Who Needs Love When There's Southern Comfort?

It was 2:30 at night when I finally returned to my apartment in Montreal with a wad of cash, a stiff neck and roughly 7 oz. of KY Jelly coating the inside of my lower intestine. In the space of a night, I had earned enough money to pay rent on my apartment, which in my absence, had done nothing to rid itself of the mysterious stench of Malboros and cat piss, and ensured myself a second coming (so to speak) to GoodHandy's.

This is that story. And before I forget...
Consider yourself adequately cautioned.

It all started innocently enough as I sat on a bus making its way to Toronto, singing silently along to Amanda Fucking Palmer and kicking some serious ass with Peach in Mario Kart. About half way through my mumbled rendition of Oasis, I heard a voice a couple seats back:
"Mom, what's an 'abortion'?"

Whoops. While I thought I was being fairly quiet, I had apparently been vocal enough to let the 10-year-old boy behind me eavesdrop on the line about going to the abortion clinic with Melissa Mahoney. Shazbot. Sure I'm pro-choice, but even then, that really is just several kinds of awkward right there.

Blissfully, the rest of my trip was far less interesting. While staying with Andre, I ended up devouring 12" Subway sandwich after 12" Subway sandwich, lovingly dubbing my new found eating disorder "The Barret Long Diet".
Imagine three of these. Only they're all in between bread slices. Yum.

Anyway, for those of you wondering, GoodHandy's is like a strip club on Red Bull, Coke and Viagra. Not only do the guys strip and all that but they actually film scenes live in front of the audience. This is like Disney Land for me. Only better, because it has dicks in it.

The front door of this fine, fine establishment was decked out in posters of myself and my scene partner for the night, the aptly named "Tripod" Trevor (I'll give you five seconds to figure out how he earned the title). Mind you, our images were covered up with green tape to hide our shame from prying eyes.

I went inside to meet up with owners, Mandy the T-Girl hostess and overall sweetheart, and Todd, the resident camera guy and straight man (proverbially speaking) to Mandy. My first duty was to head upstairs to do a cage show, which involved me jumping into a cage and playing the skin flute while chatting up the patrons. It's times like these I wonder why there aren't more cages in clubs. That shit is off the chain, man.

After my shift was done, Mandy called us all up on stage for a quick little comedy routine/Hellraiser-inspired spanking. Mandy took it relatively easy on me, but after giving the other models free-reign to join in, I ended up with welts and (sadly) a tiny bit of bleeding. Not torents, but still, there was just a little smidgeon of blood. Thankfully, Mandy pulled the whole thing as soon as that happened and handed me some disinfectant, despite my protests of "It's only a flesh wound!", a line I had been waiting YEARS to finally use in the proper context.

The subsequent live shoot, however, went off without a hitch. There are about a million things that can go wrong during a regular shoot, and these problems are only further exacerbated when you add an audience to the mix. Thankfully, they were behaved, and Trevor and I managed to deliver one hell of a show.

And before you ask, yes, it really was huge. At one point, I actually performed a sort of pseudo-measurement of the damn thing and realized that it was literally THE SIZE OF MY FUCKING WRIST. Yowza. God bless lube is all I have to say.

With the scene wrapped, the various condoms thrown away, and semen sufficiently mopped up, I returned home, and the following day, grabbed the bus home. Considering how well the trip had gone up until that point, it was only natural that the bus ride would be absolute hell.

On the way home, the bus ended up breaking down in Kingston, leaving me stranded in the middle of fucking nowhere. My DS decided that that was the perfect time to fucking die on me, while the book I had hastily picked up for the ride back turned out to be an abysmally boring read. I ended up falling asleep while cuddling my carry-on when the woman in front of me (presumably wondering whether or not I was, in fact, fucking a bag) asked me why the hell I was holding onto to it so tightly.

"I don't know, I just like to cuddle things when I sleep because I don't feel as alone".

Yes, I sad that to a complete stranger. What the fuck is wrong with me? This is why I need a fucking boyfriend: So I don't say stupid shit like this.

Ah well. I may be too fucked up to function like a regular human being, but at least I got money. And that must count for something right?