Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Fifty Shades of Tay

Beach 1 is crowded with hard bodied teens, thick, meaty throngs of human bodies sunbathing and frolicking in the shallow clear water of Georgian Bay. The boys have their hair gelled up to the heavens, and the women have their cell phones caught in their thong strap. Everything is frozen in the vice grip of youth.

On this day, July 2nd, the busy Canada Day long weekend, one can smell in the air hormones being cooked by the relentless midday sun. There are so many young Italians it’s like a tsunami hit the Jersey shore, the detritus washing up here in Wasaga Beach.

A short distance westbound up from the main beach, the sticky hot air still languishes over at Beach 2 like gasoline, but it’s less dense with people, and more family oriented and pet friendly. The saliva inducing aroma of wieners roasting on portable BBQ’s wafts through the air. Golden retrievers romp in the water, chasing toys. Small children sit and allow gentle waves to lap against them.

Two women, both fit and attractive, a blonde and brunette, are lackadaisically lobbing a Frisbee back and forth, the plastic disc hitting it’s apex and then fluttering down into the others’ eager outstretched hands.

Invariably, the blonde throws an errant pass and the Frisbee lands by the feet of a tanned and toned gentleman in his early thirties. He patiently bends down at the knees, the proper way, and picks up the hard red orb.

“Good thing your friend doesn’t have the best arm in the business,” he says, “Or I wouldn’t have had the chance to introduce myself.”

The woman would normally rebuff any advances from strangers, whether at a nightclub or the beach, but there was a magnetism and warmness to the man’s smile that was difficult to resist. She takes the Frisbee and smiles, “Thanks.”

“My name is Mr. Shade,” he says and extends a friendly hand before she can turn around and toss the Frisbee back.

“Anna,” she says. His large hand envelopes hers and he shakes it with just the right firmness. She looks into Mr. Shade’s azure eyes. He had an air about him, that however friendly, he commanded respect, and there was a line not to be crossed. She sensed a vague allure of his power just being in his presence.

“What would you say, Anna, if I told you to meet me here tomorrow at the 19th St exit to Beach 2, thirty yards or so behind me.” he threw a thumb over his shoulder, “At exactly 2pm?” Mr. Shade says, not breaking eye contact. “Do not bring any change of clothes or any other amenities, all will be provided. Simply swim out to the buoy that is in line with 19th St., about one hundred yards into the water. Can you swim, Anna?”

“Yes, I can.”

“Good. You’ll have no problem reaching the buoy. I will pick you up in my boat and take you aboard. The next stop is my home on a private island that I own where we will have dinner. How does that sound, Anna?”

Anna barely picks her jaw up off the sand to mutter in astonishment, “Okay.”

Mr. Shade continues on his walk, nodding in polite acknowledgement to Anna’s friend before blending into the hordes of beachgoers in the horizon. This guy seemed to be one cucumberously cool number.

The brunette jogs up to her friend and says, “Anna, OMG, who was that guy? Can you say hot! He give you his number or what?”

“Umm…not exactly.”


Telling herself that this whole thing is absolutely crazy, Anna arrives at the 19th St. entrance to Beach  with nothing but the two piece number she has on. It’s her favourite bikini; a spaghetti stringed blood red number that shows off her ass, bouncing every time she took a step.

She surveys the stretch of shore laid out before her, another top drawer day at the beach, shrugs, and makes her way into the water towards the buoy. It’s another beautiful day and the water is bath warm. Gaggles of beachgoers jump into the small waves and enjoy the day, oblivious to Anna, who is wading deeper and deeper into the bay.

She is out so far that her tippy toes can’t reach the bottom anymore, and proceeds to swim at a leisurely pace out to the buoy. Momentarily, she brings up her left arm to check her wristwatch, the three other limbs forced into picking up the slack.


Anna took in a gulp of air, plugged her nose, and submerged herself in the warm clear water. She sunk and sunk until her feet hit the spongy floor and she grinded them in, fogging up everything around her. She held her breath for what seemed like an eternity in hell, until she could barely take it, though it was in reality only thirty seconds, and pushed her lithe, honey flecked legs up and she shot up out of the water like a missile.

She wiped the water out of her eyes and squinted into the horizon. There seemed to be a form materializing in the distance--only a vague speck, quite possibly only inside her mind. Anna vigorously rubbed her eyes this time and focused again. Definitely, without a doubt a man standing up at the wheel of an aerodynamically sleek mid-size yacht, his open collared shirt flapping wildly from sheer centrifugal force. Must have been hitting the speed hard, his boat was sharply going up and down over each tiny swell, the largest waves being no more than three feet on a windy day. A face was emerging on the figure but it was hard to read. Dark sunglasses provided an alibi for the eyes.

There he was, getting closer all the time, his stone cold and steel jawed frame standing tall, a cool hand wrapped around the top of the steering wheel. Effortless. He was going so fast even his taught, defined abs appeared to be rippling.

Anna checked her watch: 2:00pm on the nose, and it was now definitely one-hundred percent clear to her that it was Mr. Shade behind the wheel. He slowed the boat down and turned exposing the name, S.S. Dinoman. She could climb up the steps.

Mr. Shade is right there to present her with a towel. “Here you go,” he handed the towel over and gave and caressed her upper right arm. “We’re due back at my estate shortly, my dear.”

“Okay--so, is this your house where you live all year? Or is it a summer house or something?”

“I reside there most of the year, yes. A couple trips sprinkled to various locales here and there. Europe. The Orient.”

Mr. Shade went to the wheel and took control of the metal beast, revving the engine and then taking off, jolting Anna back into a plush leathered seat. It was too loud to talk even if she wanted to try standing up and tightrope walking over to him. They were going so fast she was pinned to her seat, unable to lift an arm, like when she was twelve, riding The Scrambler at Centre Island with Daddy.

Shortly thereafter, perhaps twenty minutes, though feeling like more because Anna’s mind was left to follow the possibilities of the evening to their own fantastical conclusions. Mr. Shade was slowing down and guiding the boat into a dock, with nary another boat in sight. He helped her off the boat onto the old rickety dock. The dock was so thin that Anna had to trail a few steps behind Mr. Shade.

“Which do you prefer, Anna? Chanel or Hermes?”

“Oh, ahh…I’d say Hermes--no, Chanel.”

“Wonderful. I’ll have Gerard make the arrangements for the gown.”


“Yes, he’s my assistant. You will be meeting him shortly. A lovely fellow.”

They made it ashore and walked through a narrow gap in the shrubbery and the resplendence of Mr. Shade’s estate assaulted her eyes for the first time. It was difficult to take in all at once, this palatial monstrosity of a home. There in the middle of a circular driveway was an opulent marble fountain that, upon closer examination, contained coy.

Ohhh…I love coy,” Anna exclaimed, running up for closer inspection.

“Yes, they’re imported from Japan, but not since the tsunami. Not the cost so much as the radiation.”

“I see.”

“This is Gerard,” Mr. Shade said, alluding to the older black gentleman with a head full of short curly pubic like hair. He was impeccably dressed, standing rigid at the arched front door and greeted Anna. “Well hello there, ma’am,” Gerard said congenially with a blinding smile, “Please follow me…”

Gerard took off at a healthy pace down a cobbled path to a nearby door with Anna trailing behind. She looked over her shoulder, besieged with a tinge of anxiety, and through a window she could see Mr. Shade ascending a spiral staircase. Anna shook her head at the impossibility of it all and let a wry smile spread across her face. What have I got myself into now, she thought.

Gerard opened the door and she entered the room. It appeared to be a sparsely decorated single room apartment. There was a t.v., couch, and kitchen. The only thing that seemed out of place was the sequined black Chanel dress hanging on a hook attached to the bathroom door.

“Please get changed and meet me outside at your leisure and I will escort you to the dining facilities.” Gerard bowed and retreated out the front door.

“Okay, then.” She shut the door and had a look around the apartment. How many other women have been in this position before, a Chanel, or Dolce & Gabana dress hanging languorously on the bathroom door? She kept that nasty thought at bay, consumed with the moment, of how a great story it will be to tell her friends.

The black dress fit her impeccably, hugging her hips just so and ending mid-thigh. She looked absolutely ravishing. Anna had her back to the mirror and turned her neck as far as it would go and checked her butt in the mirror.

She exited the room, and upon hearing the door opening, Gerard spun around to escort her to dinner. “You were just waiting out here all this time?” She inquired.

“That’s what I get paid the big bucks for,” Gerard said with a smile. Anna smiled back and they made their way towards the main house.

“So what does Mr. Shade do exactly to have such a nice place?”

“Oh, a little of this and a little of that. I’m sure he’ll explain it better to you over dinner, ma’am. All I can say is, be a little careful ‘round him. Sometimes…he’s not hisself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Forget it. I shouldn’t have even brought it up.”

She let the matter drop, following in silence behind Gerard.


Anna walked into a dining hall with a large table, Mr. Shade seated at one end and fifteen feet across the table, the vast majority of which was empty mahogany, there was a plate and utensils set. She went to her seat and settled in.

It looked delicious. Quail and ribeye with asparagus and a small serving of roasted potatoes.

“Smells great,” Anna offered up. While setting the napkin on her lap she added, “Could you please pass the salt?”

They both smiled at each other from across the expanse, worlds apart.

“So…what do you do exactly to afford such a luxurious place?” Anna asked. Mr. Shade wasn’t exactly a chatty Kathy.

He methodically placed his knife and fork down on his plate. “You’ve seen Jurassic Park, right?”

“Sure--I loved that movie! Do you dig up dinosaur bones or something?”

“Not exactly--I’m a paleo-geneticist, actually.”

“Oh. That sounds fun…”

“I am involved with extracting DNA from fossils that have been preserved in amber and ice. You’d be surprised at how close I am--rather, my team is--to being able to regenerate dinosaurs from extracted DNA.”

“Wow, I always thought that was just sci-fi.”

Mr. Shade swallowed a bite of quail. “Yes, it would appear that tomorrow is here today.”

Dinner was finishing up, Anna leaving most of the potatoes because she’s on a low carb diet. Anna loves potatoes almost as much as life itself. When she was younger, when Daddy was still around, he would buy her a large poutine from Sonny’s. It was as big as her head but she was always determined to finish it, even if she never did.

“Anna, dear, can you please stand over by the Manet and tell me what you see?” He said, referring to the large painting of a nude woman reclining on a bed, her wonderous breasts jutting out. A black servant is presenting a fresh bouquet of flowers, perhaps a gift from a potential suitor.

“I really like the black cat! I love kitty cats. I have one called--”

And at that very moment the floor disappeared from under her, one giant tile gone, just like that, and Anna fell, fell, fell.


Anna was sliding down a tunnel that reminded her of Wild Water Kingdom, twisting in an industrial tube this way and that, a serpentine journey through the bowels of the Mr. Shade’s humongous house, going deeper and deeper until she came out the bottom, free falling for ten feet, and landed on two mattresses stacked on top of each other.

She was unharmed but the Chanel dress was ruined.

A soft, “What. The. Fuck,” escaped her lips. Her heart was thumping in her throat and she could barely swallow. The enchanted evening had taken a decidedly unexpected turn. She knew something didn’t seem quite right about Mr. Shade but not what was laid out before her: some kind of sex dungeon.

She scanned the room and it just about knocked the architecture out of her knees. Hung from the walls were dildos, mouth gags, different whips for flogging--some frilly and some sturdy, metal studded handcuffs, leather padded tables with all manner of belts and laces for restraint. One of the tables was right in the middle of the room, if that‘s what you could call it--it looked more like a deranged dentists chair made with black leather.

Anna was a proper Ontario girl. She had boyfriends and even once tried to put it up her ass but it hurt too much and she told Lloyd to stop, and he did, thankfully. Nothing beat a good old missionary orgasm, but somewhere inside her there lurked a dirty girl waiting to get out.

As Anna was running her red fingertips along the end of a whip, she felt a presence behind her and turned around to see Mr. Shade standing robustly in nothing but a pair of skin tight boxer-briefs. Her eyes immediately locked onto the sizeable bulge emanating from his underwear. Anna blushed when she looked up into Mr. Shade’s steely blue eyes but he remained stoic and under control of his emotions.

“Glad you dropped by,” Mr. Shade said.

“Oh my god! What the fucking hell is wrong with you!” Anna screamed at him. “You’re…you’re not gonna rape me or anything are you?”

Mr. Shade chuckled, “No, Anna, I wouldn’t do that to you. I simply want to…play. Don‘t you like to play, Anna?” He asked rhetorically.

Mr. shade went over to one of his S&M props hanging on the wall, went for a whip fit for a light flogging, but decided first on a mouth gag, a simple one with an orange rubber ball, the kind used in floor hockey. He brought it over to her

“Hold still while I strap this on.”

She wouldn’t open wide for the gag at first, her nerves tightening every muscle in her body into complicated knots, so Mr. Shade jabbed a finger into her side just hard enough to get Anna to gasp and he popped the gag in, fastening the leather buckle in back of her head. Anna squirmed and made guttural sounds in place of words, but Mr. Shade had a firm grip on her. She wasn’t going anywhere.

Shh-shhh…” He cooed into her ear. “Nobody‘s going to hurt you, dear. Haven‘t you wanted to journey through hidden corridors?”

Mr. Shade ripped open the top of the Chanel dress to expose Anna’s youthful mammaries. He began sensuously rotating his fingertips over Anna’s nipples and alternately giving each breast a nimble pinch until they hardened. She was still struggling, but slowly her groans of anger became indecipherable from moans of pleasure. She couldn’t help grinding her ass into his groin. She’d never had a ball gag in her mouth before and she kept biting down on to it hard, but there wasn’t much give in the hard orange plastic ball. There was pain in her gums and it almost felt good to bite down hard into the ball and shoot lightening bolts of discomfort from the root of her teeth up to her brain; anything was better than the dull throb.

With a hand still tweaking one of her nipples, he disengaged his left hand and headed south for her vagina. Anna was so scared and turned on at the same time, she was half-thrilled and half embarrassed-to-death when his hand went into her panties and found that she was sopping wet. He circled her clit for a moment, gyrating his hips into her backside, and slid in two fingers with slim steamy resistance. She practically collapsed into him and he cradled her with his body, supporting her deadweight, and like a furious piston he plunged his index and middle fingers into her repeatedly.

They had a rhythm going, Mr. Shade dry humping Anna from behind and finger-banging her roughly, not letting Anna squirm free.

After a couple minutes of their bodies writhing together, Mr. Shade, in full control, breaks the embrace and tells Anna to get on the table in the middle, the main one.

She is panting uncontrollably.

“What are you, what are you gonna do to me, Mr. Shade?” She asked, visceral fear quivering in her voice.

“First, I’m going to strap you in. Lay down on your back.”

Anna couldn’t see any means of escape, the room was claustrophobic because she couldn’t see a door, knew there was no way to physically fight with Mr. Shade.

She didn’t even know some abdominal muscles existed until she looked at his Adonis-esque stomach. There was no other options but to do what he said.

He strapped her arms and legs into his special chair which was like some ungodly piece of foreign gym equipment, her legs spread eagle, arms above her head.

He took a pair of scissors and cut through the tattered Chanel dress, angling one of the blades so he could cut without snipping. Anna lay naked totally exposed. Naked as lunch. She futilely writhed her body, trying to free herself from the apparatus but it was no use, the leather manacles were too strong.

Mr. Shade walked over to the wall and pulled off a large purple dildo. Amazing how the eyes of those who are gagged can express so much with the eyes. It was a regular missile shaped sexual device except the base was large and square. Mr. Shade opened a drawer and pulled out a set of controls, setting the dildo down on top of a table. He pulled up the antenna on the controls and pushed the thin knob up with his thumb. The dildo roared to life, pulsating like a jack hammer. He pushed it up all the way and the dildo became a hummingbird, the motion so fast that it was all a goddamn blur. Satisfied that the sex machine was in working order, he carried the thick, eight-plus-inch rod over to Anna who was laying still, coming to the painful realization that when shackled and under someone else’s control, it’s best to conserve your resources.

Her eyes were drawn to the thermos thick bulge in his pants and then to the equally large purple dildo. She surmised what was about to happen, or at least the gist of it.

Mr. Shade squirted a dollop of KY onto the tip and spread it around the top half, leaned over Anna almost like the purple cock was his own and flicked at her clit with the bulbous purple tip.

“Anna, regrettably you’ve fallen into the velociraptor enclosure and it’s inhabitants are very, very, starved for attention,” Mr. Shade whispered close to her ear, a single strand of hair fluttering in the wind of his wistful whisperings.

He plunged the dildo into her boiling meat cauldron, a slight moan passing through her lips under protest from her better judgement. He gradually amped up the dildo, holding the controls with one hand and nudging the knob upwards, the device slamming into her faster and faster, his taught forearms flexing, holding the base of the dildo in place by her vagina. The dildo motor was buzzing at its highest speed, stretched to its motorized limits, like a blender trying to chop up walnuts, and Anna was screaming, her face lined with both hate and inexorable pleasure. She bit down harder on the gag, her gums radiating waves throbbing with heartbeats of pain.

Mr. Shade produces two nipple clamps and attaches them to Anna’s pencil eraser hard nipples and lets go, the springs relentlessly pressuring themselves back to their point of origin, and Anna shrieks, an unleashed, feral feminine wail; it was the kind of impulsive scream a woman does when no ones around.

“Velociraptors love nipple clamps. Yeah…you like that prehistoric penis don‘t you?”

Anna was absolutely delirious; she was screaming, “I’m cumming!” but it came out more like, “Ahh Ahh Eng!” Her face contorting into shapes of sheer madness, frothy rivulets of saliva cascading down the gag. Mr. Shade lowered the intensity a notch and grabbed her neck hard, but not too hard, right while she was cumming her guts out, having a life shattering orgasm, the kind a woman remembers her whole life.

Mr. Shade unbuckled the gag in her mouth to let her jaw rest. Anna was clearly not used to this type of lovemaking and it must have been hard for her to relax her jaw and not bite down too hard. The poor thing.

“Now you’re going to get the real thing…my slice of Veloci-meat.” He doffed his boxer briefs, revealing an impressive semi-erect clean cut penis and climbed on top of Anna, guiding it in slowly.

“My god, Mr. Shade, it barely fits…”

“Don’t worry, my dear--somehow life always finds a way,” he says to her, brushing a few sweaty strands of her beautiful brown hair that were plastered to her forehead.

Anna was squirming with renewed vigour now that Mr. Shade was really fucking her. Her manacled limbs possessed by demons, as Mr. Shade’s cock shot into her, each thrust like a dagger into her guts; he was pounding against her pelvis so hard their moistened bodies created a suction cup sound adding to the cacophony of grunts and moans.

“Jesus!” Anna screamed, “If you’re gonna fuck me this hard…” Mr. Shade was pumping as fast as his well defined body would allow, grinding his hips so every inch of his massive rig got right up into Anna…“The least you could do is tell me your first name.”

He bit down onto her neck, almost hard enough to draw blood and gnawed for a moment, then answered, “It’s Chrisanto.”

“Chri” -- thrust! -- “Santo” -- thrust! -- “Shade” -- thrust! -- “The 3rd” -- THRUST!


Chrisanto Shade stopped plunging his turgid cock into Anna and pulled off the nipple clamps, exposing her raw, red, puffy areolas. He placed a tender kiss upon each one and gently played with her clit. “You want out of these shackles, sweety? Okay--we’ll release you from your prison,” he cooed.

“Chrisanto is an unusual name for an all-Canadian, blonde hair blue-eyed man such as yourself.”

“How observant of you, Anna. Wise beyond your years.” After a brief pause of looking into the distance, which happened to be a shiny full body latex rubber suit that zipped 360 degrees like a body bag, he added, “My parents are not originally from this land. They’re from Valencia, Spain. I was put up for adoption by my biological parents. Apparently, I was born in Sarnia, but the records were destroyed in a fire. A real bad one. It was a smoker. Some patient out front in his gown huffing in tobacco. He started it--that’s what the newspaper said.”

“Oh, you poor thing, Chrisanto, but can you please get me out of these things? It‘s killing me,” Anna pleaded. “I…I wanna go home.”

“We’re not done yet, I’m afraid,” Chrisanto said, making his way over to the wall and pulling down a whip. “You’re going to get a lashing now, dear.”

As she whimpered, he positioned her on all fours; doggy style. The table is tilted down, jutting her ass out, proffering it, like two gigantic kidney beans. “If you move,” he grabbed a handful of ass, “It’ll be twice as bad,” he warned.

Anna was shaking, maintaining a white knuckle grip on the sides of the table.

“Though I have only Canadian blood, it has over the years become poisoned with Spanish blood. Little by little. But now it courses through me and I’m rather a tad bit like Zorro. Now I must whip you and then take you from behind.”


Chrisanto snaps the whip against Anna’s supple bottom and she lets out a scream. “Not soo hard, Mr. Shade,” she pleaded futilely with him. Individual strips of vessels that had burst were slowly becoming visible on her ass, forming delicious strips of flesh bacon. Chrisanto went nuts with the whip snapping over and over in quick succession, wearing out his arm, until there were rivulets breaking through the wall of skin and leaking down her cheeks, pooling on the cold hard dungeon floor. “Oh my god! Why are you torturing me?” Tears were streaming down her face which was now red and puffy from crying.

“Can I please go now? I’ve had enough. I won’t tell anyone about your secret island or how you fucked me as a velociraptor. I promise…” She was whimpering in a pathetic tone.

As soon as Anna muttered the word, ’velociraptor’ there was a twitch in Mr. Shade’s left eye, and he went rigid, almost like something was taking hold him, invading his body. His lower jaw was trying to gyrate itself from the clutches of his face; a frothy drool was trickling down his chin and he was dripping sweat.

“I…I…I can’t fight it,” he barely managed to get out.

Mr. Shade seemed to have metamorphosed into some manosaur, a velociraptor violently attacked Anna and started biting at her neck, going for the jugular. Instinctively, Anna slapped at each side of his head, futilely trying to fend him off. Chrisanto, or Mr. Shade, or whatever he was now, arched his back and let out a high pitched screeching warble, and dug in hard onto her chest, right where her necklace was. He went at her like a pig at a trough, trying to eat her alive. A gaping wound was forming in her chest, the all consuming panic of life and death setting in for Anna.


Another body landed on the mattress in the corner of the room.

It was Gerard!

Mr. Shade didn’t notice, he was too busy tearing up her chest to get at her innards. Anna was feeling light headed, losing the battle against the velociraptor, and she almost laughed, daydreaming that she was only a small herd type of dinosaur roaming in a prehistoric field picked off by a predator; this is the cycle of life.

Gerard ran full bore at Mr. Shade and body checked him off Anna, Mr. Shade flying into the wall, crushed into the boards like a hit from Scott Stevens. Momentarily dazed, Chrisanto was in the process of shaking it off, slowly getting to his feet.

“Anna! Pull that huge black dildo hanging on the wall over there, like a lever,” Gerard was imploring in his baritone, “It will open the door. You gotta make it to the boat. I hid an extra pair of keys under the in the compartment between the two front seats. There’s no other way off the island! Go Now! Hurry!”

Anna rose to her feet, clutching her chest, her body naked, greasy with sweat and smeared with blood. She hobbled uneasily towards the black dildo jutting upwards at an erect angle from the wall.

Meanwhile, Mr. Shade jumped from the S&M torture chair and landed directly on Gerard. Both men collapsed in a heap on the floor but Gerard was limp, his head having hit the corner of the torture chair on the way down. He lay there like an injured hadrosaurid. Salivating, Mr. Shade laid into his neck and started tearing the flesh apart, Gerard turning a chalky ashen colour as his life essence dissipated from his body. Mr. Shade was sloppily eating from his neck gash as Anna stood on her tippy toes and grabbed the large black dildo with both hands, not able to get her hands around the girthy circumference of this monumental dildo, yanking it down with all her might, like the Price Is Right wheel. There was an electronic beep and an adjacent door that appeared to be part of the wall opened up into a darkened hallway.

She tore into the hallway until her eyes adjusted. There were doors on either side. She had to go up to escape his mansion. Luckily, up ahead there was a stairwell and she hopped up the steps taking two at a time. The door opened into an opulent foyer--the front of the house. It was lit upstairs and Anna noticed large human size abstract paintings and stuffed animals scattered throughout the room--a Grizzly bear in mid-roar, a prowling cheetah, and a schnauzer, perhaps a beloved pet. She smacked the small sturdy dog off it’s podium, the furry creature falling to the floor on his side but remaining in its standing position.

She was feeling faint, losing too much blood. It was running down her arm that she kept clutched to her sucking chest wound. With her free hand she opened the arched front door, a foot thick of pure mahogany, and ran out into the humid summer night, not bothering to shut the door. There was a thick layer of fog caressing the air and she could barely see. She jogged in a random direction, enveloped by clouds. They entered through a clearing in the trees that lined the property, so she had to find it somehow. All she could think about was the glory of seeing the boat tethered to the dock, like winning the best prize in the Showcase Showdown. She’s got a ticket to ride.

Somewhere behind her she heard the screeching wail of the velociraptor. A drawn out screech of longing, of a hungry predator lusting for flesh. A new wave of panic set in now that her pursuer was done with Gerard and she was now the only other living prey on this godforsaken island. Her breathing was becoming louder, quicker, shallower, blood still gurgling out of her chest wound. She was hopelessly groping through the trees dying to stumble onto the dock. Spider webs were collapsing across her beautiful face, and normally this would drive her crazy, but she wilfully ignored them considering the circumstances.

Miraculously, she emerges into a clearing, the full moonlight playing against her chestnut hair. The entrance to the dock was right in front of her. She almost couldn’t believe her luck, again, considering the circumstances. Anna scampered down the rickety dock, the boards croaking and swaying under her weight. In the stillness she could hear the trickle of her blood hitting the boards. The boat was now in view, beckoning for her to escape to freedom. She slowed down and awkwardly tumbled into this steel horse. In the darkness she used her hands as eyes, palms splayed, feeling around for the compartment where Gerard hid the extra set of keys.

She opened the compartment between the two front seats and after a few stabs at the ignition, the key went in and she gave the yacht a little gas. The engine roared to life.

A tentative wave of relief flooded her as she carved the boat away from the island and out into the darkness, cascaded in fog. She didn’t know what direction she was heading, just away, far far away.

From the shoreline she heard a roar that hit levels no human was capable of making.


Her breathing was almost too shallow to support life, her extremities tingling and numb. Was she just going to keep going in one direction until she runs into shore…or a rock? She eased up on the gas, tried to stay focused, though there wasn’t much to be focused on.

Anna mustered a feeble, “help!”, barely audible if there had been anyone else on the boat let alone someone on land. It was becoming clear she was dying alone from a sucking chest wound in Georgian Bay. What’ll her family think when she’s discovered naked in this blood soaked opulent yacht, just drifting to nowhere on the S.S. Dinoman. There will be a full investigation, the federal police called in. Lord knows the local Wasaga Beach police aren’t equipped to handle much more than brawls on the beach and speeding through community safe zones. Her mind was too clouded to put together that the police would link the boat to a one Chrisanto Shade, the enigmatic white-latino Paleo-geneticist who has a sprawling mansion on his own private island.

The engine began sputtering, running out of gas; she couldn’t see the gauge anyways. Fumes in the gas tank and fog on the water. Everything is so blurry.

Anna fell back into the captain’s chair and let out a sigh--with the exhalation a waterfall of blood poured out of her chest. This is how it ends.

There was nothing left to do. No further measures could be taken.

Anna took the blood stained fingers of her right hand and slid them down her exposed torso, leaving a viscous snail trail. She started caressing the circumference of her clit. She couldn’t remember anything from before this night, nothing at all to fantasize about. She could barely remember who she was.

All she could do was stick two fingers in, knuckle deep, and think about how mysterious Mr. Shade was, even though he had a predilection for acting like a dinosaur. For a while there, before he tried eating her, he fucked her so good, it was like heaven-- nothing could top it.

She was wetter than Georgian Bay; her slimy fingers sliding in and out of her pussy like a pneumatic drill. She moaned softly, the yacht lolling up and down on the calm waters. She grabbed the back of the plush leather head rest and dug her nails in.

Her voice travelled across the silent bay, echoing against the jagged rocks…the last words she would ever mutter on this earth, blood oozing out of her chest and womanly juices leaking out of her vagina, “Uhh…I’m cumming!”

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

Will Nature Make A Man Of Me Yet?

When I was in grade 6 I sat in a group with five or six other students but two of them became my bestest friends for the year. One of the guys was Darius Ali, a clean cut nice looking kid with an infectious laugh from somewhere in the West Indies who came to Canada as an infant; he’s got the brown skin but not the funky accent, so when he says, “It’s total gridlock!” it sounds just like any other white kid from Ontario. Which is sad. My other friend, Quac Tuan Do, was a recent Veitnamese immigrant who barely spoke a lick of English. To add to his discomfort he had bad skin and teeth that even Shane McGowan would recoil in horror at; A veritable dental graveyard. It was bad enough he was dealt a bum hand from the neck up, but to also be in a country that is wholly foreign and only have the most basic grasp of the language was just cruel.

Somehow, we got along fine with Tuan and whiled away the hours busting balls, joking, and maybe learning a thing or two. We laughed so hard that we wished we could stop because it hurt our faces.

We were all just beginning puberty and I had almost no hair on my body (except my head) to speak of. My arms and legs and most importantly, armpits, were lily white and hair free. There are no words to convey the jealousy I had of Darius for the swaths of thick dark hair underneath his arms and also, albeit to a lesser extent, the hair on the back of his hands and the small tufts of hair that grew on the joints of his fingers. I couldn’t believe it! Boys get hair there? Oh, will nature make a man of me yet? I looked at my baby bottom smooth hands and wondered every night when hair would start sprouting. I’d close one eye, squint, and tilt my hand horizontally, but natta--not even one lousy mosquito leg. Shit, I’m still looking.

Tuan, though he didn’t possess much of the language, was a natural comic--he conveyed sarcasm with a subtle twinkle of his eyes, something he learned deep in the jungles of Vietnam, I supposed. His specialty was drawings. He would draw self-portraits and give himself the biggest, vein-bursting, bulbous penis that you could possibly imagine fitting on a single notebook page. It was his way of connecting with his new classmates. While Mrs. Zarana was conducting a lesson he’d surreptitiously slide his binder over to Darius and Tuan would giggle at Darius’ reaction while I waited for Darius to slide it over to me. Every drawing was a variation on the penis-with-a-man-hanging-from-it theme. Look, there’s Tuan using his dong as a firehose to put out a blaze at the CN Tower; look, there’s Tuan at the beach with a gaggle of bikini clad beauties applying sun tan lotion to his cock. Ah, the universal language of laughter.

Every now and then, Mrs. Zarana would separate us, when our rowdy antics became too disruptive to the natural course of learning basic grammar (maybe that’s why I only recently conquered they’re, their, & there). But the next day we’d be seated right back at the same crude circle of desks pushed together. Mrs. Zarana could sense that Tuan got along with me and Darius and she didn’t want to plop him down at some other group and worry about his assimilation being disrupted. Ironically, Tuan became the one to assimilate Darius and myself--dun, dun, dun--

Into porn.

As the school year progressed the three of us took the next step in our relationship and started hanging together outside of school. Tuan told us to come by his house one weekend because he had something to show us. It was a quaint townhouse in a newly developed section of Brampton, but the Do’s, or the Tuan Do’s, or the Quac’s, had successfully carved out a slice of the Canadian Dream for themselves. Darius and myself immediately headed downstairs to Tuan’s small unfinished bedroom that only had three walls, which means no door, and took a seat on his bed while Tuan rifled through his sock drawer. He produced a VHS tape and popped it in his VCR.

Darius and myself sat in silent anticipation while Tuan fast-forwarded through the opening credits. Unrecognizable names flashed by in the blink of an eye. As soon as two actors, a man and a woman--a vivacious, busty woman--appeared on the screen, Tuan let go of the fast forward button and took a seat on the bed with us. The quality of the camera along with the hairdos and clothing told us me this was a dated film; probably the early 80’s. The three musketeers sat on the edge of the bed, legs dangling, and watched the bedroom scene unfold. I can’t speak for Darius but I for one had never seen a porno before. My interest in girls was only starting to blossom--I had a crush on a couple girls in school, but the crushes were still in prepubescent bloom, bursting with the colours of wholesome innocence. I didn’t even know what I liked about these girls; there was an overall pleasant sensation that swept over me when thinking about them compared to all the other girls.

The actors began sucking some serious face. Real dirty, too: inappropriate groping and way too much tongue. Not at all like Kelly Kapowski kissing Zach Morris. Shortly thereafter the embrace was broken but instead of cutting to commercial, or the next scene, the camera focused on the woman, who on a whim decided to disrobe. This is odd, I thought. She doffed her impossibly tight tank top and the cameraman zoomed in on her embarrassingly large fake breasts, mathematically round, with pencil eraser nipples. All six of our eyeballs collectively bulged out of their sockets and we laughed at the shock and impropriety of it all. It was all so brand new.

There was a quick cut and now the woman was sloppily fellating the guy and we all burst out laughing. This guy had such a massive purple headed donger, we just couldn’t believe it! Wow! So that’s what girls do with our penises? Take it down their throat to the root and gag all over it. What a life! (Though I was steadfastly focused on the woman sucking on the dick I couldn’t help but notice the man had a thick thatch of hair under his arms and I said a silent prayer to the armpit hair Gods)

She worked at his junk more and more frantically until he leaned back and with a final emphatic moan covered her face with a dollop of his gobbledegook while she sat at his feet, relieved the whole sordid affair is over.

The video quality squiggles and fuzzes--another scene coming into focus. The setting is an Oktoberfest event somewhere in Switzerland or Germany. There is a whale of a woman laying on a table with her dressed pulled up while four men in lederhosen, merrily swing one of their smaller, naked, brethren back and forth, one man per limb, heave-ho-ing him into this beast of a woman. Did not see that coming when I woke up that morning. Memories!

Predictably, we broke out laughing at this unlikely scene, too. What a way to be introduced to sex. In my young mind, I thought that if I eventually married an obese woman, I’d need four good friends to help me have sex. It would be an expensive honeymoon.


It was late summer, early September, right before school starts again. We were young, dumb, and full of marijuana. And cum.

Jessie and myself were smoking his dad’s pot that he grew bushels of on his farm. Jessie skimmed a little off the top. But when you skim from 30 pound bags, well, it fills a large Ziploc bag. For stoner kids with limited financial means it was a blessing of the highest order that we had a renewable resource of the stuff.

Freshly baked and looking for something to do, we absent-mindedly thumbed through the classifieds section in the Star. I came across an ad that was soliciting male ‘performers’ for an upcoming adult film. First timers were welcome; no experience necessary. Call Mirna. Hmmm…this seemed interesting.

“Why don’t you give ‘em a call?” Jessie asked mischievously. It seemed good for a laugh, so I picked up the phone and told the lady on the other end that I was an eighteen year old man looking to get into the ‘business’. No, I didn’t have any previous experience I told her. The call was short and curt, and an interview was set for the following day. I scribbled down the address and hung up the phone.

I looked over at Jessie, “You’re looking at the next Dirk Diggler,” I said with a smirk. “I have to be at some house in Scarborough tomorrow at 10am. Think you can drive me?”


Being warm blooded, heterosexual suburban teenage males, how could we not be fascinated by the strange and distant land that is pornography; porn stars didn’t even seem real to us. They were some type of subspecies with a sheen of sleaze, living the high life in the California sun. FTP. Fuck. Tan. Party. Shit, it’s better than grade 10 general math.

The next day Jessie picked me up and we left the ‘burbs of Brampton en route to the GTA’s mildly retarded gay cousin with a chinstrap: Scarborough (I hope the Galloway Boys don’t read this). Jessie sparked up a joint and offered it to me but I declined, wanting to be clear headed for my big interview.

“I changed outfits three or four times in my room before you showed up. I don’t really know what kind of clothing is appropriate for a porn interview.”

“You look fine, dude, relax…even if it does look like you‘re auditioning for a Christian Mingle commercial,” Jessie said, but I was still unconvinced. I had on jeans and a long sleeve grey sweater. “I think it gives me a ‘boy next door’ quality,” I said, trying to convince myself, my nerves torn and frayed. I knew I was in over my head on this one. What was I doing? I just wanted to get stoned with Jessie and watch The Simpsons or Mr. Show. Why am I going to some sketchy house in Scarborough for a porn interview? What the hell am I going to do if I actually get the job? Morph into Tay D. Trousermeat?

Dreams of living in the hills of Hollywood were dancing through my head--doodooloo-doodooloo-doodooloo-doodooloo). And there I am, high-fiving Ron Jeremy as we skewer a former playmate of the year, looking out at the mirage of twinkling lights below, the City of Angels.

We’re almost there; I flip down the visor mirror and contort my face in faux orgasm, practicing my cumsies face. Not bad. Not bad at all, kid.

“I guess I’ll need a catchphrase when I shoot my load…”

Jessie offers, “Oh yeah! Swallow my unborn kids!”

I contemplate some alternatives until we arrive at a nondescript townhouse. In a dramatic tone, I warn Jessie that, “If I’m not out in half an hour call the cops.”

I skip up the steps and pause at the door, lick my index finger, then thumb, and smooth out my eyebrows. I take a deep breathe…exhale, and open the door, now entering the point of no return. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the dim interior; no immediate signs of porn sleaziness and debauchery. I didn’t see any other aspiring ‘performers’ in the living room, I seemed to be alone, which made me feel half an inch taller. The last thing I wanted was to walk into my first porn interview, the rookie, and find ten knee-bucklingly handsome guys with bulges in their boxer-briefs, thick as thermoses, sizing me up and taking me apart with their eyes.

I walk up to the receptionist, who was right out of the top drawer, and say, “Hi, my name’s Taylor, I’m here to see Mirna at 11.” She looks me over with no emotion, her eyes like a dead china doll, then looks at her computer screen to confirm the appointment, and with her gaze still planted on the screen, tells me to have a seat.

I saunter over to a leather couch and plunk myself down into a well worn ass groove. The t.v. is on without sound and the whole living room of the house is uncomfortably silent. What is on the t.v. you ask? It was not CP24 but hardcore porn, of course.

I sat in silence and kept one eye on the generic boy/girl scene and one on the cute secretary. Got two eyeballs full. What is a boy to do? I was much too nervous to even think about achieving wood, not that I was trying to. Pornography’s powers are rendered impotent when experienced with others. It’s a decidedly solo sport--like tennis. Just You vs. Penis. The semi-awkward silence is broken by the sound of the front door opening. Great… I’m thinking, some competition. But the way this man walked in, so casually, and said hi to the receptionist, calling her by name, I knew he was not vying for my job. Seemed like he was important, maybe calling the shots around here. He was a dead ringer for Luis Guzman, the short, pudgy Latino actor from Traffic and Boogie Nights. He oozed both sleaze and chest hair. Around his neck was a large gold chain with Jesus on the cross, and believe me, the saviour needed a machete if he was to make it out of this jungle. He glanced in my direction and I managed a feeble nod of the head, praying to god that I’m not inserted into some interracial threesome scene with him, but Porno Guzman didn’t acknowledge me. Okay then. I turned back to the t.v. and pretended to be enraptured by the proceedings. I was glad the sound was off, because the fake plastic woman was screaming her lungs out at what I’m sure was ear-piercing decibel levels. I quickly checked my right armpit to see if I was sweating. No pit puddles. Okay. Good.

“Taylor?” A shapely, exotic woman appeared in a doorway wearing glasses and sassy business attire, the skirt just that much shorter and her top with just one too many buttons undone.


I sat down opposite her in the office, and by all appearances it was like any other job interview, except in this case there was no way to forget my resume. Mirna got right down to it. She asked me if I would have trouble maintaining an erection while on camera with a crew watching mere feet away.

“No,” I lied, or at least it felt like a lie; I’d never had sex on camera before, so technically it wasn’t a lie, only a sound guesstimation.

Mirna goes on to tell me that because of my age, thin build, and meek attitude, I would be perfect for an upcoming boy-next-door type movie. She grabbed hold of her screen, and with some effort turned the fifteen pound box monitor to face me. “You’ll be working with Gia,” she said.

I gazed at this airbrushed silicone beauty, fake as the day is long. Whoa, whoa whoa. I’m supposed to stick my D in her P? I start getting excited, like I’ve made it into the business, and I blurt out that I’ve acted before, only in high school movies, but still I got an A. I can memorize lines, I’m totally your man.

“Because you have no experience, we’ll have to set up a photo shoot just to see what kind of chemistry the two of you have.”

“Yeah, yeah, definitely, a photo shoot is definitely in order.”

“How does next Tuesday sound?”

“Oh, next Tuesday’s fine. Terrific.”

“Great. It will cost $500 so we can have a professional portfolio of you for future projects. Is that a problem?”

It was like thinking you won Lotto 649, and even after checking the numbers over and over, the floor plan of your beach house complete, only to find that it was a prank pulled by your friends. My heart sank into gut.

“Oh, okay,” a pause, mulling it over, “I have to pay for the photo session?”

“Yes, because you’re new to the business and you don’t have a portfolio yet. Once you do that, you’re set, and you can get work with us and launch a career.”

“Right. Okay. Tuesday at 11am.”

I just wanted to get the F out.

I left the office and the house, smiling at the receptionist on my way out, feeling more like the chump next door, and into the golden summer sun. Bet she thinks I don’t know the difference between chicken shit and chicken salad! I was so confused. Was this a scam or a legitimate business? If she thought I was perfect for an upcoming part, why would I have to pay? Aren’t they supposed to pay me? Tom Cruise doesn’t pay to be in Mission Impossible does he?

I opened the passenger door to Jessie’s car with mixed emotions and stained pits. Sitting idle in the car for the last half an hour he was clearly eager for me to spill my guts.


“Well, I don’t know for sure. They want me to be in some movie but I have to pay $500 for a photo shoot because I don’t have any kind of portfolio.”

“What!? Dude, that sounds like total bullshit. You‘re not supposed to pay. They pay you-- for like, sex and stuff.”

“Yeah, it does sound suspicious. I have an appointment for Tuesday but there’s no way I’m going to pay them $500 for this,” I say, pointing at my naughty bits. “They got their priorities all jumbled. I’ll cancel tomorrow.” Resigned, I stare out the window while Jessie puts the car in reverse, putting his arm around the back of my chair, checking the traffic in back of him.

All roads lead to Brampton.

I look one last time at the door of the house where all my porno glory lies, a blinding Stargate to another universe.

It’s back to the ‘burbs, school starts on Monday.

Sunday, September 16, 2012

The Warden is out to Lunch and the Rats have taken over the Joint

I’m one of those hopeless guys without any politics. That doesn’t mean I don’t ravenously consume political tinged articles from all manner of newspapers and online sites. The last one I read was about how it would be a big money shot if someone can snap a current photo of the vice presidential candidate, Paul Ryan’s abs, and to a larger degree, why haven’t we seen his abs yet? The article also raised the possibility that Paul Ryan has ‘manorexia.’ I’m not sold on that yet, but he is whip thin. At 6’2”, a buck sixty three, you know he’s a dedicated exerciser. Just get lost in his his taught arms and pecs, clear skin, and chiselled face; throw in his Herman Munster hairline, baby blue eyes, Ayn Rand Individualism, and let’s be honest...he’s in Pat Bateman territory.

But who am I to judge? I am one of those awful men without any god or politics. It’s like Lady Gaga says, I was born this way. Born a man who cannot identify himself as a Liberal or Conservative, Catholic or Scientologist. So it is here I raise my glass to the nobody‘s! An empty dank dark corner of the internetosphere. Dare I say we are the most sane in this partisan world, the most sensible when discussing politics, religion, civics, etc. We are not as biased in our discourses, we come from a purer place.

I’ve always had problems officially identifying with groups. There are some issues, be them social, health, military, big government, small government, where I may lean Liberal and some where I may lean Conservative. But am I one of these things? No. Sometimes I wish I could be one or the other and better identify with my fellow people. I could go to Conventions and talk to empty chairs. But I can’t. That chip is missing from the program.

Nothing drives this point home for me more than watching coverage of the U.S. election. Most candidates possess a snarling fervour and unending willingness to throw the other party under the bus. There is an acute sadness to it all: Jack would happily destroy America if he could beat out Bob for the promotion, if only Jack could win. In American politics people don’t work with each other for a greater good, they attack each other to win at all costs. Maybe America never was one country. More than ever, it’s the old embarrass and shame game. Make the other guy LOOK bad. It doesn’t matter what YOU’RE for, just KILL the other guy (but when the Olympics are on, pause for a couple weeks and hold hands [even if the hand you’re holding is sweaty, and even worse, a sweaty invisible Obama hand, just suck it up and scream together, “U-S-A-! U-S-A-! U-S-A-!”)


…Doesn’t that feel better? Now they can go back to living with the enemy. I read about this poll in an article, that forty six percent of Canadian Conservatives would rather be Bin Laden’s neighbour in Abbottabad than a Liberal’s in Abbottsford. Fuck it, I’m just going to say it, or type it, or whatever…it should be Obama Vs. Romney. The death cage match. Whoever survives the two man fight to the death earns the presidency. Done deal, pal. It’s only fair. They can definitely hit below the belt; the only rule is: no smearing…with bodily fluids.

After consuming a healthy amount of what passes for political debate in the U.S. on television, the only conclusion I come to is that the Republicans are the right hand and the Liberals are the left hand, and I am sitting here watching the whole American monster electoral machine masturbate all over itself with both hands. Sometimes the right is jerking, but then that hand gets tired -- and without missing a beat -- the left hand takes over and keeps on stroking away like a jackhammer tearing up a city street. But the result is always the same…a chalky, goopy mess all over the stomach, and everyone gets it. Some get drenched and some get a residual drizzle, a barely perceptible sprinkle. That’s the measure of success, the measure of our dreams, whether you can towel off the mess or if you drown in it.

It has always seemed to me that politics in years past was more about loftier ideals like righteousness and social justice; actually making the country a better place for all. Now it’s about slinging mud, polarizing the electorate with emotionally resonant issues, making you seethe with rage at the other side. Though I am man without any god or politics I care deeply about justice, just like many of you out there. I care about what is basically right and good, the things that needn’t be explained that grow in your gut. I feel prideful about my country -- though it is incredibly wasteful and bureaucratic, how can I be against universal healthcare? If the government is going to mostly pay for something isn’t healthcare number one on that list?

But maybe I’m lying to you when I say I have no politics. I have voted. I do vote (albeit less now than in my early twenties -- call it apathetic pessimism). I’ve voted for ‘em all at one point or another -- Liberal, NDP, Green Party, I think I voted for the Communist party as a lark once the novelty of being eligible to vote seriously tapered off and I was dissatisfied voting like a normal person (normal being Lib or Con). Upon putting a thick X in the circle and walking smug and ironic out of the booth, I wondered if I was the only one to vote for the Communist party in my district in suburban middle-class Brampton. I have yet to vote Conservative. It may happen but probably not. There is a subconscious aversion to Conservatism that runs through me so maybe I am a closet Liberal Commie Pinko bastard, who knows.

Back in the late 90’s and early 00‘s, the heyday of my joy with democratic participation, my parents would co-opt my vote and tell me during dinner the night before the election to, “Just vote Liberal.” There was no explanation, I just did what I was told. My parents have this thing where they don’t talk about who they vote for. It’s uncouth in some way. Impolite to some degree. Not condescending in any appreciable way, it‘s kind of like salary -- you just don‘t talk about it with others. So I never figured out exactly why they wanted me to vote Liberal, I simply trudged my stoner ass into the booth stall and X’ed my local Liberal representative.

During the most recent mayoral election in Toronto where Rob Ford emerged victorious I only had to walk fifty feet to the church next to my three floor walk up to vote. There was no excuses: no subway, bus, AND streetcar journey to get to some school or community centre in the ‘hood. I only had to put on a pair of jeans and walk next door.

But I was driving back from work, and was eager to get home after another grinding, soul destroying day at the office. I had totally forgotten it was even vote night until I drove by the church with my left turn blinker on, ready to pull into my building’s lot when I saw a a suspicious amount of people milling about outside, where it was usually closed for business most evenings. From my experience, church business took place early in the day. Then I clued in and remembered that, indeed, tonight was the night to cast a vote for the next mayor of Toronto. Cunt-fucking Christ on a Cruci-cracker! I don’t waaaaannnnt to vote, Mommy! I don’t want to engage in any more social functioning today. That’s fucking it!

I walked into my apartment and placed a nice amount of high grade marijuana into my glass bong, thought about changing the fetid water, and decided to light up instead. I exhaled a massive plume out my bedroom window that is almost at street level on Bloor, the smoke dissipating into the faces of three thirty-something’s on their way to the church. Sensing the unmistakably pungent odour they looked in my direction and all six of their eyes locked on mine and I just stared back at them blankly. Maybe I just changed their vote. I was now definitely much too stoned to vote, consumed with a cup of glassy euphoria that heightened comedy and music with a dash of paranoia. There’s no way I can stand in line just to saunter into a curtained booth and put an ’X’ (an ’X’? What does that even mean MaaaaahhhhhNNNNNN!)

Though it’s a moot point now, during the campaign I didn’t know who I was going to vote for though I had read a few articles and couldn’t help but catch some t.v. coverage of the candidates. I didn’t know much about Rob Ford at the time, only that he was a large ruddy faced balding blondy councillor who was known to go on and on about government waste, and was very vocal about his frugality as an elected representative. You wouldn’t catch him ordering a $16 orange juice at a swank hotel in London.

What slightly endeared me to him was marijuana, if you want to know the truth. Ten years prior he was charged with impaired driving and pot possession in Florida. If this bloated dipshit lard ass could get nailed for being drunk and stoned and then go on to become mayor of Canada’s largest city, that would be something. He’s plain spoken and to the point, so I was leaning in his direction if and/or when I made it to the polls.

As ordinary citizens ambled by my bedroom window I wished Rob good luck and packed another hit in the bong. If it’s meant to be, then he certainly doesn’t need my help. Just like in Jurassic Park, the right candidate finds a way, too.

The next day at work I was happy for the man. He had won! Wow! Dreams really do come true. Ford was the embodiment of the everyman and he really pulled it off, gave the finger to the intelligentsia of Toronto (though Ford comes from a well-to-do family, when entering politics one has to choose a personality, and he‘s chosen ‘everyman’ so he really isn‘t part of the intelligentsia). He’s the kind of man you can go out with and have a beer and discuss body parts and whether the Argos have a shot this year. But I’m a little concerned about his weight. Though he’s a Ford, he’s not built like a rock; definitely sink like one though.

Now he is the mayor of our fine city. Has been for years. There may not be a ‘mayor’ in front of Rob Ford’s name much longer if he’s found guilty in his conflict of interest case. I haven’t read much about it, but my gut instinct is telling me it’s a hatchet job. Ousted from office over this? It’s conflicting for me, too, because I don’t like his persona very much and don’t like him as mayor of the fine city of Toronto, but this isn’t the way to take a guy out. He could lose is mayoral authority over a lousy $3,000 that went to his charity for equipment? If he was knowingly and willingly engaging in this why would he launder a paltry 3,000 bucks? And also -- fuck! -- this dude is out of control with football. He spends more time coaching than mayoring (not a word, but wtf it works). There are palpable undercurrents of disdain that radiate from his being during his press conferences, and he looks so darn happy when he’s cavorting on the field with all those beefy ethnic teens, why didn’t he become a coach instead? Probably be a lot happier, a hell of a lot closer to self-actualization.

My parents didn’t live anywhere near Toronto during the Ford campaign, but they still told me not to vote for him like they had told me to vote for the Liberals in years past. “He’s a buffoon!” my Mom would tell me over the phone.

“I think I’ll vote for the Green Party, Ma. Once the Green Party become as big as the Liberals or Conservatives, then I’ll help push through another little guy. The little guy is always more honest. Has to be to survive at all. Plus, what difference does it really make? All the strings are pulled behind the curtains. Maybe I just won‘t even bother.”

“Well, if you don’t vote than you can’t complain.”

“Good, I want to complain, so I won’t vote.”


Monday, August 27, 2012

A Day in the Capital

“It’s when you hide things that you choke on them.”

Charles Bukowski

I’m downtown Ottawa and walking around without any particular place to go. I’m only fifteen and not fully aware of what this whole late twentieth century life thing is all about. What pressing matters could I possibly have to attend to? I’m simply walking around, soaking the atmosphere in, as they say. My family and I are in town for my cousins engagement party. The main event being a lavish boat ride around the Ottawa River complete with a DJ, hors d’oeuvre’s, and complementary drinks of which I’ll have to surreptitiously steal without my parents knowledge.

I have a grand total of five dollars in coins jangling around in my pocket as I walk towards the Byward Market looking for whatever pre-cruise trouble I can get into. I’m wearing jeans that are ripped at the knees and my empty wallet that is tucked into my left ass pocket has a rather ironic seven inch chain dangling by my hip; I never have more than $10 in my wallet at any given time but it’s still comforting to know that I won’t lose it -- unless I lose my pants along with the wallet. My beige cardigan hangs open revealing a black Mudhoney t-shirt, the one where all four of the members’ faces are plastered onto the top of each instrument -- drums, guitar, bass and second guitar respectively. My black high top Chuck Taylor’s are beat up and the soles worn out but they‘re mine and they‘re damn comfortable. Kurt would be proud. My long greasy hair frames my face and I constantly wipe the grease build up off the rocky Mars like surface that is my forehead.

It’s a beautiful summer day, the sun shining down with a gentle breeze lapping at my face. I was free to explore a new city for a few hours before I had to be back at the hotel and shuttled off to the family cruise. I started walking down a main street and lit up a Du Maurier and continued down the street like I owned the joint; an independent man-boy, life being nothing more than the never ending horizon of limitless possibilities. What kind of shit can I stir up?

It wasn’t even ten minutes, I barely had time to flick away my cigarette, before a handsome, light skinned black guy with a pencil thin goatee walked directly up to me and simply asked, “Hey man, you have any zig zags?”

“Uhhh--” I stammer, “naw, don’t have any with me, but I’d love to smoke one.”

“Cool. Follow me. I live right around the corner,” the muscular, nicely composed black man says to me with a nod of the head in the direction of his place.

“You from around here?” the black guy asks.

“No, no. I’m from Brampton,” I tell him.

“What’s your name?”

“It’s uhh, Dan,” I tell him. I don’t know why I didn’t give him my real name, it felt sort of dangerous to use an alias.

“Nice to meet you Dan.” He reaches out his right hand and we look each other in the eyes and shake hands appropriately, not too hard, not too soft.

“Oscar,” He informs me.

“Cool, nice to meet you Oscar.” We release right hands just like you’ve done a thousand times before.

“I said to myself when I first saw you, “‘that looks like a guy who likes to smoke a little shit,’” he says to me with a warm friendly smile.

The quickest way to my heart circa 1996: Marijuana. It’s like an Armani tie to Patrick Bateman.

“Yeah, for sure man,” I say, feigning nonchalance. Boy! I just got into town about an hour ago and already there’s a nice older black man offering to get me stoned. What a capital! Fuck Brampton with a steak knife -- Ottawa is where it’s at! Not only are the citizens courteous and accommodating, but they’re packing buds. It was only last week I was walking down a path to get home and I abruptly turned around and started running the other way when I spotted four black guys with balaclavas walking my way. My instincts were right -- they immediately broke into a run after me but quickly abandoned the plan because a) I’m a quick runner, if only in short bursts; and b) thieves want a quick and easy score, the way a lion goes after an injured or young gazelle; and possibly c) I would have screamed like a banshee if they started getting close. OH my God! They’re raaapppiiiinnng me!

Oscar and myself are walking side by side towards -- I’m assuming -- his apartment or house, though probably an apartment or condo because we’re right in the downtown core.

“So, do you have an open mind?” Oscar asks me, I don’t even think it’s that weird, we’re just two guys looking to get stoned together, nothing more nothing less; just two guys who share a love of the ’erb. Before embarking on the trip with my folks, I did feel a pang or two of anxiety not having any weed with me, which at this point of my life, I’ll admit, was a daily habit. How am I going to get stoned? A little voice kept repeating over and over on the car ride northeast up the 401. Well, problem solved thanks to Oscar.

“Yeah, I totally have an open mind -- I’m into philosophy and I love The Doors, Jimi Hendrix, Allman Brothers,” I say excitedly, riding a pre-high high.

He smiles again at me. Now, I’m not a total fucking retard -- my parents taught me not to talk to strangers and especially not to follow said strangers to smoke marijuana with them alone in their homestead. I mean -- I know that. I threw caution to the wind, squeezed out a little space in the old noggin, a compartment, where I stuck a Rent-A-Cop, a chaperone, to watch out for little Taylor, make sure he doesn’t get in too much trouble. After all, he’s not chasing me.

His apartment was a in a three floor walk up. There wasn’t anything that stuck out about his one bedroom den of debauchery. Looked like most of the furniture was from Ikea; there was some sort of colour scheme going on, a lot of whites and blacks, checkerboard kitchen floor. I take a seat in the living room while my new buddy Oscar goes into the kitchen.

“Hey Dan,” he says while rummaging around, cups clinking, “You wanna beer?”

“Yeah sure,” I say. This day just gets better and better!

Oscar comes into the living room and hands me an ice cold bottle of Canadian. “So you like Ottawa so far?”

“Definitely, definitely. Going on a cruise later tonight with my family,” I say, like he cares. “So what do you do?”

“I work at a club just down the street from here, some dancing, that type of stuff,” Oscar says.

“Oh,” I say, thinking maybe like Electric Circus.

Apparently finished with his explanation, he walks over to his t.v., an older Zenith with bunny ears, and he tilts it closer towards his chair away from my prying eyes. There are no couches. Just a few chairs. And that strikes me as odd. Doesn’t everyone have a couch? A duvet? A loveseat? A chesterfield? A sofa? Etc. Oscar only has a few kitchen chairs. Satisfied with the angle between himself and the t.v. he sits down with a relaxing sigh.

“You don’t want to watch this,” he says. I just kind of shrug and we continue a few more exchanges of small talk. Friendly Canadian small talk. I thought it was a little strange that he invites me to his apartment and then angles the t.v. away from me, but I’m itching for some weed, and I’m tolerant of others’ peculiarities if they are giving me free drugs.

Oscar is holding a crunched up coke can, the type of makeshift pipe with a large divot in the middle peppered with pinholes. I’m not exactly impressed considering at home I have two pipes and one glass bong. And I’m only fifteen. Here’s this guy living on his own and this is what he smokes the sacred herb out of? He takes a long and hard hit off the pop can pipe and releases a massive plume into the air. Hmm…doesn’t really smell like weed. He then passes it to me and it’s then that I notice the white -- not green -- substance that is sitting in a small pile of ashes over the pinholes.

“That’s not weed,” I say declaratively.

“No, it’s something else. Even better. Believe me, just take a hit,” Oscar says reassuringly. “Inhale real deep and hold it.”

This isn’t going according to plan, but shit, I’ll swing at anything. I take the lighter he’s proffering and stick my mouth over the hole of the can and make sure to keep the can at an even horizontal level. I start to roast the small mountain of half burnt white chunks and there are little sizzles and pops as I inhale this hitherto unknown substance into my lungs. Who says humans are intelligent, rational beings? We take lighters from strange black men and do chemistry experiments with our bodies. I have never snorted cocaine or smoked crack -- just watched people do it in movies. Actually, most of the crack activity I’ve seen comes from watching one of my favourite shows, Cops. Those are my keys, but that is definitely not my crack. That type of stuff. Usually, the dope fiends don’t use coke cans, they use clear glass pipes stained black with crack residue that looks a lot like pot residue. These are the messes left behind by our vices.

At first the hit was tentative, I was feeling out the smoke, expecting a harsh coughing fit if I inhaled too much too deep too fast. Surprisingly, the smoke was almost tasteless and almost as smooth as air. I could barely feel the heft of the smoke in my lungs but my eyes could plainly see that I was sucking in a double elephant lung transplant mass of cottony smoke. I took the can away from my mouth and closed my eyes, holding it all in, even -- gulp -- swallowing it, relinquishing the can to Oscar, and he takes it wordlessly and kills the bowl.

All of a sudden I was conscious of my own heartbeat in my body thumping like a gong show alarm clock. Becoming aware of my heartbeat was like gazing out at the night sky on a clear night up in the country away from light pollution. Now that I’ve noticed it I’m in awe of it’s metronomic endlessness and in some pathetic self referential way afraid of it, like this can’t just keep going on and on inside me can it? The crack pounds on the blood brain barrier and along with the heart, the mind starts revving up and branching out, drowning any thoughts of the racing heart; now the mouth takes over. What’s-going-on-what’s-going-on-what’s-going-on???? The sum of the sinful parts here are starting to add up. So, like, there’s no weed?

Oscar’s eyes are locked onto the screen and his lips are locked onto the coke can. Since the promise of weed is fading I am now officially curious to know what’s happening onscreen. Is it The Nature of Things, or some alien autopsy program? Why doesn’t he want me to watch? The helpless panicky feeling of the whole situation starts to unfold before me, of not only being buried alive after being raped by Oscar’s huge black rig, my face mushed into the pillow, but of having freshly deflowered ass pain while having the dirt scooped on me.

I’d rather have the flu in hell.

“Where’s the washroom?” I ask, and Oscar points behind him, his cheeks puffed out with a fresh hit.

I don’t need to pee, but I need to hide and think up an escape plan. The rent-a-cop watching over me is tapping on my driver’s side window as I lay passed out at the wheel. Now he has my full attention. I get real close to the mirror and look into my eyes, scan my face for fuzz because it had been only six or seven days since I last shaved -- still looks freshly shaved. Because I don’t like goodbyes I plan to just make a mad dash for the front door, which is only steps from the bathroom, and run out of the building back into freedom. My heart is racing like it never has before, like I ran the 50m dash and just stopped on a dime, my thoughts are poring all over one another, as soon as one starts the next one begins before the first has a chance to finish. This is crack in a nutshell. Buoyed by the drugs, I don’t care how it will look in five seconds when I run for the door and into the open arms of downtown Ottawa. I flush the crystal clear toilet water. Okay -- are you ready?



The bathroom door springs open and as I turn right towards the front door, I can’t help but catch a glimpse of the t.v. screen and there’s two guys with toned muscles and one is gripping the back of the other guys head while he rams his rod into the others mouth. Can you spell H-O-T?

I reach the door and this is where my simple plan becomes convoluted. I turn the knob like any sane teen zonked out on crack for the first time and then when it doesn’t give I turn it ten times more, becoming more and more frantic, and then with the right hand I started twisting the deadbolt and randomly pulling the door with all my might inwards, hoping…praying to God, the supreme being that forgives all the tomfoolery that teens get into, to please, please, please, let me open the damn door!

“Hey Dan,” a voice calls calmly from behind me and I turn to face my executioner, ready to submit to the long slow climb up the gallows, and he says, “Dan, just relax man, it’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you. Come take another hit. You‘ll feel better…I Swear.”

“No, no, I want to leave. Now!” I say as forcefully as I can considering the circumstances.

“Let’s just chill out, man. We’ll take another hit and then you can leave, kay?”

And for some unknown reason I relented. If he’s going to rape and kill me, I might as well smoke some more crack first. There is no reasonable explanation for not leaving this off duty stripper’s drug cave. Teenage immortality maybe?

Inexplicably my cock was red hot hard, bloated with blood. I wasn’t thinking any sexy thoughts but here was my shooter sticking up into my waistband nonetheless. I took another hit and my head -- both -- almost exploded. Call me crazy, but in my hyper addled state I just knew, I had an intuition that Oscar wanted to suck my dick. I was finally cluing into his whole scheme. He probably doesn’t want to, like, rape me, he probably wants to lick on my wrench. I hope. These are the signals I’m getting. He’s some gay dude who likes teen meat. Right?

It’s 1996 and I’ve never had the sensation of another human beings’ lips and saliva on my cock, only ran through the possibilities in my head, alone in my bedroom. Sure, I fucked empty toilet paper rolls and old teddy bears with holes cut out in their vaginas with a steak knife and then, after, when the cotton wore out a knife wound into the top of the head (to get at the fresh supply) and silky things around the house like pillows and blankets, et al….but never a fully functional mouth and lips going back and forth, never a sentient human being for crying out loud -- that would be crazy!

“Okay, I’ll…I’ll let you suck it,” I blurt out, almost having an out of body experience, not believing what I’m saying.

Maybe I said it because I wanted to feel the physical sensation of a blowjob instead of just imagining it, and if the only person to administer this physical feeling is an off duty black male stripper/dancer with a goatee that requires at least ten minutes a day of maintenance than so be it. Plus, my cock was like a lead pipe.

“Yeah? You’re cool with that?” He asks.

“Umm…whatever, I guess.”

I imagine it was like Christmas morning for Oscar. I was giving him his fantasy -- a pristine, straight, twinky looking, grunge rocking semi-geeky pimpley-faced white boy. We went into the adjacent bedroom and I unbuckled my pants and dropped them down to my feet, the chain wallet clinking against the checkerboard floor, and left them scrunched up around my ankles. I stood at the foot of the bed with this crack rod reaching obscenely out into the air like a hand reaching out to God. I decided to keep all other articles of clothing on seeing as how their removal was unnecessary. I was shy. Oscar didn’t seem to care about anything except my cock, anyways. There’s no way I’m going to tell him, but I bet he’d get a kick out of knowing that I was a virgin.

Oscar could sense my nervousness. “Don’t worry Dan, relax, it will feel good. Just think of some girl that you like.” It was the best piece of advice he could give me. Should I picture Kurt? No, too weird -- I worship him, but not in that way. As Oscar took my cock into his mouth and began going back and forth on it like a big black woodpecker I closed my eyes and pictured Mara, the hot half Indian chick who sits in front of me in 2nd period basic math. The physical sensation of the blowjob was exhilarating! It felt great. I looked down at one point, and, after being so hopelessly lost in my Mara BJ fantasy, upon seeing this man’s mouth with a goatee taking my rig into his throat, I began freaking out even more, yet somehow found the resolve to soldier on.

I would hate to suck cock, all that back and forth, it must really strain the neck after a while, but Oscar seemed to relish every moment, even cooing and moaning as my plunger clogged his throat.

I closed my eyes again and pictured Mara’s beautiful face and mouth sucking instead of Oscar. I couldn’t believe how strange my afternoon was turning out. I only planned on walking around downtown taking in the sights and here I am with my cock root deep into some guys mouth. Life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans.

Oscar’s pants were undone and he was yanking on his semi-hard cock, almost twice the size of mine. “I’m not going anywhere near that,” I said, breaking my concentration, Mara poofing away into the ether of my imagination.

“That’s okay, I don’t want you to. Just cum on my hand.”

Ahh, I finally clued in. He wants to masturbate with my jism. I mean what else would he want to use it for? Hair gel? Well, it would be the first time my cum was put to good use, not just tossed into the garbage or flushed down the toilet.

After the immediate sensation of, ‘Oh, so that’s what it’s like to get your dick sucked’, it became clear that ejaculating was not going to be possible. Maybe it was the crack wearing off or the reality of the situation taking a deeper hold, but my hard-on started shrinking, and, sensing this deflation, Oscar started jerking and sucking my cock more frantically, switching hands mid slide without losing a beat. But it was no use. I almost felt sorry for him that we had come this far and I couldn’t fully satisfy his fantasy.

I finally announced, “Okay, that’s enough,” as if a waiter was grinding peppercorn onto my spaghetti. Oscar stood obediently and zipped up, and my elusive semen remained safely nestled in my recently drooped testes.

“So…I better get going then….” I say, still scared that he won’t let me leave but he was nothing but a perfect gentleman, thanking me for coming (no pun intended because I didn’t) and unbolted and twisted all the various locks on his door and said, “Goodbye Dan,” pleasantly though we both knew we’d never see each other again.

“Yeah, bye,” I said back and walked out into the early evening, the sun shining with absolutely no breeze, the kind of perfect Canadian summer evening you wish would last forever. I wanted to get back to the hotel right away, not so much because I was late for the family cruise but because I wanted to take a shower and wash Oscar’s dried saliva off my cock. The crack or freebase or whatever it was had worn off and I felt dirty, uneasy with myself. It wasn’t legitimate rape, but I felt like the victim of some kind of interracial homoerotic voodoo. What did this Oscar guy do to me? I don’t go around letting black guys suck my junk. Up to this point I haven’t let anyone.

I put the key card into my hotel room and wait for the red light. Silence, emptiness, a half eaten bag of Cool Ranch Doritos on the bed; the room is exactly the way I left it. Within the hour I will be floating by our capital’s parliament buildings illuminated by huge fluorescent lights. No one will know my secret, not tonight, not even the foreboding gothic pillars, the symbols of law and justice in Canadian society.

Monday, July 9, 2012

The Marijuana Monologues

There I am, like a Canadian Psycho, in nothing but boxer shorts and goggles, gripping a hammer and standing in my bathroom over the bathtub. 

In the tub is my victim, a naked actress-model type with a humming chainsaw, her mascara running like an oil spill down her cheeks, crying hysterically, pleading for the half naked man above her with the ripped abs, hundred dollar haircut and perfectly draped monogrammed towels, to just "Please, please, let me go, I won’t tell anyone."

But it's not like that at all.

I can't hear the screams because my victim doesn’t have a voice. The screams come from within. 

My victim? A bong. It stands innocently enough, tall and firm in my bathtub. These threats though, they're insidious. So I have resolved to smash my bong, because the worst possible thing has happened if you happen to be a pothead: the weed's all gone. I’m out of my gnarly, stanky bud stash, brah. Smoked it all up. I thought I’d try kicking the leaf, starting off with a trial run: see what seven days of sobriety feels like. Get the THC out of the old system because I‘m starting to think I need it. And that’s scary--if I need it, than what are the underlying psychological issues causing me to feel like I need it in the first place? Let’s get introspective here. Thirty years old and I’m still smoking pot like a pimply faced teenager with Cheesy Poofs crumbs in his dirt-stache. Grow up already, swallow hard like the goddamn man you are and--big high five!--say Yes! to a sober life.

My beloved purple hand blown bong that I have been using for the last five years is about to die. I took good care of her, too. Cleaned her regularly . . . well at least the exterior and the top of the shaft where you squeeze your lips in to suck a lung busting stream of bubbly bliss into your lungs. Cleaning the top rim is imperative because when you take a hit your body immediately produces saliva, and sometimes a little saliva rivulet will run down the length of the bong, which is, admittedly, gross. But clean the inside? Naw, didn’t clean that, though I did replace the water every 3-5 days depending on how much I was smoking. So the point is is that there’s a cock-shitting fuck-load of PMH that is ripe for harvesting. PMH being, of course, Poor Man’s Hash. The sticky black goop that builds up quickly in any pipe or bong. It looks a bit like hash, is nearly impossible to clean off your hands, and you can definitely get a buzz off it even if it is only re-smoking the residue that is left behind when you actually smoke the pot. And I need it. Like now. I made it half way through day two of my seven day sober quest and I was assaulted by the most psychically painful, aching urge to get some THC coursing through my veins. To construct an ever higher storm wall in front of the surging tsunami of ennui.

All it takes is a soft, reflex-testing tap to the distended lower end and the bong shatter's in two large jagged pieces. I get up and dump out the other smaller pieces of shrapnel that have conveniently collected into the still fully formed basin. As soon as I’m standing though I feel a sharp stinging pain on the bottom of my right foot--instantly, I know I’ve stepped on a stray piece of glass. The whole point of smashing the bong in the tub was to avoid this scenario. I bend my foot up and look over my shoulder to assess the damage. Not good. Blood is already dripping onto the checkerboard tiles.
 I'm in the grips of the high before the high -- the excitement of knowing that in the next few minutes all will be okay; that the raw viciousness of reality will be defanged. I curse myself out and begrudgingly tend to my cut, though it takes forever to stop bleeding because of the sweltering humidity. My building doesn't have central air, nor do I have a window unit--who do you think I am? A Rockefeller?

The master safe has been cracked!

It was like the Klondike Gold Rush; loads and loads of deposits of PMH clinging to the inside of the shattered bong. Just call me the Weed Whisperer. I dutifully scraped out the little hunks of gobbledygook into an old cigar box using a pair of unused tweezers that came with a dollar store manscaping kit, a stocking stuffer from years past.

I scrape a nice little portion into my B pipe, which is one of those tiny, all business numbers no more than two and a half inches long with a screw on bowl. Well, kid, you’re getting a shot at the big leagues, I think and put the lighter to the goop. The black mass bubbles and liquefies as its solid mass is converted into smoke and shoots into my lungs. It’s not harsh like some marijuana smoke and I inhale until I can’t inhale any longer and my chest is full of PMH. I let it out slowly, the smoke coming out in one long billowing stream, my conscience saddled with a tinge of disgust and regret, attacked by the incongruous thought that this re-smoked resin, though smooth, is probably worse than actual pot. Ah, well. At least I can’t see my lungs. Can’t crack that safe.

For an addict, bottoms are constantly being gutted out to make way for even lower ones. There are bottoms beneath bottoms with trapdoors that lead to more bottoms. Half way through day two and I ran out of steam. Pass the pipe.

Marijuana makes me more sensitive to everything can make me really horny, more up for anything, more fetishist. More too much is not enough. Just go ahead and hang me upside down and fuck me in both ears. Usually when sober, masturbating is just like doing the dishes--it’s all business. No big deal, it only takes a few minutes to get the poison out and then I’m back to getting on with things.

 If I’m really stoned on PMH, sometimes I don’t want to watch the usual boring porn--some creepy guy having regular old intercourse with a woman in a few different positions--I want to get nuts! I want a new sen-sa-tion! Variety is the spice of life, right? So I'll type into Google something like ‘guy fucking real doll’ and of course, there are 37,000,000 results (0.40 seconds). A whole world of sexual depravity is only a Google search away! Knock yourself out. I click onto one of the sites and all of a sudden I’m watching some guy with a huge gut and a general sheen of sleaze laying pipe into his--ahem--girlfriend. She was quite attractive in a far away eyed Barbie Doll way. The kind of woman that fits the stereotypical male fantasy: large breasts, slim waist, nice skin, healthy hair. The kind of woman manufactured on a Chinese assembly line according to the specs of a sexually frustrated man. 

As I was jerking off to this guy and his doll, my dope addled mind veered off and wondered away: imagine this guy's disappointment if he cracked open his coffin shaped crate with the excitement of a boy on Christmas morning, and he got the wrong girl? Instead of an impossibly well proportioned, fresh faced Oklahoma State cheerleader fembot, he gets a nappy headed, inner city crack ho because Jim down the street likes that sort of thing.

After I pull up my pants I flush the goopy Kleenex with my progeny on it down the toilet and into the sewage system where it belongs.  that the swirling of water looks similar to a galaxy. And I get to thinking . . . what if we have been visited by aliens? I’ve seen the documentaries and read the articles about eye witness accounts of sightings and abductions, but there’s something amiss with these supposed intergalactic travelers (besides no irrefutable physical evidence). Here’s my theory: Alien retards. Aliens with average to upper intelligence (relatively speaking) have zero interest whatsoever in our woefully unrefined civilization (again, relative). They’re so advanced that the wonders of our world--the human brain, Niagara Falls, NASA, pre-packaged microwavable bacon, that Indian guy with the world's longest fingernails--are only stimulating to retarded aliens. Possibly some of the alien children, too. Sightings only occur in our skies when the lower stock's jerry rig their parent's ships, and go out for an interstellar joyride. These subnormal aliens, while obviously far more intelligent than Earth’s best and brightest, are drawn to our planet because there's simply no other galaxy with any discernible forms of life within reasonable galactic travelling distance. They display an interest in us the way a male child shows interest in thumb-tacking a housefly's wing to a desk and watching him squirm, then carefully applying Whiteout to its face until the corrective ink hardens and the squirming becomes less consistent, more spasmodic, until finally there is stillness. We are playthings for a species in a far away galaxy and we make great pets.     

A week into my detox, quitting pot is proving to be more difficult than I thought and then some. I’m utilizing all of my feeble, twenty-first-century-digital-boy willpower to abstain from going into the Bloor West Village and randomly asking teenage ruffians if they’re holding any stuff.

Man I’ll suck yo dick for a joint. Then I'll suck yo dick for a cheeseburger.

The withdrawal is not physical by any means (except for the cut on my foot). No sweating or shaking, but I can report to you that the Apocalypse Now-esque psychological horrors are real and brutal. I’ve never suffered from insomnia before but now it’s a nightly occurrence. Clearly my mind and body had grown accustomed to the relaxing effects of THC consumption. Now, when I lay in bed encouraging my mind to just STFU already, the carnival begins. How can one part of me want to sleep so bad, and this other, malevolent side, deny me the sleep it must surely crave?

The human mind is just one hot ironic mess. To get through this whole quitting-the-leaf ordeal, I tell myself at the start of every day that, yes, I will most certainly call my dealer and pick up a half quarter in the afternoon though I know it not to be true. I'll go through the day with pep in my step, even though it’s all a self-induced ruse, even though I know deep inside that there will be no call placed. It’s not a bad plan--we willingly deceive ourselves all the time; it really does help me get through the day and quiet the nagging voices in my head. But there’s invariably that moment of truth where the whole sham hits the fan, so to speak, and I have to begrudgingly admit that there will be no actual call to my dealer. The house of cards has crumbled only to be rebuilt again tomorrow. Conversely, I’ll not even think about getting dope for an entire afternoon, the thought is outside of a giant mental wall I‘ve constructed around it, and then with no warning, without even intellectualizing the issue at all, I’ll just call my dealer and score.

Stephen Fry writes..."It is a cliche that most cliches are true, but then like most cliches, that cliche is untrue."

The cliché of the pot induced increased appetite is most definitely true. After smoking pot I can never fully satisfy my rapacious appetite. It would seem as though my appetite would transport from stomach to brain. If I thought hard enough about some dish, fetishized the process of seeing it through from raw ingredients all the way to the sumptuous mouthfeel, I could quickly morph from a regular old full-bellied Canadian dude, into a malnourished Sasquatch. I’ll eat so much food in the span of a couple hours that over the years, in an attempt to quash my overeating, I’ve trained my esophageal muscles to effortlessly regurgitate recently eaten food back up and into my mouth like a momma bird and then I’ll--get ready to wince--chew it up all over again and swallow it down, and--get ready to wince yet again (sorry)--sometimes repeat the process two or three times until the food has a nasty bilious aftertaste, without any of the original pre-chewed yumminess left. If you don’t know the pleasures of eating a handful of Genoa salami and then eating it again ten minutes later, well God bless, and drive safe. 

I really should write a diet book.

Days after I run out of my PMH stash I’m still limping around. A sober gimp. I try not to count the days--it's too daunting. I prefer to take it heartbeat to heartbeat. No one second is unendurable. The prospect of never smoking pot again until I expire would drive me crazy. I can’t focus on the long term. Jesus H. Christmas tree, I can barely even focus on day to day. It’s got to be second to second.

I’m still drinking beer, perhaps more than I should, but I’m taking it one addiction at a time. Shit, I spill more beer than most people drink. I don’t feel that my beer intake is having any huge negative impact on my day to day operations. A man has to have something to look forward to, after all. I believe it was Dean Martin that said, “I’d hate to be a teetotaler. Imagine getting up every morning and knowing that’s as good as you’re going to feel all day.” Amen Dino. Total sobriety is not the life for me either, pal.

I am limping to the LCBO to get my daily intake of four tall cans. I take two Moosehead’s and two Canadians and stuff them into my bag. Which, by the way, always feels strange--like I’m being watched. It’s the only store where I put the product in my own personal bag before actually paying for it. I’m always tempted to stuff in six or seven beers and then saying that there are only four because all the cashiers recognize me and stopped checking my bag long ago. But I don’t; even though it’s only the government I’d be stealing from and they steal so much from me already, so really, it’s more of a tit-for-tat situation, and also the employees can’t touch me, especially Don, the massive black guy with a shaved head and overgrown sideburns, because of the threat of lawsuits, but that’s just the type of addict behaviour that I’m trying to avoid--thinking of the consequences instead of the short-term pleasure. Also, if I did get caught I would be mortified by the look on the cashiers' face as he or she slowly put together the pieces--this guy's here everyday, therefore he must have been stealing beer daily for years, thousands of dollars worth perhaps. He’s a fucking beer baron!

I amble up to the checkout line and place one Moosehead and one Canadian on the counter and say, “There’s two of each.” I usually end up in Natalia’s line because I like her Polish accent, the way she asks customers, “Air Miles?” She notices my uneven gait and smiles, asks what’s the matter. I wasn’t anticipating anyone asking about my limp so I didn’t have a party line ready. Sometimes the truth is not advisable.

“Oh this?” I say and lift up my foot, thinking of what to tell her. “It’s nothing--just . . . just an old battle wound.”