Wow. Helluva weekend, and it’s not over yet!
As you probably already know (from reading my last post), I’m now in Montreal. I moved as much of my stuff here as I could–anything that could fit in my rented minivan. The rest, I’ve either sold, given to friends, or handed out to charity organizations. (Sadly, I’m still “stuck” with two faeries.) Because of customs issues, I had to sell my tarantula, much to the delight of my two diminutive companions. Even Attitude (yes, ATTITUDE) made a little happy dance (though in her case, it was kinda sexy…)
I’ve moved to an area of Montreal called Verdun, near a nice little waterway called Lachine Canal. It’s very pretty. My new company is paying for 1 month of rent there while I find myself something better (and cheaper!). I arrived yesterday, after a 2-day drive, and unpacked stuff most of the day. Same thing today. Tonight, though, I decided it was time to take a bit of time off and went downtown. I took the subway (it’s called a “metro,” here–must be a French thing) to McGill, apparently a pretty central station, and headed out on the main street, Ste. Catherine. Lots of places for food. I went for something familiar: Five Guys. It’s just a hop away from a place someone told me about, a strip joint called “Super Sexe” (you can guess what that means). So after a quick meal, I headed over to the club and got myself a table. Wow… The girls here are super friendly. Or at least, they act friendly. Thanks to my faerie sight, I could easily “filter out” those that were just looking for clients. Eventually, one named Kathy bounced over (well, some PARTS of her were bouncing, anyway) and started chatting me up in heavily accented English.
You have to understand, I’m kind of jaded when it comes to women. The last year has been… maybe calling a revelation is too strong a word, but just one notch below. I “get” it, now. Once you stop putting pressure on yourself, once you stop trying to please girls, they often fall over themselves trying to please you instead. I don’t know if I can explain it, and I apologize to female readers if this sounds callous, but I guess they’re just attracted to guys who aren’t impressed by them (probably because it comes across as self-confidence). But I digress. Back to Kathy… The moment she sat next to me, I felt *something*, like a combo of butterflies in my stomach and the nervous jitters you get before you speak in public. Oddly, I couldn’t quite read her. That’s not unusual, there are some women I just can’t read (Minx says it’s normal). But with her, I got a little nervous. She had amazing eyes and a shy smile that suggested she was a little uncomfortable showing so much skin (and what lovely skin she has!). We talked for a bit and she suggested we retreat to a more private cabin. I said sure, what could it hurt, right?
Okay, those of you who are familiar with Montreal will make fun of me. Those of you who don’t, you should know that lap dances here allow pretty much full contact (crotch is off-limits and you can’t use your mouth). Pretty much anything goes. And this girl was H*A*W*T, I swear! At $15 a dance, you can’t stay there forever, but for the time I was there, it was fantastic. I promise you, my imagination was going wild. The problem was, because I couldn’t read her, I had no clear idea if she was just acting or really having a good time. The signs were there, though: hot breath near my ear, rubbing her boobs all over my chest, caressing my hair, etc. Damn… And as the songs went on, she turned up the heat. I decided it had to be an act–girls like this were well trained in making guys like me feel like super studs! But as the fifth or sixth song started, she started grinding her crotch against my sofa’s arm, letting out little gasps. She reached inside her panties and… yes, rubbed herself right in front of me. Her hand was hidden from view, but what she was doing was pretty obvious. She rose to a quick climax, which I thought was incredibly hot. The song was over, but she didn’t care and, staring at my crotch (which strained against my jeans), she started going at it again. Two orgasms (and another song) later, she collapsed against me and thanked me for watching her. At least I think that’s what she said. I recognized the words “merci” et “regarder.”
That. Was. HAWT!
I thanked her, paid and tipped her, and got ready to head out. Just as I meant to exit the privacy of our booth, she grabbed me by the neck and kissed me the way only French girls know how. There was some rubbing of her body against mine, too, in a way that said clearly what she wanted. She slipped her hand in my pocket and walked away, waving with a coy smile.
I checked what she left in my pocket. It was a piece of paper that read: Martine, 514-555-7882.
“I’m doing it.”