Little Boxes Made Of Ticky Tacky

So last night I ended up going out to Taboo with Bruce La Bruce, who some of you might know as the director of "Otto, or Up With Dead People" and "L.A. Zombie" (he certainly has a type). It was one of those "I'm in Montreal, you're in Montreal, let's go watch naked guys dance onstage" kinda deals.

For the most part, a lot of it involved staring at said naked guys while poking fun at some of the weirder ones, including one guy who bore a disturbing resemblance to Rachel Maddow. He even had the eyeglasses. I wasn't sure whether he should be giving lap-dances or sitting behind a desk, cracking wise about health care reform and tax breaks. And there was one unfortunate soul who had on stripey socks that made it look like Tim Burton came on his feet.

At one point, one of the dancers there came up to do the scheduled "Hi, how are you, where are you from" spiel that I've given so many times before, and to be honest, found kind of cute. So I decided to cut him a break and take him in the back for a blowjob. I know that sounds kinda slutty, but in all fairness, he was actually really hot, and I'm practically the patron saint of cocksucking. I'm like what would happen if Mother Teresa went around giving people head instead of helping the poor and creating hospices for people with terminal illnesses. Seriously, statues will be erected in my honour.

...HA! Erected.

But in the back of the club, with eight inches of stripper cock pistoning in and out of my mouth like an engine that I realized something: I missed this. I missed working the pole, peeling onstage, taking guys outback and giving them lap dances that would make a rabbi eat pork. I missed stripping. When I was on the pole I was, as Billy Crudup put it in Almost Famous before diving off the roof of a house, a Golden God.

I realized I had been living a wholesome existence so long, I had forgotten how to have fun. I had become a homeboy; hell, I was three cats away from becoming either a crazy cat lady or a grade-a douchebag. Maybe it was the weight of the realization, or maybe it was the fact that I was starting to suffer from oxygen deprivation due to the eight inch cock down my throat, but I was having an epiphany.

Unfortunately, before I could delve further into this, he shot a load down my throat that could have drowned a regular man.

How's that for a religious experience?