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Credit: Shawn Perez/Flickr.com
But in 2003, at the age of 27, I finally crossed the border.
My buddy Bryan and I went to Montreal on a Sunday to see the Summer Sanitarium Tour at Parc Jean-Drapeau. Metallica. Bizkit. Linkin Park (when they were still sorta good). Deftones. Mudvayne.
We drove up early in the day because we wanted to hit some of the legendary strip clubs that we had heard so much about.
The first place we went to was Club Super Sexe. Rumors were that the U.S. dollar got you “special treatment.” Nothing could be further from the truth.
We walked in and there was one girl on stage and a handful of guys sitting around. Not the rager we expected. The bar had a bucket deal, where you’d get a bucket of beers and a table dance for a certain price. We gladly obliged and were led to a padded table in the back of the club by the breasty-blonde who was previously onstage. One cool thing was that the table was pub-height, so she was rolling around at eye level. At some point during her bump-and-grind spectacle, she said that for another few dollars we could go upstairs to a “private” room with her and a friend for a more “intimate” time.
*Cue the boners.
The four of us went upstairs, and I knew right away it was going to be disappointing. It was basically a second-floor bar that was empty and all the lights were on. But, who knows, right?
The girls were on the padded table, Bryan and I had beers in hand waiting for the magic to happen. They were talking in French, pretending to do lesbionic shit to each other. Making eye contact, the hair flips, the spanking. Stripper 101. What they didn’t know, and neither did my buddy, was that I took five years of French in high school and junior high. And they weren’t talking about polishing my bishop or giving us matching blumpkins.
Nope. They were talking about going grocery shopping.
*Fail.
Next, Brian tells us how to pay $100 to whack off…
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