Friday marked Mandy Goodhandy's 35th (...ish) Birthday, and because I simply love Mandy I booked myself a bus ticket, convinced Ryan Russell to let me crash on his couch in exchange for General Tao Chicken and made my way down to Toronto to break my 27-day streak of sobriety.
Yeah, I'm not sure how I made it that far either.
Upon showing up to Ryan's place with the fixin's for General Tao and a copy of Zombie Strippers, which they regarded with the same amount of joy that I would show towards a dildo that could cure cancer and make quesadillas, I donned my gayest apparel and ran off to Mandy's 30-(mumble) birthday.
I decided to start off with a couple Red Bull & Vodkas, which happen to be the perfect social drink: The combined upper-downer effect guarantees that you will get massively shit-faced pretty quickly while the Red Bull ensures that you don't end up crashing early. Sure, it'll pretty much rearrange your internal organs, but it's a small price to pay for not passing out in the bathroom.
Not only was Mandy pleasantly surprised that I managed to haul ass all the way to Toronto, but I was even asked to host the All-Guys Sex Party the following night (which is exactly what it sounds like). Well, I wasn't so much asked as I was dry-humped at the bar by Tim Thomas while Todd gave me a rundown of how it worked.
My brain momentarily ceased function in order to rewind what he had just asked me to do. Me hosting a sex-party is the equivalent of asking Erik Rhodes to host a kid's show: Wrong person, wrong job. And of course, I listen to Wilco which means that I'm an awful fucking dancer. But I figured it would be fun, so we then finalized the details while I linked the Daisy Chain between Tim and Tripod Trevor. Not only was I being given a pretty primo hosting gig for the night, but I didn't even get too drunk! I totally high-fived myself.
Between nights at Goodhandy's, I pretty much hung around with Ryan and Jake, with whom I not only drank my first Slurpee (which are not available in Quebec, because apparently 7-11 isn't too keen on being called "Sept-Onze") and then watched Mystery Science Theater for the first time ever. How a self-described nerd could go this long without ever seeing MST3K is completely beyond me.
The sex-party itself was a thing of beauty. I happened in during Mr. Toronto Leather weekend, which meant that the party had a leather theme. The only problem is that my own personal leather collection is minimal-bordering-non-existant, so Todd gave me a leash for the night. Say what you will, but I've always been a big fan of leashes and collars. Not only are they tons of fun, but if you accidentally leave them out while family is over you can always say you just needed to walk your neighbour's dog or something, which you just can't do with a Collapsible Sex Swing.
Tim, being the insatiable Dom that he is, wasted no time in bending me over a ledge by the door and administering some severe spankings. This was immediately followed by a yank on the chain, which is my Pavlovian cue for "It's Blowjob time". Somewhere in the midst of the fellatio-makin', Tim took his hands and yanked my mouth open like one of those reverse-bear traps from Saw. And that's when I heard it.
Of course I recognized the sound. It was the same sound I heard when I was in between the Sam-Johnny spit-roast with the latter's cock jammed halfway down my throat: I had yanked my jaw out. AGAIN. I tried opening my jaw to confirm it, and lo and behold, it only opened half-way. Crap.
Thankfully, Tim decided the next step was to go for full-on penetration, and proceeded to go to town my ass. About five minutes into the battering ram fuck I was receiving, Pierre and Julien walked in, wherein Pierre walked up and asked "Are you guys really fucking?"
I kinda figured the fact that Tim was actively burying his bone in my backyard probably should have been a dead giveaway, but I'm assuming it was more incredulous than anything. Not to say that I didn't rattle off a couple snappy responses in my head ("Technically, we're saddlebacking. We have to save ourselves for marriage!"), but at this point Tim was pretty much beating my ass like it was a speedbag and screaming shit that would probably be illegal in most countries so I was understandably a little distracted.
After finishing up, he spent a nice long while administering more gluteal abuse and by the time we were nearing the one hour mark the novelty had, to put it lightly, worn off a tad. By the time I had gone upstairs to see the damage, my ass had turned a lovely shade of purple, so that it looked like I was smuggling a pair of giant grapes in the back of my pants. At this point I realized that between the popped jaw and the discoloured ass, I either needed to mark my limits or get some very specific insurance.
At the end of the night Todd sent me off with some free drinks and a free shot at Tim for the hour of tuchus torture he put me through. Needless to say, I slept on my stomach that night.
Of course, the seven hour bus ride this morning back from Toronto did absolutely fucking NOTHING to soothe things over, and upon finally looking at my ass for the first time since last night, realized that my butt was covered in enough bruises to make Cruella Deville soak her panties.
All in all? So worth it. Hell, I'm a little proud of myself for taking that much abuse without cracking. I have mad BDSM skills, yo.