From: df@accelenet.net
Date: Sat Jul 12 09:45:29 1997
The metallic taste drowned the faint aroma of juniper as my lips locked
on a pierced, silicone enhanced breast. One hand stroked the other
breast while the other stroked Ms. Snappy. My shirt was unbuttoned to my
waist, her tongue was exploring one orifice or another, her left hand
stroked my hair and her right hand was vigorously attending to Mr. Happy.
Nasty Twister? No, I was at the one and only Fantasia, where all the
laws Canada’s ever passed about nude clubs are routinely ignored. Except
one, as we’ll see later. Ah, Canada. Look at your map: see that big
empty space above the US? That’s what they call a country. You get more
miles -- they’re called “kilometers”, which may explain why you get more
mileage in a club. You can go pretty fast on the highways, eh? Like 100
is the limit, but 120’s not enough to avoid being tailgated in the right
lane. Cars accelerate to 100 as fast as US cars get to 60. And you get
more money for your dollar. They call them “dollars” too, but it looks
like Milton Bradley had a thing for unattractive, inbred chicks.
I can’t help reveling in the terrific value, attractive women, and
extremely good dancing available here. In general, in Toronto, you
should expect a fully nude lap dance with plenty of grindage and with no
customer contact for about $10 CDN. This compares to bikini dances at
TJ’s, for example, for $10 US. For twice as much, you should be able to
touch everything but the kitty. This is an “average” dance, and at an
exchange of 7.50 US for 10 CDN, you won’t find a better bargain in North
America. Full mutual contact nude dances at $15 US! At Fantasia, the
minimum you can expect this from every dancer, yet some dancers are more
enthusiastic than others.
The Beater picked me up at my hotel, and by the way, Beater, thanks for
driving. He let me pick where to eat, and of course I chose my favorite
club, the Caberet Locomotion. I saw my favorite dancer there, Delilah,
who was French (not Quebecois) and not Parisian. She approached and
asked “R____”?
I was impressed. Hell, even Beater was impressed. It had been quite a
while since I had last visited the place -- so long that it may have
already expired on DejaNews. Yet, she remembered me. We chatted, I ate
dinner, then she danced for me. I can’t help but fall into her chocolate
eyes when they look at me. Of all the dancers who pretend to like me,
she does it the best. She has a great ass -- I mean, I have not seen
better anywhere -- but she’s moving to Vancouver. Which is in another
part of Canada.
CANCON officially started at the Brass Rail, an upscale place which
doesn’t appeal to me. I couldn’t get the eye of the dancer I wanted to
try, but I did avoid all the rest. It’s small, crowded, smoky and the
stage dances aren’t all that good. Also, there’s no place to sit, and
the dancers rarely sit down and chat. Still, most of the dancers were
very good looking, and the crowd was energetic. LMR’s hat design went
over well.
After meeting briefly, we ASSC-ers headed over to Fantasia. It’s not
really worth going before 10, except possibly to reserve a seat. Yet, we
were there about 8:30. The smart ASSC-er will wait an hour before
getting a dance, and no one will be surprised to find that I got a dance
almost right away. A petite, slutty looking brunette danced for me. Of
all the dances I’ve had in Toronto, this was one of the lowest mileage --
yet, incurable optimist that I am, I had three. The last time I was
there, entrance to the showroom included VIP room privileges, and allowed
in-and-out privileges, so that’s where I started. Oops. $20 down the
drain. Plus I left my change on the table back there, which was probably
about $5 CDN. So two mistakes right away. Not to mention, I’m $180 into
the evening, after cover, parking and the few drinks I paid for.
There were more than a few absolutely knock-out gorgeous dancers. But
you can be sure that these girls have the worst kilometerage. There were
enough ugly girls to populate Toronto with Deja Vus. And there were lots
of dancers in the middle, some of whom will make good use of your money.
Then Delta-9’s dancer showed up, and he disappeared for a while. When he
returned, she asked if I wanted a dance. “Seduce me”, I said, and
pointed to my lap. She sat down, we chatted for a few minutes, probably
a song, and then said, “Let’s go dance”. We did. In the VIP room this
time, which was a good idea. As we left for our dance, the tables were
in an awkward position, so I lifted her up and gracefully set her down in
the aisle. Everyone at the table pretended not to be impressed, but the
sober ones were. I’d had a few radioactive gin and tonics (my summer
drink, which is what they claim to be having in Toronto, and one
originally developed to prevent Malaria which is important in a club
which thinks a towel solves any sanitation problem), and my hangover from
the night before was almost gone. It was a great dance, but like me, too
short. She promised to get me after the dance, and I failed to heed her
recommendation to stay in the VIP room to reserve my seat. Sitting alone
and staring at other guys doesn’t appeal to me.
The dancer recommended by Delta-9 started groping me and asked, “So,
you’re a Yankee, eh?” “Thanks to you” I replied, looking down. She
didn’t get it, but that’s OK. She shoved her tongue down my throat.
"Hey," I thought, "She really does taste like an ashtray". I tried not
to think about all her previous customers, and especially, what else had
been shoved down her throat. Then I decided that I _wanted_ to think
about it. Mr. Happy was with me on this one, and Mr. Hygiene wasn’t
coming to the party. After three songs it turns out that Mr. Happy
wasn’t, either. She had to go; it was Cattle Call.
After Cattle Call (where everyone in the room is introduced), she found
me again, and we went to the VIP room to find the seats full. She had
several suitors waiting in there -- with seats -- so I released her to
her fate. I had blue balls anyway, and was losing my interest.
Beater fended off lots of dancers, announcing that he was “picky”. Yet,
when I finally found the dancer he wanted... let’s just say we have very
different tastes in dancers. There was no room for him in the VIP room
either, so he and his dancer sat in a corner near the stage, and in full
view of the ASSC table. Of course, we watched.
In between dances I watched the stage show, watched Lapper follow D9
around like a puppy -- and given D9's knowledge of girls who "do" who can
blame him? The girl/girl shows on stage were pretty good, although not
as good as SF.
When D9D finally returned we went into the VIP room and found a seat.
During that song the manager came by several times, yet she never stopped
stroking me and kept licking my nipples. As she was doing this he
informed her that she had to use a towel. This interruption did nothing
to solve a very pressing need I had. During the second song, she told me
she had to go again, but that she’d introduce me to her friend. So I
paid $50 for these two songs, and got three more from her friend. I wish
I’d started with her friend.
D9DF: She’s just my type except she’s tall, short blond hair with
enhanced boobs. Come to think of it, she isn’t my type at all. Yet, her
dances were very high mileage, and she had a tongue post. When I
mentioned that I’d always wanted to try that, she explained exactly what
it would take for that to happen right here in the club. She had a
towel, so apparently blow jobs were OK. Hard as it was to believe, I was
finally low on cash and couldn’t get one.
Still, I got all the information I need for my next trip. Beater and I
left poor, but happy. I could finally get my four hours of sleep, then
return to work.
--
Dave's Friend
df@accelenet.net
http://webhome.idirect.com/~beater/df_rev.html