Date: Mon, 23 Oct 2000 01:26:30 GMT
From: Boris <fierval@hotmail.com>
Subject: Canadian Adventure

	"The first thing I look for in a man is how good a kisser he is,"
said Morty Hillsbury a 30 year old former swimming coach and now a customer
service rep at a major bank, "I mean, if you can't kiss - get away from me,
I am not interested." he continued and proceeded to give me the first
performance anxiety I ever had in my life.  This conversation, or, to be
more precise, the soliloquy, was taking place in my car, while I was
driving us both to my suburban apartment.
	It was this time in the morning, which neither myself nor most of
my friends would ever see, if it were not for night clubs, after hours
parties and last minute hook- ups. I guess it was a fringe benefit of our
lifestyle, because if anybody tried to assure me there is anything more
beautiful than a sunrise over the Puget Sound. Well I guess it is a matter
of taste. Lake Washington at this hour, for example, is pretty cool too.
	I met Morty at the after hours party at a houseboat owned by John,
a successful investment banker. It was wet and cold, when we went to the
roof to make out, and we decided to split. Morty had a few things going for
him that night, and that was why we ended up together. It turned out,
however, that all of those things but one were to some degree
overrated. First of all, he had six-pack abs, and I have never been with
anyone with six-pack abs before. It turned out, that in bed it really did
not matter. Six-pack abs, as later one particularly desirable friend of
mine, a Princeton student besieged by model scouts explained, were an
auxiliary feature important because it made the whole body look tight. In
bed it was irrelevant. Second, he was a self-professed best kisser in the
world, and made me doubt my own abilities. When it came down to it,
however, I was almost immediately shocked into a realization, that maybe
all those vampire tales were true after all: the man was seriously grazing
on my lips and tounge.
	`Boy,' I thought, `I hate to think what a blow-job would feel
like.'
	But then there was the kicker. And no matter what anybody says, I
do not think I could ever get disappointed in that area. Morty was
Canadian. Would it be utterly ridiculous to say, that Canadian men are
somehow superior or just different as sex partners? Would anyone be shocked
if his sleeping buddy turn out to be Canadian?  Candace Bushnell says no. I
think she is wrong. But she is no authority in this case.
	The memory of Morty, his toned physique, rippled stomach and
lawnmower kiss had faded and then was brought back to life more than one
year later. It was something Derek said: "You are a great kisser." He
mumbled quietly and gave me a shy half-smile, that made him look even cuter
than he was. Something I had not deemed possible a moment ago. Derek was
nineteen, six foot four, candid, charming face, square jaw, and the
mandatory brown puppy eyes. I met him on the dance floor of a club north of
the border, minutes after I heard a few of my angry compatriots leaving and
cussing the DJ.
	As far as I could remember, it was one of those instant hookups. We
looked at each other once, admired one another, and assumed that the other
would not be interested, and never looked again. The next memory I have is
that of his moist lips around my tongue.
	What followed happened in the alcohol zone. Whatever I said and did
was immediately erased from memory by its vapors. I was still capable of a
semi-intelligent conversation, parts of which Derek tried to make me recall
the next morning: "You were the one who said that, don't you remember?!" He
kept asking me surprised.
	I did not. The only thing I could remember, was that Derek guessed
my age when I started talking about my one-and-only. Somehow we made it to
the hotel room and got naked. I can definitely write about it, because
there was evidence of us doing it, not because I remember participating in
the process. I was ready to succumb to Morpheus and suggested the same to
Derek, promising him a morning he would never forget if he just let me
rest. He agreed at first, but then it turned out that he could not sleep,
and so he did not and did not let me. Volens nolens, we went at it. For
four hours straight. We kissed and sucked and tried to fuck, but somehow at
some point, the condom just flew off my dick and landed next to the
bed. Derek laughed, and that was it. "No anal." He said.  That did not
really matter, it was wild enough, and positions we got into were probably
worth filming, but then again we were both drunk.
	One thing about sex with Canadian men, that I find especially
astounding, and applaud it with all my heart is that even if you are drunk
and barely know what is going on, they make sure you never forget that you
are actually getting laid. They make noise.  And it is so incredible, that
even alcohol cannot erase those memories. How do they do it I am not
certain, but they must take lessons at school. They probably teach all the
boys how to do it in sex ed classes in Canadian high schools, because all
the Canadians I have been with do it, and do it so masterfully - I could
never either imitate or duplicate it.  Derek was no exception. Why the
walls did not crumble from his moans was a mystery.  Why the neighbors did
not bang angrily on the walls, was clear: it was a master at work here and
they were probably listening in awe. I knew I was. I decided I would be
quiet and enjoy the maestro at his best.
	We crawled out of bed at seven a.m. "I still want to see you cum,"
said Derek.  This was not going to happen, however. We walked to one of
those 24 hour places, like two zombies. I was not sure what we were talking
about, but there was never a dull moment. There was never a dull moment
during the whole encounter, as a matter of fact.  After we left the
restaurant, Derek gave me a hug, we kissed for one last time and were on
our separate ways. "I had fun," he said and gave me his adorable shy
half-smile. I kept walking and did not look back. He probably did not
either.

Boris
http://www.yactice.com