Friday, February 18, 2011

Some Sex Blogs

I've been looking for sex blogs to link to. I'd already found the superbly written Tales of a Massage Therapist by Italian-Torontonian Mark Russo (peeing at left). I think he's writing some important stuff. And personally,  I've always preferred literary porn to visual.



This week I found Le blogue Gay Naturiste from France. I like any site dedicated to public nudity and exhibitionism. He has an interesting selection of categories and pics, like this "bucheron nu" (naked lumberjack"). The blogger also has a fun site called Gay Naturiste Homme.


"Bûche" is my new hottie of all hotties. I've had men like him, and I've enjoyed every hairy, fleshy square inch of them. I hope he comes to Quebec to a forest near me. Hey wait, I live on the edge of a forest. Maybe I'll come across him one day.



Anyway, I added Cigar Smoking Hunks for Jimmy, my partner. Smoke is his thing. It's also an amateur site and another niche. There are a lot of sites promoting porn stars, but I prefer the true amateur's touch. 





Might mention Priape's blog, the Montreal-based sex shop and mail-order store. (Maybe they'll advertise on QueerMontreal.info...). Nice pics with text that sometimes go further than mere product descriptions, like the one on masturbation. Some are in French, some are in English. 



Monday, February 14, 2011

Why gays are some of the most bilingual Montrealers

I wrote to Gazette correspondent Andy Riga -- whose beat is Montreal's streets, structures and unusual stuff about the city -- to tell him that the newsstand after which he named his column and blog (Metropolitan News) was mentioned by Puelo in his post here, "Jaded Stanley Street Memories." Andy, who used to work at the store, wrote back, "Whoa. I never saw anything like that." Of course he didn't. Straights never did back in the day. We gay men lived in a parallel universe, where we were constantly cruising and having sex while "normal" people never suspected a thing.


He blogged about Montreal in the days of Funkytown, using a 1997 CP quote from a Lime Light bartender, who said: "French-English tiffs in the discos are less common because excess energies and frustrations are usually funneled into dancing." In the gay discos, getting into a tiff was the furthest thing from our minds -- our minds being completely preoccupied by the male pulchritude that surrounded us each and every night. Learning the language of the other solitude was only natural, up until it was time to speak the international language. As I commented on Andy's blog, " Stanley Street is where French boys learned English and English boys learned French. Helps explain why gays are some of the most bilingual Montrealers around." Vive la différence !







Friday, February 4, 2011

Such determined little boys!

Wow, 13. Looking back, I thought I was young cruising Dominion Square for sex when I was 15. 


Like the sex rag Puelo found with the photo of the "homo-sexuals" who patronized a certain bar, my cue came from a conversation between my big sister and her CBC costume designer friend  as I worked on my car scrapbook on the den floor. Little pictures have big ear, adults used to say, and these little ears managed to pick up the words "Dominion Square" and complete the quadratic equation that only little gay boys are able to solve. The first chance I got after school one June day I grabbed the 165 bus downtown and made a beeline to the square. The encounter I had -- the first with an adult -- wasn't exactly what I was looking for, but I was glad I did it. I wrote it up in an as-yet unpublished story called Vespasiennes



I didn't started going to gay bars until I was 17. There weren't any anyways, at least none that dared to speak their name. But I'd found my first hunting ground. Can you imagine picking up a 15-year-old kid who -- with blond hair and not even shaving yet -- who actually looks 15? I hadn't quite understood that I was the bait -- let alone jail bait. Usually I'd cruise around the Square or along St. Catherine St, looking hungrily for a glance back, pretending to look into store windows on cold winter evenings waiting for some man to make up his mind. Come on, I'd be thinking. Pick me! Give me your masculine love! I want your grown-up, hairy body! I want to feel that freshly shaven beard, rub my face in your chest hair, press my steel-hard young dick against your slightly softer, more inviting man  cock. 

I found one guy with whom I had a few repeats. I might have liked the first night, I don't remember. But I found him a bit weird, and there was something cold about him. He always went on about his fantasy of blowing me while I was driving my mother's car, and he liked to drop his saliva in my mouth, which I found gross but put up with it because I wondered if this was one of the things homosexuals were supposed to do. At least he was a lot younger than my first encounter, and he had a decent place to go to.

I might have cruised about twice a year only. It was all pretty other-worldly, for a boy from TMR. Another reality. But I had to do it. Had to. One man I remember fondly was a French guy who I noticed circling the block. Knowing I only had to reel him in, I stuck out my thumb on Cathcart St as he approached a third time. (Hitchhiking on Cathcart St!) He swung open the wide passenger  door of his big 70s GM job, like an Olds, with loads of velour and sumptuous music oozing out his stereo. He took me to the South Shore. He wasn't particularly handsome, but he was friendly and attentive in a way that made me feel comfortable. I think his name was Robert.


Once at his place, he mixed me my first screwdriver. Maybe even my first taste of hard liquor. He taught me something I've always loved ever since: the 69. I wish I'd met him before the other  two. He was the first man I made love with. 

Jaded Stanley Street Memories – Puelo Deir

Blogger's note: Puelo was kind enough to write this great account of his (very!) early years on Stanley Street. It's too delicious to bury as a comment, so with his permission here it is.


Decades have passed since I strutted my illegal ass up and down Stanley Street at the height of its orgiastic gay parade.

Flash and trash. The pulsing disco beats. On one small strip there was the glitz and mostly wanna be glam of the Lime Light with its lengthy lineups of disco boogie divas desperate to reach the long flight of stairs that reached up and up and up to disco heaven. There was the gay model and pose of Le Jardin with its Saturday Night Fevered dance floor. There was Chez Buds for the leather queens. For a little sleaze and strip tease there was Hollywood.

Just around corner there was the Metropolitan News with its racks of After Dark, GQ and Blue Boy magazines. Men discreetly flipping through the pretty boy magazines, one erotically charged eye on the page and one eye on the guy stroking their crotch next to them. A block away, there was Square Dominion Tavern next to the park where rent boys enticed the attention of circling sex-starved men.

North of Ste-Catherine there was show time at PJ’s with La Munroe, drag queens and rough trade. There was the Mystique to start the night off, or their packed to the rafters Sunday afternoon tea dances. Around the corner on Peel there was there was the grand and luxurious Sheraton Hotel featuring the cruisy Kon Tiki and it’s potent Volcanoes. There was the Peel Pub.

I first walked these streets with my mom. I came to Montreal to compete in a athletics competition at Centre Claude Robillard. We arrived on the bus from Ottawa and took the metro to meet my aunt who was working in a bank on Peel Street. As luck would have it, her place of business was right next to the Peel Pub. As we walked toward the bank, my eyes were firmly fixed on the pub. Heart palpitating. I had other sports on my mind.

I knew then what lurked behind the doors of this establishment. I’d discovered this place where homosexuals gathered in the pages of a rather smutty straight porn magazine belonging to my mom’s husband. Two pages. Discretely tucked in the middle. There they were, two naked men with long hair, a brunette and a blond. Homosexuals! A few paragraphs of the lurid behavior going on in downtown Montreal and the clandestine places these men frequented. They made it sound all so tawdry, illicit and sultry – but not wrong. This is what I wanted. This is what I craved. These nocturnal delights were my heart’s desire.

And now barely thirteen, here I was, in the heart of it. The sights, the sounds, the sexual vibe. I couldn’t wait to make my way through these forbidden dens. I did everything for my mom to give me some free time to roam, alone. It was not to be.

We were in Sin City, and mom, wasn’t gonna leave her boy alone to the perverted wolves that even in light of day were on the stroll. Little did she know that her little cub was all too willing to join the pack. So close and yet so far. Not for long.

A year later, I’d get my wish to hustle and bootie my way through Montreal’s most legendary and notorious boites de nuit - as a 14-year-old.
That, as they say, is another tale.