said what sounded like an apology in French. How can we be angry when the swearing sounded so glamorous, even if I peed a little in my pants because of his crazy driving?

We were excited when we got to our hotel in The Village, which is the gay neighborhood in Montreal. We decided to take a stroll.

As we walked past the locals, we caught snippets of French which made us feel like worldly travelers. We found ourselves adding a nasal sound to our conversation, affecting a fake French accent. We randomly read signs out loud just to hear ourselves speaking French: "Le Chateau du Pantalon," "L'Adonis," "Ben & Jer-ree's." I was way ahead of Brian as I had a great advantage over him: my lisp.

The Quebecois were friendly people, we found. They switched effortlessly to English if you respond "Good Morning" to their "Bonjour!" or if you say something like, "where's my coffee, bitch?"

We looked forward to basking in the warmth of the locals much like a penis looks forward to the warmth of a well-lubricated hole...