My Canada Adventure: Part Three

Alright, where were we?

Oh, yes. Canada.

Did you know that the Canadian dollar is worth more than the American dollar now? I had no idea! The second night I was there, we stopped at a bank in order for me to exchange some money, and while there I learned that the Canadian dollar is indeed more powerful than our George Washington. Quite a shock, I tell you.

After we left the bank, we went across the street to Zeller's (which I think is the equivalent to K-Mart here in the states) to buy a game. We chose Taboo, which I wrote about the other day. This particular night, they only had one cashier working, and the line was getting a little out of control. Wanda, bless her heart, was doing her best to get everyone checked out in a timely manner, but obstacles kept coming up that were keeping her from doing so.

We were all getting a little antsy, so I stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. As I lit my cigarette, a man rode up on his bike. He'd seen the brand (Marlboro Lights) and asked if he could have one since, and I quote, "American cigarettes are so much better than Canadian cigarettes." I gave him a cigarette (though it killed me to do so since I'd left my duty-free carton of cigarettes on the plane, and didn't know if I would ever see them again. And word on the street is that no Canadian cigarette was going to compare! I did see them again, for the record. Those Canadians are honest, y'all!). He then asked if he could have a couple of dollars, you know, to get something to eat. I momentarily forgot that I'd just exchanged some money and told him that I only had American money, and you know what he said?

Wait for it.

"It's cool. I'll take it. You'll just have to double the amount."

Hahahahaha. Haha. Ha. Ha. Ha. That was funny, eh? Whew. (Raise your hand if you love what Bush has done for our economy and getting it shoved in your face by the guy that's begging you for money.) I gave him $5 Canadian because, damn, he deserved it.

Something tells me you don't really care about the exchange rate of our dollars, though. It IS relevant to my story. (Somehow. I'm sure of it. I'll MAKE sure of it.)

So, Luke and I had arrived at House of Lancaster, a strip club. (Link probably not safe for work.) It sounded quite regal, but it was a strip club. How regal could it be? I hoped it would be a royal good time nonetheless. (Get it? ROYAL good time. Heh.) As we enter the club, Luke's major concern is what we're going to do with the Heineken while we're inside. God forbid we lose the beer! (I like a man who has priorities.)

We walk up to the counter where Ron Jeremy's doppelgänger (Did you see that, Leila? I used an umlaut! And I owe it ALL to you!) is standing, and Luke asks if perhaps we can check the beer into the coat check. RJ didn't think that was such a swell idea, but he ceded that he would be willing to place the beer behind the counter for us. RJ is nothing if not accommodating. The girl at the register informed us that the cover was $2 per person.

$2!

What a bargain! Finally! A deal that's way below US standards! Here, at House of Lancaster, I can get in for a minimum of $8 cheaper than I can get into any strip club in my hometown. That exchange rate doesn't seem so bad now! (I knew I could work it in there.) I generously pay the cover charge because I'd been dying to get rid of my $2 coins. They confuse me.

Luke and I make our way to a table and before we've even settled in, I see a girl bounding across the club in our direction. "Look!" I exclaimed. "Here comes Miss America!" Before I knew it, a girl wearing something resembling the American flag had jumped into Luke's lap and was hugging and kissing him.

"Where have you been? I've been worried about you! You haven't returned my calls! You didn't show up when you were supposed to! Is something wrong?!?"

He looks like a fish out of water. He keeps moving his lips, but no sound is coming out. He's floundering; pun intended. He's saved by the bouncer, though, because at that moment he (sadly, not RJ) arrives to tap Miss America on the shoulder to ask her to remove herself from Luke's body. She hops down, and crouches beside him, and continues to look pleadingly at him for answers.

Then she notices me.

"Hi, I'm [some fake name, but we'll continue to call her Miss America]. This guy is my boyfriend. But he hasn't been calling me or coming to see me or anything!"

She thrusts her bottom lip out into a pout and looks back at Luke. Luke continues to look like a deer in the headlights. I'm finding the situation quite comical. A waitress arrives, and Luke is able to break his state of catatonia momentarily to place an order for a drink - a strong drink. Miss America and I order a drink as well, and while we're doing so, Luke conveniently excuses himself from the table.

Miss America plops into his seat and grins broadly at me. "He's not really my boyfriend," she says. "I just really, really wish he was!"

"Please don't let me stand in your way. In fact, I'll be happy to leave right now," I graciously offer.

(No, really. More than happy.)

"Don't be silly! I want you to stay. This is fun!"

She continues to talk at a rapid pace; telling me all about herself, and how much she likes Luke. She tells me that she's 22. I tell her she's too young to tie herself down. (Luke, by the way, is 36. He was born in June. You know I asked. So, while he acts similar to those sinister Scorpios that I always find myself entangled with, he's a Gemini.)

The rest of our stay at the strip club is kind of a blur. (I ordered a strong drink too, and quickly switched to beer after I realized I was quite drunk.) Luke and Miss America disappeared for a bit. I chastised two men in front of me for catcalling one of the dancers, but not giving her any money. They explained that they didn't have any money, and besides she pretty much hated them and they weren't allowed to go anywhere near her. I decide that I will go give her some money for having to endure their obnoxious hooting.

A woman giving a dancer money? That apparently doesn't happen often in this club. The place came alive. The DJ said, "Well, well, well ... We have LADY coming to the stage, folks!" I blush madly, and am grateful for the low lights of the club. Everyone cheers as I go to place the money in her g-string.

Over the loudspeaker, I hear, "Whoa, whoa! No touching, ma'am!"

Oops.

I skulk back to my table feeling like a lecher; the table from which Luke is still missing. My two new best friends, the dancer's stalkers, are waiting with high-fives for me. "That was great! Hey, we were thinking ... would you be interested in coming home with us?"

What the hell? It's not like I'm in a strip club, wearing a low-cut shirt, sitting all alone, and looking like I want to go home! Why would they ask such a thing of me? Oh, wait, that's exactly what it looked like!

"You guys don't have any money, remember?"

(At the time, in my inebriated state, I patted myself on the back for my quick retort. Days later, I realize that I sounded like a prostitute not willing to deal with low-rent tricks.)

Luke, who suddenly looks like a knight in shining slightly tarnished armor, reappears, and I ask if we can leave. I'm looking forward to bed. To passing out in bed, to be exact. We retrieve the beer from RJ and hail a cab. (Cab service is excellent in Toronto.) His house is conveniently nearby, so we were home in minutes.

As we go inside the door, Luke starts kissing me again. I was either emitting you-can't-kiss-worth-shit vibes, or I straight up told him that his kissing was sub-par (still a little fuzzy here) because he asked me to teach him how to kiss. The nurturer in me wanted to pat him on the head, grab him by the hand, and lead him up the stairs (it was a tri-level townhouse) for lessons. I just led him up the stairs for lessons. (Better not to be condescending, I think.)

We land in the kitchen where more kissing ensues, and it is improving slightly. He's being a little softer, moving a little slower, heading in the right direction. It gave me a bit of hope that perhaps he was teachable in all areas of dealing with the opposite sex. Things might not be so bad after all. We continue to make out and throw in a little heavy petting for good measure.

"Let's take a bath," he says. "I have a large jacuzzi tub."

"Jacuzzi tub?"

"Yes."

"With jets?"

"Yes."

"And bubbles?"

"Yes!"

"Yes! Let's!"

(I do love a good bath.)

We run the water into his glorious tub and step in. Pure bliss. We lay at our respective ends and relax for a bit. I'm nearly comatose from pleasure overload. (And, no, the jets were not positioned between my legs; however, hindsight is 20/20.) Some time passes - perhaps minutes, perhaps hours - and we both realize, at seemingly the same time, that the other person still exists. We maneuver around so that we can resume our make-out session.

Then he said those fatal words...

"Do I make you horny, baby?"

[screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech]

WTF? When did Austin Powers join the party?

I giggled. Then I giggled some more. Then I was laughing. Luke/Austin, being completely obliterated, laughed right along with me.

I stood up and said I was going to find some towels. Luke/Austin pointed me in the direction of where the towels were, and somehow I got lost in his townhouse. I'm wandering around, dripping wet, freezing my ass off, searching for the towel closet. I stumble upon it (somewhere, and it might have even been back in the bathroom) what feels like 30 minutes later, and grab us some towels. Huge, cushion-y towels. I wrap myself up, and wrap up Luke/Austin who looks like a drowned cat as he just stands there shivering and looking miserable.

I then went and crawled into his bed, and assumed he would follow. I planned to feign extreme sleepiness, and it wasn't going to be all that hard to do. But he didn't come. And he still didn't come. And he still didn't come. I pictured him frozen into an ice block in his jacuzzi tub and thought I better check on him.

He was just as I left him. With a towel wrapped around himself, shivering, and still dripping wet except where the towel was covering him.

"T-t-t-tooo c-c-cooooold," he said.

Jesus. And he calls himself a Canadian?

We hear a door close right then, and Luke/Austin snapped into action. Thankfully, his catatonic states are short-lived. He tells me that it's his roommate, the guy who initially attracted me at the party, and that he better run down and talk to him. He goes into his bedroom, grabs a long-sleeve shirt, pulls it over his head, and heads out the door with his bare bum there for the world to see. It was the last vision I had before falling asleep.

Speaking of sleep (my favorite segue), and I hate to do this (I do!), I must sleep. I won't leave you hanging too much by letting you know ahead of time that he did not get to poke his special tool in me. Channeling Austin Powers was a bad, bad idea.

If you're reading this and know Luke/Austin in real life, please know that it's truly not my intention to be mean. He was a sweet guy who was very drunk, thus making him easy fodder. I would think that Luke/Austin would tell you that he had a great time that night, and I did as well. This was fun stuff. Of course, his opinion might change were he to encounter these posts, and his feelings would probably be hurt as well. I don't know him well enough to gauge his reaction. I ask that you not share this site with him for the latter reason alone.