Northern Exposure

There is no quicker way to bond with locals than through the sex industry. What can I say? Something about it just brings people together.

I didn’t actually get the chance to visit a Canadian strip club last weekend. Which is unfortunate. Not because I’m into glitter and the smell of fear, but because I was really looking forward to figuring out the logistics of putting coins in a girl’s G-String. Obviously, Canada did not take the titty bar industry into account when settling on non-paper dollars.

My friends said that the matter was easily negotiated through the “Lick it and stick it” method. One of them put a dollar in his palm, ran his tongue over the coin and slapped my friend across the face to prove his point. Call me old fashioned, but something about that seems so wrong. Maybe it’s the fact that you'd have to be bat-shit insane to allow any object from a strip club into any of your orifices. I hope strippers douche with bleach.

My friends and I didn’t visit any gentlemen’s clubs. Maybe because they were too busy soliciting prostitutes. This is where the trip got interesting.

The six of us wandered the streets of Montreal in freezing winds, ankle-deep slush, and patches of ice in search of a bar. I was having a difficult time staying vertical in my Harley Davidson boots. The pavement seemed to shift beneath the slush, snow and ice at exactly the right time to catch me off-balance. Or maybe it was just the Vodka and Red Bulls.

At any rate, I was shocked when I saw a girl briskly marching down the street in what was perhaps the most idiotic winter-wear ever. An obscenely low red spaghetti-string belly shirt desperately fought to cover the top third of her stomach. A black pleather skirt was waging an equally pointless war with her thighs, but what really brought the ensemble together was the boots.

Imagine the biggest whore in creation walking into a shoe maker and, just before she allows him, his entire family, his neighbors, and all of the animals in the local zoo to penetrate her with their own shit, she says, “I’m afraid my clientele is starting to think I’m too good for them. Can you make me boots to make me seem like a bigger whore?” That’s what this footwear accomplished.

In retrospect, I’m glad they were pleather. Because they would have had to wipe out half the cows in the Midwest to make them.



Basically, there was no more than 2 square inches of boot touching the pavement at any given time. Then again, given the amount of time she probably spent on her back anyway, I doubt this was a substantial inconvenience.

My friends, being the jackals that they are, decided this was the perfect opportunity to get to know real Canadians in the up-close and personal way that only cheap, purchased sex from an underage street whore with the same dental hygienist as Michael Strahan could provide.



Friend: Hey baby, how much?
Whore: You guys cops?
Friend: Nope.
Whore: How much are you looking to spend?
Friend: What can I get?
Whore: One date is $80

Just to reiterate, WE WERE IN CANADA. How big a skank are to you charge $80 Canadian for a fuck? That’s about $68 American. Or less than a George Foreman oven. Thank God they have free health care up there. Because she’d never be able to turn a profit and cover the cost of Chlamydia medication otherwise.

Friend: Is that $80 per person, or for the six of us?
Whore (long pause to eye our little posse): You ALL want dates?
Friend: Hell yeah!
Whore: That’s $80 per person.
Friend: Can’t we get a group discount?

This is when she decided that we weren’t for real. She quickly began walking away. Well, as quickly as one can manage on 6” pleather stiletto fuck-me boots.

Friend: Wait! WAIT!!!

She turned her head briefly, pulled by the allure of easy money. With an emphasis on the word “easy.”

Friend: How much to just shit on your chest?

The way I see it, we’ll be fortunate if they even let us back into the country next time.