The strangest things happen in bed

Nothing gets a better laugh with close friends than a good story about misadventures in bed. So begins my compilation of the strange things we hear and experience...

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J. was M.'s first boyfriend. Things ended amicably and despite J.'s lack of sex and M.'s surplus, they remained just friends. Recently, M. stayed at J.'s house after a long night of partying. When M. came into the bedroom, she found J. lying naked on the bed masturbating.

M: "Well, you know, you are lucky it's just me I guess... we are comfortable with each other."
J: "Would you undress in front of me?"
M: "NO! .... But I will take off my pants and you can watch me from the bathroom while I brush my teeth, I guess."
J: "mmm... okay..."

So M. brushes her teeth in her underwear while J. looks on, taking all he can get.

She picks a Forensic Psychology book about serial killers out of her bag and starts to read in bed while J. fervishly beats off. But if you have ever tried to concentrate on anything while the sound of hand on cock is happening right beside you, I'm sure it will prove impossible. So M., trying to keep her mind on the book, started to read aloud from her bedtime book. Which just so happened to be on the chapter about brutal decapitations.

J: "Can I put my hand on your breast?"
M: "Fine."

And so J. finished himself while M. read about serial killers, the whole while ignoring to her best ability the hand groping her breast. J. cleaned up, M. put her book away and they both went to sleep on opposite sides of the bed.

That's fucked up.

----

S. and L. had been fucking for hours, as it often happens with them. Lovers for years, never girlfriends, it is a sort of special relationship full of lengthy love making. Finally they made it to the bedroom where L.'s iTunes was playing on shuffle. S., close to an orgasm, couldn't help but notice the sounds coming in off the speakers... An old show tune that goes something like:

"Anything you can do, I can do better...
I can do anything better than you...
No you can't!
Yes I can!"

S. started to laugh, and not wanting to ruin the moment, she tried to stifle her laughter. But if you ever started to laugh while your face is buried between someone's legs, I'm sure you would find it really difficult to not let your partner notice. Soon, they both were dying of laughter, singing along to the song.

The girls went to sleep shortly after declaring that song to be the official 69 theme song.

That's just hilarious.

---

Table 13

Monday night, a customer died in my section. As a waitress, I expect to deal with a pile of annoying clients, all demanding my undivided attention. More ketchup, less salt, more salad, less tomatoes - and the saddest thing that I saw was how noone stopped asking when a gentleman not 4 feet away was having a heart attack.

It took me a few minutes to register the problem at table 13. Two men, obviously old friends, were enjoying their filet mignons. 5 minutes later, one of the men appeared to be asleep. I tried to offer assistance - not knowing what assistance to give - and was shooed away by the friend. I kept serving tables, because that's what I came into work to do. I kept going back to table 13, because that's what any human with half a soul would do.

I urged a co-worker to call 911. I accepted the help of a doctor who had just settled his bill with me. I told the kitchen to shut down until everything was under control. Then I went outside and lost control.

Later I learned that I had a panic attack, alone in the back alley.

I blamed myself for serving the man drinks. I blamed his friend for refusing aid from myself and my coworkers. I blamed table 16 for asking for ketchup while a man's lips were turning blue.

I didn't know his name, his friend's name or even if the paramedics were able to revive him - for the third time - at the hospital.

I was given two days off to relax - unprecedented behaviour from the management who have basically chained my ankle to the bar 6 days a week for the last 3 months.

Thursday I was back at work. Nervous, anxious and still confused.

One of my coworkers came up to me and said that there are 4 people who want to talk to me.

"The son of the man who died on Monday wants to talk to you. He came in with his sisters to see where their father spent his last moments."

I left my nearly full bar and introduced myself to them. I told them about how the two men were - jovial and hilarious. I told them what their dad had to drink, what he ate and how in the middle of his meal he just slumped over.

They thanked me and told me how their dad had a stroke last week. The doctors said it was a very minor stroke, and at 82 years of age, he should just continue on as normal. He had a ticket booked to Vancouver to see his kids on Wednesday. He went out for dinner with his best friend at his favorite restaurant on Monday.

He died of a heart attack in the restaurant. They managed to keep him on life support until Tuesday - where his family gathered and said their goodbyes. He died on Tuesday when they pulled the breathing tube.

One of the women spoke to me in private and told me how grateful she is for everything I did. That because I made sure 911 was called and got a doctor to volunteer to administer CPR, the family was able to get to Montreal to say goodbye. She told me that they view Monday as the night he died.

And that they were very happy to know how he died eating his favorite meal with his best friend under the care of a warm-hearted waitress.

I still feel bad for making jokes about how the majority of the clientele is so old, "I just hope noone dies during my shift".

But I'm happy I was there. So is the waiter who used to work that section on Monday nights. He is bringing me a few Adavan pills tonight... just in case.

this side of paradise

i packed my bag and got on a train to ottawa
two hours later i was welcomed by my mother's warm hug
two hours after that i got out of my parent's car and tears streamed down my face

i have never felt so relieved to smell the pine needles
to hear the crunch of sand and stone under my feet
to breathe in clean, fresh air

i could see the stars clearer than i can see the city lights from my apartment here in montreal

i fell asleep to the sound of bullfrogs and i awoke to the chatter of chipmunks and birds

i knew i needed a rest in a quiet land
i knew i needed out of my tiny apartment
and i really knew i needed to not wait tables and sling martinis for the snooty westmount crowd

but i had no idea that i needed it that badly
or that it would feel like a miracle cure for a mystery disease

it wasn't home to me
it wasn't nostalgia for what past generations lived
but how do i explain the feeling of homesickness i have now?
the first sight of montreal's skyline usually fills me with excitement and wonder
my journey back filled me with sadness

i would gladly take 4 more bee stings
10 more horsefly bites
3 more sunburns
if i could just listen to the trees sing for a few more days

i would even take down the dock and put it back in
(again)
if i could just swim with the fishes for a few more days

because that pathetic little pond in parc lafontaine is just not cutting it.

see ya - don't wanna be ya

I'm going on vacation.

And it's not the "liquor drenched let's party all the time" type of getaway, where you need to rest up for as many days as you took off.

It's the "I'm turning off my cell phone and you can all be damned because I'm in the middle of nowhere bonding with my vacant mind" kind of vacation.

I have not stopped working and partying since sometime in 2006. And I think I burnt out about 4 times since then.

It's been too long and I need to stop thinking. City living is a blast but there are too many distractions. I am going to limit my distractions to a logic puzzle or 90 and the daily paper. My toughest choices are going to be whether or not to swim, tan, sleep or eat. My mind will be plagued only with what kind of beer I will take down to the dock with me.

R&R here I come.

Facebook is fucking creepy.

First, a girl I hung out with when I was years old found me.
Then a bartender at a local bar found me because she remembered my name off an ID card I lost there.
I found that a girl I went to junior high with is married with a child.
Then the piece de resistance - a group has been formed for people who hung out on the steps of a door of my old highschool. Sure, we called ourselves some sort of a crew, but there are pictures on that group from 1986 on. That's fucking strange.

What is even stranger is to do a search for people you haven't seen in years.

Not recommended under any circumstance.

beer good. rock n roll? better.

I like dancing to rock like a complete whore-bag.

Men are intimidated and women start getting a little, well, looser.

These boys scattered when they saw me, and all the women were fascinated, intrigued and then next thing you knew - the whole bar was full of petrified boys pinned against walls, terrified of the amount of women dancing like everyone was watching.

Hair was tossed, hips were gyrated and not one person kept doing the pitiful mosh-like dance. (when i walked in the whole place was full of quasi jumps, little turns and a couple of foot stamps. that had to be stopped.)

20 or so twenty-something girls were toasting each other on the dancefloor with cheap Boreale. We were showing off, we were not giving a shit. We were simply rockin out.

I liked starting a mini revolution on the dance floor.

God I love rock n roll.

there's a haze over the city today
the smouldering whisper of summer smog has arrived

summer despite the sweat and the smog
is sexy

sometimes the idea of piling close to another body
is too much for your body temperature to take
but all you need is to just sit down
and let the heavy moist heat surround you

summer is very sexy
very very sexy

Breaking point.

In the attempt to figure out what is missing from my life, I tried just about everything.

I had flings with boys.
I broke off all the flings.
I messed up my apartment.
I cleaned my apartment.
I worked all the time.
I took time off.
I lived frugally.
I lived like a princess.
I talked to my friends.
I shut myself off from the world.

I read a book. I wrote a poem. I dreamed. I walked. I watched a movie. I watched TV. I listened to music. I made music.

But what is missing is clearly deeper than all that. And it's staring me in the face. It's been lurking for a long time and it is not something I'm entirely comfortable with. It would mean changing behaviour. It would mean changing my outlook. It might mean looking at my past in a whole new light. It might bring a total reevaluation of everything.

I said a while ago, I'm waiting for either a breakdown or a breakthrough. Either way, something is about to break. Something is about to give and I just hope I'm ready for it.

girl meets boy

I met the man of my dreams last night. Well, if I had man dreams he would probably be in it. Actually, in order to meet the man of one's dreams, you would have to be able to imagine that a man like him actually exists. Which is totally inconceivable in my case.

I met a sexy and rich owner of a sex toy distribution website. He was wearing a "take the Pepsi challenge" T-shirt, but that is forgivable. Other than that, he is truly the person I want to spend the rest of my life with.

He had that cleaned up messy look. Slightly pretty but enough scruff to keep him in the "grr".

Okay, so he's a fag.

But imagine this - I still met the only beautiful sex toy specialist. And that in and of itself is remarkable.

Why are the people who sell sex toys so damn ugly? They have great social skills, are completely comfortable in their own skin - and it's just a fuckin shame that the skin they are in is horrendous.

And rich to boot? Often the wealthy ones are not that cute - except for one of the Molson playboys.

So, immediately following introductions to the sextoy man, I shocked the hell out of him. And I can bet that he sees and hears it all. Props to me.

"Sooooooo, I'm like free for the rest of my life."

Followed by earth shattering silence.

Followed by my immediate exit.

I don't know where I get these behavioural issues. What normal human being says something like that? More importantly, how many girls say things so forward? To a gay man. I think I just outmanned a homo.

I'm never caring about hockey ever again.

I hate hockey. I hate that the game stops every 2 minutes because someone broke a rule. It can't be that great of a game if ALL the players want to break the rules all the time. Rules define the game. Boundaries define everything. If the rules are consistently broken, maybe they should make new ones.

I also hate how beer is hockey's best friend. It can't be that great of a game if you have to get drunk in order to enjoy it. And if ALL hockey fans end up getting plastered watching the game, maybe that is a sign that it isn't that entertaining.

I really hate how hockey makes everyone so angry. You see players break the rules and then the fans get angry when they see fights on the ice and the whole thing goes straight to shit.

But what I hate most is how damn patriotic I am, and when my hometown is within spitting distance of the Stanley Cup... well, I turned into your typical hockey fan. Except that most fans of hockey don't engage in blatant displays of lesbianism in the middle of one of Montreal's hockey hotspots.

First I was drowning my sorrows in tequila shots along with everyone in the bar. We were all pissed off that Ottawa lost and when I started making out with a girl, suddenly anger was not directed towards Anaheim... it was directed against my friend and I.

Gaybashing or whatever you want to call it is completely horrendous. And it was coming from drunk hockey fans so pumped full of testosterone and loss.

There were boys and men all over the place who were deeply offended by the fact that two women were displaying affection for one another. I thought Montreal would be relatively safe from that kind of hatred. That ignorance has been relocated for the most part, to the midwest. I was surrounded by french and english hipster types, with not a cowboy hat in sight, and I had to listen to some of the most offensive gay slurs I have ever heard in my whole life.

And I am not even a lesbian. I guess if I were, I would have gotten the memo about where not to show acts of homosexuality or bisexuality. Apparently hockey is no place for a dyke.

"You don't write anymore, you should write."

"It used to be a true expression of yourself, now it's just vainglorious. Like you are trying to convince yourself of something."

Perhaps.

But maybe it is hard to write when you have your left hand holding a glass of wine and your right hand holding the keys to get out of your apartment... and your mouth is holding a cigarette, all to perhaps,

forget the fact that you don't write anymore.

And I mean write in the cynical way. The way that you make fun of trannies like they are lost and found women who forgot their penises.

(because any self respecting woman has a bigger dick than most of the men we all meet)

But perhaps it is hard to write when my skin is burnt to a crisp. And the reason for the burn is due to my desire to run around like a fool until I forget where I came from.

Where I came from is peeing in the bathroom.

While I attempt to smoke.

Smoke and type.

As he encourages me on.

Dating Rules

A while back a friend of mine and I made up a little list of Dating Rules. Apparently, once printed and framed, they would become holier than the testament and we would have no choice but to obey the rules. And if obeyed, we truly believed that the rules would spare us from all future dating horror stories and we would never be heartbroken. Ever ever again.

We both broke a few rules, but the one cardinal rule that we both swore on, was to never date a guitar player or DJ.

They are bad news. Guitar players think that they are humble gods while DJ's think that they are gods that have the power to smite you all.

Guitar players play you emo songs in their bedroom, thinking girls like emotions on display and that tears from their moving handwritten poems lead directly to sex.

DJ's play you their new track in their bedroom, thinking that their inherent coolness will remove all your articles of clothing immediately.

Guitar players will try to have emotional sex, full of handholding and tender kisses.

DJ's will try to have sex. Any sex. Because their cock is so naturally large that even being in its presence will send a girl into ecstasy.

Guitar players will have awkward moments and toss their emo hair in pseudo bashfullness.

DJ's will have awkward moments and not even notice how foolish they really are.

Now that I know not to get near these types... again... I am going to remount that list of mine. Frame and all. And I will remember to obey the cardinal rule. Never ever date guitar players or DJ's.

Quote du moment.

an affair so ongoing it almost constitutes a relationship.
a relationship so brief it actually becomes an affair.

can you believe...

i went to work on the terrace
only to find it freezing cold

i went to sit at the bar to eat my free meal
only to find a drink in front of me

i went out back to smoke
only to find more drinks waiting

i went to another bar
only to find a plan

a plan to go to new york city for a day
to drink and party and have a blast

but planes are awful expensive
when you don't have much of a plan

so i ended up in quebec city
loaded after drinking warm heinekens on the bus

and woke up to room service
at the chateau frontenac

wondering how i went to work
got drunk
and ended up in another city
staying in one of the best rooms in the hotel

life is good
when you decide it's for the taking

but from now on
i think i should get on the proverbial wagon

so that next time
i don't end up hungover as usual
in another city.... unusual....

here we go...

I'm nervous.

Don't be.

I'm scared. Actually, I'm terrified.

You are? Oh no.
Now I'm terrified too.

Smoke?

Yes.
I'm really guarded. You should know that.

Oh thank god. I mean not thank god. But when I said I'm terrified, I actually meant to say that I'm guarded. Other words came out instead. I have a wall. I keep seeing opportunities to let it down and then boom it comes right back up.

I guess we are involved.

Yeah, I guess so.

I hate relationships.

Me too.

My relationships always fail.

Aren't they supposed to fail? Wow, that's depressing.

But true.

Well, they should. At least now. Until you are old, I guess.

I feel old.

I'm twelve. And fifty.

Me too.

Do you have a condom?

No.

Dammit.

---

Then he played me a song. About love. It wasn't sex, but it will do.

If someone were watching my life, they would probably throw up all over the goofy awkward moments and then decide that it is flowers and sunshine and all the other things that make you cringe.

Fear is making me keep my life preserver tightly strapped to my body. And at this point, what I am most afraid of is the moment where we have to take off the safety measures and actually plunge into deep dark scary waters.

Until then, I will just keep on being terrified and guarded. And completely safe.

God bless the service industry

An after work drink often turns into 8 shots at a nearby bar which can also turn into the fun experience of dining out with chefs. You honestly never know what is going to happen next.

You could end up at a Shish Taouk palace where one chef decides that the tabouleh is the best he has ever had. This chef is next spotted walking out of the greasy establishment carrying 40$ worth of the stuff in a takeout container.

Or, you could end up in Chinatown, eating snake soup and oysters at 4 in the morning. Incidentally, this is my favourite option - nothing beats being the token white girl in a Chinese restaurant where the servers mock me and tell me that the snake soup I'm scarfing down (and incidentally, burning the inside of my mouth) is chicken.

"Ohhhh don't worry - it Chicken. Hahaha, it chicken!!"
"Uhm, you don't worry, I know it's snake. And I love it. Thanks."
"Ohhhh you brave! Hahaha it not chicken!! Very good!"

I should think about stealing some of their serving practices. I think I would love pointing and laughing at the foolish Westmounters who don't know the difference between tartar and salsa.

Once a day

According to my numerologist, I should be working on my "career" for an hour per day.

According to my doctor, I should be "thinking" about quitting smoking once per day.

According to my parents, I should be planning my "life" each and every day.

According to my prof, I should be reading "theatre" once per day.

According to me.... well, I think I need to take a break. Once a day.

So, that adds up to 3 hours of work and 2 hours of break per day. 5 hours a day of scheduled "me time" ontop of the average 5 hours of bartending per day. Not to mention rehearsals, beer and sleep.

Being an adult sucks. I hate every second of it.

The dishes, the taxes, the sweeping, the litter box cleaning, the appointment making... they should all do themselves.

Where's my time to finish that song I've been creating? Where's the time to stare at the sunset? Where's the time?

Where's the time to actually BE an adult?

In this?

If so, I want out.

the sky fell down exactly 3 weeks ago

when the sky falls
you tend to fall with it
the horizon dips away
and with it goes your fears

i realized that when the sky falls
you end up standing on clouds
wanting to sing and dance cheek to cheek

the only thing that is wrong
is that i think it shouldn't be happening
that i didn't know i wanted this

but the sky did fall
and what's behind me
can't be changed or compromised
i just hope that when i look back
i will know i'm on the right track

it's simple and honest and awkward
it's making me feel small
so small i want to crawl inside
and make that last bit of space disappear

it's silly and it makes me want to be a star
for a one-man audience

And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was and how much was mine to keep.

Thank you Mr. Vonnegut. You will be missed.

The jury is still out on this one...

God bless YouTube.

Not only should I be writing a paper that is really late, or maybe the one that is just a little late, or maybe the one that is due tomorrow... I should be at least doing my taxes. From last year.

Instead, I found myself finding 'gems' on YouTube.

The first is relatively amazing. However there is something terrifying about Alanis doing the Fergie thing in the woeful songstress fashion while wearing hoochie clothing.

The second is, well, terrifying. Just because you happen to film cop cars just driving by does not make you "street". But if you sang along like I did, it's okay, because the entire video is hilarious. Not to mention the fact that the chorus is "Where you from? DG!"