This is an excerpt from my novel-in-progress, Naked Montreal. New 500-word excerpts are posted every Monday, so be sure to subscribe to avoid missing a thing!
Bienvenue / Welcome (cont.)
Evelyn doesn’t say anything about the Consultant, instead laying back in the chair, daring her back to crack as she arches across its curved armrests.
My phone buzzes insistently, and it’s another Mister waiting for his Fixer.
“Gotta run, darling. Same time tomorrow night?” I ask, kissing Evelyn on both cheeks. She just waves me off as Yamamoto finally arrives with her Cosmo. I give him a wink and a smile before I scurry off to my next date.At any given moment in the full 24-hour clock that dictates Montreal’s Eastern Standard Time, you will be able to find:
- A strip club in full porno-swing
- An indie porn star performing intimate acts in her home studio
- A burlesquer burlesquing
- A bed-wetting actor fucking an aspiring playwright (who’s, incidentally, just using him as fodder to write a tell-all play)
- A sex columnist trying out the latest in dildo technologies at a woman-friendly, sex-positive sex shop
- A fabulous tranny entertaining the tourists
And so much more!
Trust me, I’ve seen it all. Sometimes I even give tours of these underground wonders, acting as the Virgil to Dante’s hell-bound wayfarer.
What’s that you say? You want The Works? That’ll cost extra; you’d better pay in full up-front before we take it any further.
Thanks, mister. You won’t regret it.
So first on the list of pornographic wonders in my fair city is Club Super Sexe. The extra E is for “sexeeeeeeeeee,” although I haven’t yet figured out what THOSE extra E’s are for. In any event, Club Super Sexe is populated mainly by strippers of the dirty ho variety. You know, the ones you can find anywhere, whose idea of costuming involves cut-off jeans, midriff-baring tops and a nice hot pink G-string. Classy dames, all.
Not that there’s anything wrong with stripping, mind you. Before I found my niche as a sex tour guide, I did my time on the tops of a few tables. The hand-jobs were fast and furious, the money was shit if you didn’t want to do contact dances (still an option, back in the day), and between splitting your cash with the doorman, the bartender, the busser, the manager and whomever the fuck else (all men, I assure you, making money off our backs), you’d be lucky to walk away with $50 a night.
Not exactly the cash-rolling scenarios most Pretty Women envision for such porno palaces as these.
Anyway, let’s roll up into one of these joints, shall we? See what there is to see.
Out front the bouncer doubles as the guy trying to sweet-talk you big lugs into coming in and shelling out your hard-earned cash on some dames. His line?
“12 girls, 24 titties! Yes, that’s TWENTY-FOUR TITTIES!”
Personally, I’d be more intrigued by 12 girls, twenty-three titties (was there a mastectomy in the bunch? Where’d that lone titty go?!), or twenty-five titties (a third nipple? Half a titty? What’s with the extra one?!). But that’s his sales pitch, and I guess it works well enough, because my clients are always intrigued.
“24 titties!” they’ll exclaim, slapping each other on the backs. Oh, frat boys. You’re all the same.