We got up at about 10, and checked out between 11:30 and 12. We took a cab over to Sainte Hubert street. The cab driver came so close to killing a homeless person who walked right out in front of the cab. It was very unsettling — for all of us, least of all the drunk, probably.
We arrived at Le Conciergerie, and were met by one of the hunk-of-man owners, Michael. I spoke to him a little in French, and he rattled off a mile a minute stuff back. He told us our room wouldn’t be ready until 1:00, and we asked him for a recommendation for breakfast.
He sent us to Mama Cora’s, which was packed with beautiful, beautiful men, and we had a great breakfast. I had a crepe stuffed with cooked apples, and topped with whipped cream and caramel sauce. Yum. Yum. Yum. Steve got a crepe stuffed with smoked salmon.
Back at the place, “Jonathan,” another hunk of man, showed us to our room, and then gave us a tour of the place. Shortly after that, Steve and him made out on the staircase. “Let the games begin.”
I wrote out 21 post cards, while Steve met and chatted with some folks on the deck that’s just outside of our room. After that, Steve had another quick moment with Jonahthan, while I waited for him downstairs.
We walked to the “Pharmaprix,” where in the back was a post office. I bought postage for my postcards, which at $.80 a piece, came to $16.80 for 21.
We went to a “sauna” for a couple of hours, and then stopped at McDonald’s for dinner on the way home. We were going to get it to go, and eat it on the deck back at the Guest House, but ended up eating it there. Steve was cruised in the McDonald’s line by, who we were later to learn was, “Juan-Carlos.” When we got outside, he was standing on the corner when Steve let up a cigarette. They cruised each other again, and I said, “I’m going over to the grocery store; I’ll see you back at the room.”
I bought a bag of Cheetos and a Lindt milk chocolate candy bar, of which I ate two rows of squares on the way home. They didn’t have any diet coke to wash it down with. 🙂 When I passed the corner, Steve was still talking to Juan-Carolos. He introduced me to him, and I thought they were “getting on,” so I said, again, “See you back at the room.”
When I got back, the front door was locked, and the place was deserted. I let myself in, went up to my room to get my computer, and brought it down to the desk by the phone for that purpose downstairs. I had no luck connecting in through the IBM 800 number. It kept saying that that number was not valid from the calling area I was in. It’s just as well, really. It will keep me from being a slave to my computer all week, and I really shouldn’t be calling in IBM’s number anyway.
I left Steve a note that I’d be up on the roof, where I went to catch up this journal for yesterday and today. Steve arrived about a twenty minutes later.
“Girl. Don’t ever leave me again like that. That boy. He turned out to be a refugee, who was here illegally, and trying to find someone to marry him so he can stay in the country.” Drama. Who knew?
We got ready to go out, but before we left, Steve went downstairs to try and find a fan for our room. We’d both like it cooler — Steve more so than me. Of course, he can’t go anywhere without meeting anyone, and after about 10 minutes I went downstairs to see what was up. He was out on the deck off this guy’s room below us, and called me out there.
I met Steve, a policeman, and a big hairy bear, and his lover, Dan, a younger, thin, jock-type, who had just graduated, sounding like he was as yet unemployed. Also there was John, a nurse, and Tony (with a fem name of Taneshia), who operated a sex-line — no kidding. They were having champagne, and had invited Steve to join them for a glass. Dan and Steve were celebrating four years together, and one year of being legally married, as is possible here in Canada.
We stayed here just a little longer than I would have wanted, but they were nice guys, and fun. They recommended that for a strip club we not go to Campus, but over to Le Stock. Campus usually has almost all young, smooth, twinks — Le Stock has “men,” they said. They said that we should then make our way over to Le Stud bar, which is where we were Sunday afternoon with Patrick and Robert et.al. They said the’d be heading over there later, and would see us there.
We arrived at Le Stock, and ordered a bourbon and coke, a vodka tonic, (both of which came in very small cocktail glasses) and a bottle of water for $12.95. We watched about several dancers, none of which were hairy, with all but one with shaved pits. Such a crime. It was a “nude” bar, but not every dancer stripped all the way down each time. It seemed like the first time they came out, they just teased, and then those that came out again while we were there, did show.
The first guy we saw nude had the biggest, thickest cock. They must do something to “fluff” them before they come out, because that thing was pointing skyward as soon as he walked out. I did not find him attractive, I mean he was just all right, no doubt the lack of hair contributing to that. He did have a monster, though.
Another guy, in a baseball cap, who was really built came out and just teased. He came out again later, though, and showed it all. Not huge, but nice. He ended up coming up to us after his dance, which of course is what they do, to try to get you to go “in the back” for a “private dance.” I never make eye contact with these guys, because I don’t even want them coming up to me. My friend, the extrovert, however, makes eye contact with every one of them.
Sure enough, the baseball cap guy came up to us, and introduced himself to Steve, who then introduced him to me. Steve went with him, and I watched two or three more dancers. One guy had the most magnificent uncut dick — long, hard, and the skin still covering the head even when hard. Bless his heart, though, he couldn’t dance. He looked very awkward in his movements, but no one was really watching the dancing now were they?
From there we went to Le Stud, which was actually less busy than it was Sunday afternoon, which I guess with Pride going on SUnday that’s understandable. They were doing karaoke, and there were actually a few quite good singers. I ordered us a vodka tonic and a bourbon and coke. The bartender said, “I don’t have any bourbon,” and I was just so stunned I couldn’t think of anything else to order, while he just looked at me. I said, “Go ahead and get his vodka tonic while I think about this.” When he came back, I said, “Give me a Smirnoff Ice.” I paid him the $10.25 and a dollar tip, which he took and poured the next order for someone.
Steve said, “Look. He’s pouring Jack Daniels in that drink.” If JD is not bourbon, what is? Maybe he meant they had no house bourbon, but you would think if that was the case, he’d say, “We only have top shelf or something.” Odd. Steve tasted his drink, which he said was not strong enough. We saw the bartender pour in one (measured) jigger of vodka into the drink, but it really didn’t taste at all strong. Steve asked him to add a little more liquor in his drink, which he did, and then said, “That’ll be $4.25.” Needless to say, Steve was not happy about that. It turns out that they’re very strict about the liquor here, and must use the measured jigger, and charge more if they add any more.
I went over to listen to the karaoke singers, and after about a half hour went back to find Steve sitting at a table open to the street with a new friend, Derrick. He introduced me to him, and asked me to join them, but I politely declined and left them alone. I went and stood on the other side of the bar next to this very sexy man, who, of course, I did not speak to.
After a while, I went back to check on Steve, and saw him sort of stretched out on the chair with Derrick’s hand in his crotch. I left that alone.
We left there at about 2:00, caught a cab back to St. Catherine and St. Hubert, and went to McDonald’s for a mid-night snack. We’ve eaten for too much McDonald’s today. At least there was no sign of Juan-Carolos at this hour. Perhaps he’d found his night in shining green card.
We at our food on the deck outside of our room, and Steve spilled a huge dollop of ketchup on his jeans. Heavens to mergatroid.