The word ‘excited’ does not contain enough energy to describe my feelings during the month prior to departing for Montreal.
New equipment was procured the week before heading up and after a few days of breaking in the camera and getting in some practice in NYC, I was ready to embark.
My mission was to explore the women of Quebec’s jewel city. I was to engage them, talk to them, photograph them, find out what makes them tick, and then seduce them.
My experience with the French is extensive–I have dated many girls from France, was in a relationship with one for over a year, took a month long road-trip around the Northern part of France and spent two weeks in Paris.
Plus, i bang out French ladies frequently in New York–so I am familiar with their moods, pretensions, arrogance, and passion.
Previous experiences in Montreal had been pleasant, but hindered.
My first exposure was as a rebellious teenager who was traveling with family–it was winter, we spent most of the time in the underground part of the city exploring markets–and I just couldn’t wait to go snowboarding at Mt. Tremblant (an awesome mountain about 1.5 hours North of the city).
The next was a trip with a girlfriend who I am now ashamed of having. 5 years ago I was a totally different person when it came to girls. Some would say ‘desperate’–gods bless ya game.
The next two trips up were with my French girl. We visited some of her friends, partied, and I was truly astounded by how many beautiful women were in the city.
*On our second trip up, we were trying to get her Visa extended by crossing the border for two days…that doesn’t work…they didn’t stamp it. She had to return to Europe and then come back.
So I was pumped to be coming alone. I did some research and found that the more East you go in the city, the more French it gets. And I saw there was a lot of nightlife in the Plateau neighborhood near St. Laurent street. There happened to be a very cheap airbnb room available right off St. Laurent and I booked it.
The September days in New York passed quickly, my camera game was honed and sharpened, and when the time came to leave, I was one prepared motherfucker.
I left from Grand Central at 5:30 p.m. on a Wednesday–a friend upstate was lending me his car and after the two hour ride up on Metro North, I drove the car straight up the thruway for 5.5 hours.
I stopped for gas in Plattsburg, NY and grabbed a salad to munch on from a Subway shop (it was the only place open). I asked the guy who made my salad if there were any good bars in Plattsburg and he said “you mean pick-up bars?” I laughed and asked how he knew, he said “just look at you” and I laughed some more. I planned on staying in Plattsburg on the drive back because I was going to hike up to Mt. Marcy–the highest point in the state.
I ate my weak salad, drove off, and arrived in Montreal at 1:30 a.m.
My flamingly gay airbnb host pranced around and showed me the tiny box where I would be sleeping–it barely had room for the bed. I didn’t care, took a shower and headed out on to St. Laurent.
It was dead.
Everywhere was closed except the dive bar, Barfly. I went in and asked the bartender if anywhere was alive and she said “Not this late on a Wednesday”. I talked to three drunk dudes at the end of the bar and asked where I could find real French-Canadian girls. The dudes laughed, bought a round of shots and I told them again, “I’m serious, I came here to meet girls, where can I find real ones?”
They told me to go up to Mont Royal street and explore the parks to the East. After thanking them I left and went to bed.
The next day I was up early.
The sun was out, the air was still, and the temperature was perfect. It would stay that way for the duration of the trip.
I wanted to rent a bike. The city has their own ‘bixi’ bike rental system but I wanted the freedom to park and have access to my ride anywhere.
There were two very blonde girls exiting an apartment and they stopped to wait on the corner. I briskly walked up to them and said,
“Excuse me, do you know where I can rent a bike?”
I teased them a little about not knowing where a bike shop was in their own neighborhood and the cuter of the two girls was getting visibly turned on.
The crystal blueness of the eyes in French Canadian women is a national treasure.
You can lose yourself staring into those eyes and I don’t think the girl I was talking to had ever been so boldly gazed into by an American before. She was shifting in her shoes and biting her bottom lip.
I said, “If you can’t tell me where a bike shop is, can you tell me where to go out tonight?”
She mentioned a place called Apartment 200, it was right around the corner from where I was staying.
I said “We should meet up later” and told her to put her number in my phone.
After she did, I went into cafe Kitsune to have a delicious Americano and write for a bit.
A blonde woman was sitting alone and the sunlight was pouring into the cafe and covering her.
I asked to take her photo and she agreed.
The barista told me about a bike shop down the street and also mentioned that Apartment 200 was a good place to go.
I rented the bike and rode to a Saint-Louis Square. A very French looking girl was stretching by the fountain, I took out my camera, approached, told her I was doing a photo project and asked if she would answer a question and let me take her photograph.
With a very French accent she said “No, I don’t think so.” I told her to have fun and walked off.
I returned to Saint-Louis a few more times during the days that followed, there were always pretty girls there, but they all refused to have their photos taken. Much more success was had just asking them if they lived in Montreal and then getting some recommendations–I had to play it that way in the East part of town.
In the Old Port there was the World Press photo exhibition. I stopped in and took in the images until a group of obnoxiously loud school kids came in.
After, I rolled downtown and into the lower field at McGill University.
Girls were everywhere, I was almost overwhelmed–almost.
I stopped a few, they were all readily willing to pose for photos but suspicious when I started asking them where to go out in the area.
On the lawn, a number were just lounging in the perfect weather and they were incredibly easy to approach.
I found that it was a lot easier to get numbers when I didn’t take their photos. These college girls were very very typical of most University students in North America: overly friendly at first, suspicious of non-students, and pretty dumb.
After McGill, I walked for a bit downtown. It was like walking around any downtown in North America–except the women were way more beautiful.
The city was bustling in the way that zaps my energy, so I didn’t stick around too long.
I went for a long bike.
The city is perfect for riding. Paths are everywhere, streets are wide and smooth, the city grid is well planned, and most importantly–the drivers are very aware of cyclists–very unlike NYC where no one gives a shit and cab drivers actively try to run you off the road.
So the rides in Montreal are pleasant, stress free, and you can relax and watch the girls go by.
After the trek, I returned to the apartment and checked out some old players data sheets on Montreal.
I don’t really trust data sheets because they become dated so quickly, but they are fun to browse through.
A much more successful way to get yourself to good spots in a new city is to just ask some locals. Kill two birds with one stone like I had been doing and arrange for the girls to meet up with you somewhere later on.
One spot that did keep popping up on the data sheets was Cavali. Especially for Thursday nights. Apparently, two years ago, this was the spot to be on a Thursday.
I wanted to check out Crescent street anyway (only a couple blocks away) and then pop into Cavali.
I rode down to Crescent, cracked a beer open, and walked down the street. It was a shit show–Americanized places and people, no charm, and no French girls.
The Madhatter pub near the end of Crescent had a bunch of young people spilling out of it and was really loud. I went in and the vibe was like a house party.
Everyone was young, drunk, and sipping out of little plastic cups. The crowd was too young and too Anglo for me–but I really wanted one of those little beers.
I asked a dude if they were free and he said “yeah, just take one” and gave me one off the bar.
The bartender came over and yelled at him “Hey! People are going to come back for that!” I told her sorry, we didn’t know and asked how much. After flipping her a dollar coin, I asked the dude where all the hot French girls were at. He pointed East and said “that way”. I laughed and told him I would make my way over there.
I wandered over to a bored looking group and told them to “look happy, become liberated!” and they could barely smile. So I told them all to take a drink. When they did, I snapped a photo:
They weren’t much for conversation, I suspect they were all very very high from smoking marijuana, and I left the pub.
Cavali was nothing but guys with lots of money, spending lots of money on the wrong type of girls to spend money on–washed up looking sluts.
Two sluts with leopard print dresses on and champagne in their hands saw me and waved.
I went over–they looked surprised that I approached–and I asked if their champagne was good. One gave me her glass to try and I downed the entire thing in one gulp.
Their mouths dropped open and I asked to take their photo. They were a bit flustered and a group of three big dudes came over. They looked like they were ready to fight over the sluts.
I bowed, said “Au revoir” and left before trouble started.
I pedaled back over to St. Laurent and there were loads of people. At the apartment I dropped my camera and bag off, put on my dancing shirt and left. I went into Laika and posted up at the bar with a vodka soda.
A pair of crystal eyes connected with mine and I walked over and said hi. I asked if this was a good place to dance and she told me that the DJ’s come on later at night.
We chatted and I tried to escalate right away. In New York I can get away with it, in Mexico it worked like a charm. It never works with French girls–and it wasn’t working with their French Canadian counterparts. She deflected my advances and I decided to move on to greener pussy pastures.
I hit the streets again, went into a smoke shop and bought a giant cigar. I lit the bad boy up and sauntered down the block. I was puffing and saying hello to girls–they all love seeing a big fat cigar being smoked–and made my way down to Apartment 200.
There was a big line outside and I looked at the people and asked how long they had been waiting–I really hate waiting on line and wasn’t about to tonight.
The people near the front said they had been on line for 30 minutes and I said ‘fuck that’ and continued smoking.
As I puffed, three gorgeous women came down the stairs of the entrance and stood outside. I went right up and asked how it was in there.
They said it was alright and I asked “Do you girls like cigars?”
One laughed and said ‘oh yes’.
I bit off the soggy end, spit it out, and let her have a puff.
The other girls took turns and I complemented them on the way they handled big fat cigars with their lips.
As we chatted, a scruffy looking guy came down the stairs and said the girls should come back in. I told him we were in the middle of a conversation, he looked me up and down and said “Alright man, you come up too.”
I gave the rest of the cigar to a guy standing on line, the bouncer stamped my arm, and I was whisked up the stairs.
The scruffy dude took the hottest of the girls with him and disappeared–really, I have no fucking clue where they went and didn’t see either of them again for the rest of the night.
Upstairs it was dark, there were a lot of groups at tables, some dudes playing old school video games, and not much mingling going on.
I felt someone grab my arm and it was the headband girl from McGill. She was with her hot friend and I said “Glad you brought the dance party here!” We talked for a few minutes and then did some dancing.
Headband girl kept vying for attention–I would give her some, then turn back to the hot girl and repeat. It was getting tiring so I waved a dude who was a good dancer over and pointed him at headband. He did his job and kept her occupied.
After finally getting the hot one isolated, I started touching her and pulling her hair a little. After a few minutes, she gave me the look of desire and I brought her over to the bar for a drink.
I said “It looks like mommy is occupied” and pointed to her headband friend grinding against the dancing dude. She laughed, put her head down, and looked back up with puppy eyes.
I kissed her but she wasn’t getting in to it so I pulled away. She looked embarrassed and I said “It’s so sexy to be the only one trying” and we laughed and then kissed again, better this time.
We danced a little more and when I tried to kiss again, she resisted. I wanted to pull my disappearing act on her and went over to another group of girls and got them dancing. I wasn’t feeling any particular one, and when I went back over to the hot girl, she was ignoring me. I left before it got too late–I wanted to stay fresh on this trip, get enough sleep and not get drunk.
The street was still filled with girls, mostly slutty types who hate my game. I do terrible with typical sluts and usually end up making fun of them until they get upset and walk away. They are not my style, and I find their porn star type of sex funny instead of stimulating.
I felt good in the morning, it was another perfect day, my body was alert, and I was ready to make things happen.
My plan was to go to the cafe, put some finishing touches on a book that I had been working on, and then do some more exploring. Looking foward to these things put some spice in my step and as I went down the stairs to the sidewalk, I saw a gorgeous girl turning the corner on a bike.
She was dressed in yoga pants and a sweatshirt, but her beauty was shining through like a beacon.
As she turned, she looked right at me–immediately, without thinking, I waved and smiled at her. She screeched on the breaks–the bike skidded to a stop and I laughed as I walked over.
There was a stunning smile on her face and I was wondering what the fuck was happening.
As I approached, she said in French “Je suis de’sole” (I’m sorry). I replied in English “for what?” and she told me that she thought I was somebody else.
I told her I was disappointed and I would have to find this look-a-like and kill him. After I got a giggle, I asked what she was up to.
She said she was coming home from teaching a dancing class and then she said that we should get out of the shadows and step in to the sun. My brain fired off at this quip–it was such a very French thing to do and I put it in memory storage.
Her name was Emily, we chatted in the sun for a few minutes and she told me about the neighborhood, she lived right up the street, and knew of some nice lounges to go to. I purposely did not ask for her number and mentioned that I was going to work in the coffee shop just a few blocks away and she should join me. She said she would probably do that and I bid her adieu.
At the coffee shop I asked everyone where all the really French girls were at. Everyone in the shop laughed, pointed me to the NorthEast, and wished me luck.
People react so fantastically when you are straight up and open with them. Even the girls in the shop were giving me tips on how to talk to the locals.
45 minutes later, in came Emily, all dressed up. Everyone who had heard me ask about the girls gave knowing smiles. I took her outside for a cigarette in the sun. We talked about biking. I told her I was going to explore the NorthEast part of the city and find people who didn’t speak English.
She smiled and said “If you aren’t doing anything later, we should hang out.” (Oh yes motherfuckers!) I was burning on the inside as my plan came together perfectly but played it cool as I could on the surface.
“That sounds good, you can show me around, take me on a date.”
I gave her my phone, she put her number in and gave herself a phone call. When she was sure it went though, she gave me the phone back. I said goodbye quickly and went to switch my bags and grab the bike.
Montreal is pretty large and most of the action is contained in the central part of the city. I rode far out into the residental areas and didn’t find much life. Just some kids skating, lots of olds walking dogs, and a bunch of scabs smoking weed by the train tracks.
I don’t really eat bread, but made an exception for these bagely delights.
During each of my four previous trips to Montreal, I had eaten at St. Viateaur and wanted to keep the tradition going.
The memories that came flooding back stood like monuments from different times and stages in my life. The darkest being when I was with a girl that I didn’t even like that much. I liked fucking her and she was crazy about me, but you wouldn’t catch me giving a girl like her two seconds of my time today.
After the bagel, lox, salad, and memories, I wandered down Mont Royal to the Metro Station. People were everywhere. Some just hanging out, lots of strung out dudes being strung out, and loads of cute girls.
One held a sign saying ‘free hugs’, she looked at me and I told her to give me a kiss. I got a peck on the cheek.
I watched the drugged out dudes run game. They would approach girls and just ask about anything.
“Hey, whats in your shopping bag?”
“That’s a cool phone, where’d you get it?”
“I like your hair, where do you cut it?”
I laughed hard at these dudes and wondered about the state of men in this world. Any normal guy who took care of himself could easily use those lines to open girls effectively. The only males around here who were brave enough to try were dirty old heroin addicts. And me.
What is there to be afraid of?
I went up to the hottest girl I could find and took some photos with her.
I even got her to write a message to a fellow player:
She was puddy at this point and gave me her number and invited me to come drink at the new bar she was working at.
The Mont Royal station reminded me of my favorite place to game girls in NYC. The vibe was relaxed, people were out to experience something, there were a lot of street performers doing their thing, approaching seemed natural, and the reactions were all laid back and positive. I liked it there.
I received a text from Emily and she said that there was a house party she wanted to go to but we should meet for a drink first.
I knew it was on, but there was a slight unfamiliar feeling in my soul–I had not been on a proper date in two years. There were a couple of times I texted a girl come meet me here and she came to join the fun and then we banged–a full on formal meet up without having sex already was a distant memory.
But it gave me a unique perspective–this girl was already all about it. My senses had become sharp since having mostly one night stands. I knew right away when a girl was in to me–a bat of the eye, twist of the hair, glance at the crotch–Emily had already done these things and was probably drumming up my image in her mind all day. The giant green lights were there.
A lot of men are color blind and cant see the signs that mean GO, and this causes a lot of confusion and miscommunication between the sexes. I used to be oblivious myself.
Girls are not going to come up to you and say “I want to fuck” (at least the beautiful, quality ones). But there are many signs we can pick up on and view as mating signals.
Emily was ready to go, she had arranged for and was now meeting me for a date. She was obviously considering having sex with me, it was just a matter of saying the right things and escalating a bit and the bang was in the bag.
All I had to do was not fuck up.
Back at the airbnb spot, the flamer had his partner over and there was another couple from Germany who had just arrived.
The couple asked the flamer where to get something quick to eat because they were very tired from traveling all day and needed something not too heavy and fast. The flamer only recommended fast food and fine restaurants. The couple didn’t want any of those so I told them about Burger Royale just around the corner.
I ate there a total of three times while in Montreal, and their spicy jalapeno burger wrapped in iceberg lettuce was pretty damn good. The couple thanked me and said they would go there–and the flamer got jealous. He chattered on about all the restaurants from the Plateau to Mile End and the couple tried to ignore him.
They left for the burger place and the flamer left to go flame out with his partner all night in the Villiage.
I had some peace and quiet to myself for a bit and sat for a while dicking around on the computer and editing photos.
I texted Emily and told her she should come pick me up. She replied ok and was knocking on the door 30 minutes later.
She was looking incredible in a white lace dress, little sweater, and heels.
“Alright, thats a fucking fantastic dress”, I smiled, cheek kissed her hello and let her in.
I showed her around the place pretending it was my own and she laughed really hard when I showed her “the finest room in the house” and opened the door to the big bed crammed in the tiny space. “Now that is a place made for love”, I said and she giggled some more.
If she had giving the slightest sign, like touching me, or flashing the puppy eyes, I would have ravaged her right then and there–but there was nothing, so we went to the flamers liquor cabinet and poured a shot of tequila before leaving.
She took me to an unmarked red door on St. Laurent, knocked, and a big black bouncer opened up, parted some curtains, and let us in. Inside was fancy, moodily lit, and sexy–I said “Oooo, you’re trying to get laid tonight, aren’t you” and she gave me a naughty grin, laughed and said “stop, behave.”
I pretended to be a proper gentleman. The place was called Big in Japan and it was a place that was very tryhard and a dime a dozen in NYC, I appreciated Emily’s effort to impress and we ordered some delicious cocktails.
I got her to talk about herself and her dancing. She went on tour a lot and I made sure that she promised to let me know the next time that she was performing in New York.
At one point in the conversation, I looked her right in the eyes and asked what inspired her to perform, what pushed her to express herself on stage?
She paused for a long while and thought. When she looked back at me, the confidence she had carried before was gone. Her face was like a lost little girl and she swiveled her knees so they were touching the inside of my thigh. She didn’t know the answer. At that point, I told said:
“I love the fact that you stopped your bike when I waved, you screeched to a halt.”
She said she really thought I was someone else–a drummer from a local band.
Then I got closer to her and said “Goddamn, that French accent kills me” and pulled her in to kiss.
I pulled back just before it got heated and said “stop, behave” and made her laugh.
We talked a bit more about goals and ambitions, she told me she always wanted to be a vet. I shared stories of wild animals, and had her take part in a fantasy where we would go to Africa, steal a Jeep from a Ranger on the Serengeti, drive around until we found some lions, and then sneak up on a lion and smack it in the ass as hard as we could and watch it run away.
The entire time, her eyes were getting bigger and wetter. After a brief pause in the conversation, I took her by the hands and said,
“Do you know what was incredibly cute this morning?” She was hanging on to words at this point and listening intently.
“When you asked to step out of the shade and into the sun. It was such a French thing to do.”
The look on her face after hearing me say that is going to stay burned in my memory for a long time. It was like when a little girl hears daddy say the perfect thing.
She looked so feminine in those moments that I had to have her–she looked willing to submit, ready to be led, and pure–I needed to ravish her beautiful body–become a part of her and disappear inside her with full abandon. I took a deep breath and said:
“Let’s get out of here” and took her by the hand and out the door.
I blathered on about how beautiful the weather was and how perfect it made the city seem until we got back to the apartment.
Another reason why I love non-American women is that there is hardly ever any last minute resistance. They are mature when it comes to sex and there are no games or bullshit once you get back to someones place. You both know what you came to do.
I poured some wine while she went to the bathroom and when she came out, her sweater was off and her little dress was easily removed. We went into my shoebox room and fucked like we had to.
After, we laid there panting and she said “come on, lets go to the party”, it was only 1030 and I said alright, but she wasn’t allowed to shower, I wanted my scent on her. In her thick accent she said “Oh, no, no, of course not.” God I love French women.
The party was typical–performance artists, pretentious hipsters, writers and snobs whining about politics, pandering to the left-wing, pondering humanism, and debating art.
I have been avoiding gatherings of these pseudo-intellectuals since my mid-20’s, but before then I had frequented many. Its funny how unique everyone believes they are when it is the exact same conversations being had over and over again.
There was one particularly frail hipster who was obviously infatuated with Emily and when I was talking to another girl, I saw him come over to her and shower her with compliments. She kept saying thank you and nothing else until he walked away.
I came over with a smirk and asked if she enjoyed his attention. She said “oh god no, that guy has asked me out so many times and he doesn’t understand the word No.”
Sarcastically, I said “What, his shower of compliments didn’t work?” and she cringed.
“How many compliments have I given you?”
“You said my dress was nice when I came in before.”
“Yes, exactly one, and I meant it, you remembered it, and I fucked you.”
She smiled, hit me and I told her to watch the skinny guy–he had no backbone–he was handsome and well dressed, but had no convictions.
“Thats why you don’t like him.”
She grabbed my crotch gently. I grabbed her ass and whispered in her ear
“Your cheeks are still red.”
I drank lots of wine, smoked some weed and laughed with a Jamaican dude about how much more beautiful French Canadian girls were than Americans.
“What the fuck are you feeding them down there?” He asked.
“I dunno, what the fuck are these girls eating up here?”
“Don’t know, but not as much as them down there!” bahahaha!
After a few hours and a light head I was ready to fuck again, I told Emily I wanted to see her place. On the walk back I told her “You like to be dominated don’t you?” and pushed her against a wall. Without kissing her, but with my lips almost touching hers, I said “like this” and pulled her hair back, “and like this” and pulled her waist into my cock.
We went back to her incredibly nice apartment and she was completely responsive in bed–I thought about how I had just met her that morning as a stranger on the street and now she was totally surrendering herself.
This made me wild and allowed me to let go and fuck with no boundaries–this happens every once in a while. It has to be the right girl under the right circumstances–and this was one of them.
She shuddered in orgasms as I fucked her fearlessly–an experience like this becomes an of out-of-body one and renews the spirit like nothing else.
I slept like a king that night and she stayed melted in my arms.
For brunch she took me up to Mont Royal street to a restaurant called Grenoulle. I had a fantastic bone marrow, egg, and bacon dish to replenish my lost minerals and we had a pleasant time eating slowly outdoors on the patio.
At the metro station a band was playing music and I twirled her little dancer body in front of all of the onlookers.
She could move like a minx. Instead of destroying her into the sheets like the night before, I wanted her to perform some of those moves while on top of me.
Dancing in public and thinking about sex got to be too much, I pulled her close and in her ear I told her we needed to go–she knew exactly what I was thinking and flashed a knowing glance and smile.
We rode back to her place where I enjoyed her undulating body above mine while connected at the hip. The afternoon sunlight poured in and over her naked body.
We said goodbye quickly (I hate long goodbyes and so do the French), promised to keep in touch, and I left glowing down the street.
It was my final night in town and I strapped on the camera and biked back up to Mont Royal. It was a funny night, much more festive than the others, and girls were smiling everywhere.
Two of them were extra goofy and when I asked them what they wished would happen tonight, they said right away and in unison “Get Laid!”
Its true, there are cute ones out there on a Saturday night who are waiting for a guy to come up, say the right things, and take them. You can be that guy–be that guy.
I played with these two a bit, asked them if they enjoyed menage a trois and they giggled and said maybe.
I told them to meet me in 20 minutes at a lounge up the street–they said ok and I walked off.
I never made it to that lounge, and to be honest, the memory of Emily was enough to satiate me for a while.
The work that would have been required to really pull those two girls into a threesome was not worth it to me at this point.
Looking back now, it seems like a missed opportunity, but in the moment I could not have cared less.
I popped into one more bar on Mont Royal and found some more girls to pose, there was a lot of interest shown, but my dick didn’t give a shit and I was out to amuse myself.
I went back down to St. Laurent, wandered the streets, lit a cigar and came across three University types sitting on the sidewalk.
One was very sassy, the queen bee of the group and she really wanted to write something clever. She was taking a while thinking of something and I made fun of her, told her “come on, you aren’t getting a grade for it.”
I asked what it was that was making all their underwear so dirty and we talked about wet pussies while laughing.
They told me to come up to Apartment 200 with them and I said I might meet them there in a bit.
As I finished talking to them, a group of three blonde girls approached just as I turned around.
One looked me up and down and said “I love the way you’re dressed, its so fancy” and she touched my necklace. I told her she didn’t look so bad herself and tapped her chin.
The other two blondes coo’ed at us like pigeons and asked what I was doing. I told them about the photos.
The girls then claimed to be lesbian.
I said “No you’re not” and they laughed and protested.
Since their response to what they wished would happen tonight was Pussy and Cigars, i decided to fuck around.
There couldn’t have been a bigger green light since my cigar was still smoking out of the corner of my mouth. I viewed it as another invite to a three-possibly-foursome.
I told them this and stepped to the blonde who had complimented my clothes (the girl on the right). I got close to her face and said “look me in the eye and say you are a lesbian”.
She looked down.
I tapped her chin up and said, “look at you, you are attracted to me and can’t hide it”. And kissed her.
The two others came over and started a commotion. I told them to prove their sexuality by giving each other real passionate kisses.
They couldn’t do it and just played around.
While I did this and took photos, the queen bee University girl from moments before started yelling and pointing at me.
“Patriarchy, He’s the Patriarchy!!”
I told her to shut the fuck up and then all three University girls started yelling in unison.
“Patriarchy! That’s the Patriarchy! Pig!!!”
I put my arms in the air and said “Yes, I am evil because I love beautiful women and love using my cock!” And I blew smoke over the three girls.
They continued with the Patriarchy screams (this time they included the word “Pervert”) and then I yelled to the world:
“I’m going to kiss and fuck all of you beautiful women, this Patriarchy is for everyone!” And I stepped back over to the blondes.
The blondes started yelling at the University girls and I kept saying
“Feel my cock, hear this pervert roar!”
I tried pulling the blonde girls down the street with me but everyone was too frazzled and I’m pretty sure they thought I was crazy and they wouldn’t come.
I gave the three Uni-girls a big middle finger as I walked past them and went down the street to the smoke shop and bought another cigar.
I spent the rest of the night walking around smoking and then finally went to bed after the last ashes dropped on to the pavement.
I didn’t see Emily on the last day because she was going to be shooting a music video, but her friends from the house party invited me to join them at Tam-Tams: a weekly drum circle/dance party/drug fest that happens in Mount Royal Park every Sunday.
I got there early before the music and rode up to the top of Mount Royal for a gods-eye view of the city.
Now, around 4pm, it was going. There were hundreds of people everywhere and even though it was a bright sunny day, the mountainside was covered in a cloud of pot-smoke.
I wandered around watching everyone for a bit, traded swigs of wine from my jug for puffs of pot from a joint and by the time I made it to the drum circle, my head was feeling real good.
I am no stranger to hippies–I lived in Portland, Oregon for eight months and spent almost two years living out of my car–during that time I was exposed to a lot of communes, outcasts, and weird shit.
It was a bit of a surprise to see some cute girls participating in the festivities.
The girl in blue was doing everything a hippy chick should do. She had that expression of joy on her face, was moving well, and just had that great vibe of freedom.
Girls like that are great in bed and can really give a lot. When she took a break from dancing, I went over to talk to her for a bit and she pretended to show interest–but I think I was dressed too ‘nice’ for her freewheeling ass–and it seemed like she really wanted to fuck one of the black guys in the drum circle.
I wandered some more, shared more wine, and really got sucked in to the vibe of Tam-Tams. It was a cool scene, everyone was looking for something, looking for themselves–most people were very lost–but at least they were searching.
Back in the drum circle a new girl had arrive. She wasn’t too much of a hippy, she was very attractive and obviously looking for attention.
I found it hilarious that guys were ignoring her–she was hot, flipping her hair, looking around, smiling at everyone–and no motherfuckers were reciprocating.
So I did what any courteous player would do–I went right up to her and started dancing. It was hard to move freely with all my gear but for the most part I just moved her around with hand gestures and had her spin around a lot. Girls love spinning.
She was giving me the good eye contact and after 10 minutes of build up, the drums crescendoed and then stopped.
I took her to the side and we talked. She was not hippy-like at all and admitted to feeling awkward. We shared a joint with a drummer and I told her we should go have some wine up on the hill–that would make her feel like she was fitting in.
We went up, sipped from the jug and I told her we should go for a walk on the trails through the woods. She said she needed to get back to her friends and I said ok and laid down on the grass to calm my buzzing head.
I napped for a bit and when I awoke, the sun was down. It was time to go. I took a cab back to Burger Royale, ate, got in my car, and drove to the border.
After buying four bottles from duty free, I was held at the crossing and taken in to secondary inspection. The guys asked why I was in Montreal and I responded, “The women.” The three dudes in uniform started laughing, one said “they are quite beautiful” and I said “I’ll be back in the spring for some more.”
They ran a background check, wished me luck, and I returned to the states again.
My plan was to wake early the next morning and hike Mt. Marcy–the mountain was right in the center of the Adirondack moutains–the oldest and biggest range in the state. The Adirondaks are wild, there are only a few towns scattered in the valleys and the mountains are steep and rugged–I was looking forward to the climb.
The small city of Plattsburgh was just an hour south of Montreal and just over an hour from Marcy–I thought there would be some nightlife since it was a notorious college town–and I trusted the Subway sandwich artists recommendation.
But it was completly dead on a Sunday night. The two dudes I taked to at the bars in town laughed when I told them the Subway guy said there would be girls out.
I ate a big chef salad and laughed with the pizza guys before retiring to bed at the Econo Lodge–just before sleeping , I cursed myself and my cock for not spending one more night in Montreal, I should have called Emily.
Waking up at dawn and getting prepared to hike makes a man feel like he is really doing something.
The coffee was black, the air was crisp, and the drive through the colorful mountains was inspiring.
You can see Mt. Marcy off in the distance before the turn-off in to the thick forest and up to the Adirondak loj.
It was Monday and there weren’t many people around at 8a.m. I got started and walked alone through the old forest.
After the easy four mile walk to the base of the mountain, the terrain changes drastically.
The next two miles up requires you to climb over boulders, scramble up rock faces, and jump down ledges. This is where you really start to sweat.
On one five foot drop down, I landed hard on my left leg and felt my knee take the impact. The pain had to be ignored and provided a boost of adrenaline and energy. This made me climb faster.
The last mile and a half takes you up in to an Alpine climate where the weather can go from sunny and calm to bizzard-like in minutes. Many people had warned me about this and the only precaution I took was putting an extra sweater in my pack.
The Autumn view was beautiful past the tree-line. Since there were no trees to hold trail markers, people had built stone pyramids to mark the way.
Aiming towards them felt like navigating an alien landscape. The textured alpine plants and brightly colored moss that cover the rock give the mountain an otherworldly feel. The last half mile scramble to the top is over steep bare rock. I had to pace myself and allow for time to gasp for oxygen in the the thin air.
The peak comes up quickly at this point and at the very top there is a marker drilled in to the rock–it was installed by the USGS and noted the 5,344 ft. elevation and has an arrow pointing North.
As the 360 degree view sunk in, that old feeling of accomplishment hit. My body ached, sweat poured out, there was a blister on my toe, and I was ravenously hungry.
And my spirit was soaring.
The view let me see the other high peaks of the Adirondaks: Algonquin, Haystack, Whiteface–they were all right there trying to compete, but looking weak compared to Marcy.
I reached the peak at 11:30a.m.–there were a few other hikers at the top and they were talking loud and being rambunctious. I wanted to be alone so I walked down the East face for a little bit until I couldn’t see or hear anyone and got naked.
I sat with my bare ass on the alpine grass and scarfed down a half pound of sliced ham, a tomato, and a hunk of cheddar cheese.
It was the most satisfying meal of the year.
I lingered around a cliff edge for a while and let the sun and wind bathe my naked body. After putting my clothes on, I went back up to the peak–my knee was throbbing and I was not looking foward to the climb down.
There were three middle aged ladies from rural Canada who were hanging out and eating seeds on the peak. They were pretty funny broads, one told me how she built the perfect bonfire:
You gotta get the spinner out of an old washing machine, eh. Then you put it on some bricks, add yer wood, and light that fire right in the old spinner. The little holes in it will let the heat go right through and it looks real pretty with all the light coming through them holes.
I told her to invite me to her next bonfire and she said I was more than welcome. Then the ladies offered me a thermos of hot tea and Southern Comfort. It hit the spot. After smoking a bit of one of their joints, my knee was feeling much better and after thanking the nice old spinsters, I headed down.
The way down was much quicker but when I reached the boulders, my knee flared up again and I had to go at a snails pace.
After the boulder-crawl, the flat ground that should have been covered in two hours took five. My slow pace did allow me to enjoy the incredible fall foliage and the pain running through my veins made the colors even more vibrant.
There was one guy who passed by and asked if I was ok. I told him there wasn’t much else to do except trudge on. He walked with me for a bit and shared his experience as a Forest Ranger.
It was his job to keep track of the dozens of bears that roamed the area. Each bear had a GPS locator on it and every few weeks the Ranger would have to track each bear down until he had a visual on it.
And then he would charge the bear while screaming and blasting an air horn. He did this in order to keep the bears fearful of humans–they get pretty bold pretty fast and without scaring them every so often, they will come around sniffing for snacks.
I laughed hard at this and told him about my fantasy of sneaking behind a lion in the Serengeti and smacking its ass.
He said that Native Americans used to play a game like that with bears. They would step as softly as they could and sneak up behind a bear that was eating, let out a war whoop, at punch the bear as hard as they could.
The sharing of these stories had me crying in laughter. I told the guy not to wait up for me and I would make it through and he shook my hand hard before going on ahead.
When the loj was reached, I changed my sweat soaked shirt, switched shoes, and crashed into the drivers seat. It was a 3.5 hour drive South to meet my friend in Poughkeepsie and return the car.
We met for dinner and beers and he asked what I was doing in Montreal. I told him about the women, my blog, camera game, and writing and he was cracking up in disbelief.
We used to go to college together and he is now teaching at Vassar–the most liberal of all the Ivy League schools. He is surrounded by feminists and loves making fun of them. We laughed and laughed at the simplistic ways of women, their need for attention, their delusions of education and careers and their wanton whoring. I showed him pictures of the sluts of Montreal and the bartender got to see them as well.
After I shared the story and photos of the girls who dubbed me “The Patriarchy” our drinks were free.
At the end of our fourth pitcher of beer, my friend confessed to cheating on his wife. He told me never to get married, keep doing what I was doing, said I would be the godfather to his son when he had one, and wished me luck with my writing.
We parted and I wondered how he could go home to a wife he was bound to. A woman who took his time and energy and didn’t give much in return.
This life we have does not last long. No matter what anyone says or what the media shoves down your throat, you must not believe that you can remain stagnate.
Right now is the oldest you have ever been, you can’t go back and reclaim lost time–wasting hours with girls who don’t give back, jerking off to porn, or looking at a screen.
You also can’t regret that moment when you felt like waving to a pretty girl on a bike but held back.
You can’t climb the mountain you never go out of your way to get to.
So get out there, do it now. Plan big things and make your life as full as possible. Have a story to tell, make it a good one and get the fuck out there and keep creating more until your mind is unleashed.