John
Woolfrey 4224
words
1729
Rue de la Visitation
Montreal,
Quebec, Canada
H2L
3C3
(514)
597-2189
Saint-Jean-Baptiste
Copyright 2005 by Raymond John Woolfrey
From East of the Big Q,
a collection of gay short stories about Montreal
In Which Michael and William
Go Out on Saint-Jean-Baptiste,
They Meet Men,
Have Affairs with Them,
and Are Left Bewildered
“Le Québec aux Québécois !”
shouted a moustachioed guy hanging out the car window, his brown hockey hair
flapping in the night breeze. He grinned at Michael and me and waved his
fleur-de-lis flag at us. The driver honked his horn. So were the drivers of
other cars and pick-up trucks decked out with flags as they cruised down St.
Catherine Street in the Village Gai.
Michael waved back, smiling. Then the
moustache shouted at a pair of women with hair like his and miniskirts, waving
for them to get in the car with him and his mate. The girls looked at each
other and continued on their way, giggling.
“You can never tell who’s gay in this
city,” lamented Michael, pouting. “I kinda go for that working-class straight
type.”
“Don’t worry,” I reassured him. “There’ll
be some of those where we’re going.”
It was the June 24th weekend of
Saint-Jean-Baptiste, la Fête Nationale du Québec[1], and Michael and I were on the way to La
Queue Dorée.
The place was already packed with guys
who’d come in from all over the province to party. We got some beer and found a
piece of wall to lean against opposite the rear bar. There we caught up with
each other’s news as we each kept an eye on the crowd.
Motorcycle Cop
After a beer or
two more, it became apparent
that one of us was being cruised. As we were both certain it was the other, I
offered to go piss—which I had to do anyway. “You’ll see it’s you he’s
interested in,” I said to Michael.
Sure enough, when I returned the guy had
made his approach and the two were talking with more than a little mutual interest.
I discreetly wandered off, but not before I got a good look at Michael’s
treasure. In his late thirties, blond and balding with a blond, military
moustache, and plain, but plain in a manly, handsome way. He was just the kind
of working-class guy Michael was talking about.
The rest of the evening for me was
uneventful. I left early without seeing Michael, and the next day I headed for
Oka Beach. Michael called me later that day to tell me about his friend. “We
made love till the birdies tweeted”—which isn’t hard to do if you leave the bar
at three or three-fifteen and it starts getting light at four. “And guess what
he does.”
“What.”
“He’s a cop.”
“A cop?!”
“A motorcycle cop!”
“Here? In Montreal?”
“No— In Quebec City. He’s been here for
the past three weeks on a course.” Michael couldn’t talk long because Mario had
only gone home to change and would be back soon.
A week later Michael went out west for
summer studies, before we’d had a chance to really talk again. Both being bad
letter writers, we hadn’t communicated until he got back after Labour Day. We
arranged to go out Wednesday evening.
Over some beer at the usual place Michael
told me all about his summer in Banff, and I filled him in on the gossip in
Montreal. Eventually I asked him about the guy he’d met on Saint-Jean-Baptiste.
“The motorcycle cop,” I said.
“Yeah, the motorcycle cop.” he sighed.
“Sounds pretty macho.”
“If that’s what being macho is, then no
thanks.”
“What do you mean?”
“You remember when I met him I was wearing
my sailor hat and no shirt? That’s why he stopped me. Because he loved things
military and because I’m not hairy. That’s what he said. We went back to my
place and made love all night.”
“Till the birdies tweeted,” I said,
mockingly.
“Right,” smiled Michael, a touch embarrassed.
“Anyway, Mario said he loved being touched, and I loved touching him—he had a
nice body and a hairy chest. Finally we fell asleep, exhausted.
“Later that afternoon, after we made love
in the living room, we could hear the bands and the shouts from the parade up
on Sherbrooke Street, and a single-engine airplane droning above it all. It
really felt good, lying with him like that, running our hands over each other’s
bodies. By then he’d already said it was too bad I didn’t live in Quebec City.
“The next day he picked me up on his
Kawasaki. As I rode along behind him, my arms around his bare waist where he
placed them, I realized I was thirty-six years old and had never done that
before—I’ve done most everything else! I couldn’t help but get a thrill from
vrooming through the village on the back of a powerful bike with a
hairy-chested, tattooed cop between my thighs. I wanted to shout to people
‘Look at me, look at me!’ There was something heroic about it.”
“A fantasy you didn’t even know you had,”
I suggested.
“Exactly! It seemed as though I was
getting a second chance at adolescent adventure—you know, like the rebellious
teenage daughter going out with the biker.”
“Sounds like a trip.”
“Oh, he was a trip all right. It was fun
at first. He was really kind of silly, holding my hand as we walked through the
village that Saint-Jean-Baptiste day—he strutted, always with his shirt off,
sticking his chest out, speaking in joual—then he left a note on my door
the next weekend, even though he knew I was away. And then he left a letter
saying he had these feelings for me.”
“Wow. So fast.”
“Yeah. Too fast. We really had little in
common. But I had to admit to myself I had feelings for him, too. So when I
told him I’d gone out one night when he had to get up early the next day and
that I missed him the whole time, he got all upset.”
“Upset? About what?”
“He said he didn’t like that—that I
shouldn’t have been missing him. We lived in different cities and we were just
friends. He even claimed the note he’d sent me was a joke. I showed it to the
girls at the office just to make sure there wasn’t something I was missing from
the French, but they said they couldn’t see any joke at all, that it sounded
like he had a thing for me.”
“So it was okay for him to be mushy about
you, but not the other way around?”
“Strange, eh? He’d even told his mother
that I’d been his chum[2].
In his mind, we’d had an affair—of one week!—and then we were just friends.”
“Sounds like he got cold feet. What a
jerk.”
“There were other things, too. The second
day he wanted to go to La Fontaine Park to take some sun and be en famille,
meaning with other gays, since he’s pretty closeted where he lives. On the way
from his bike across the park I told I though he was beau. He said, “No, I’m not good looking. I’m just
ordinary, like you.’ Can you imagine saying that to someone, even if he is
ordinary?” Michael is, in fact quite striking with his black hair and sharp
features.
“What a stupid thing to say. Of course you’re
beau.”
“And then later, as we were lying on the
grass, an anglophone gay ran into another one by chance and started talking.
Then you know what Mario said under his breath? ‘Hôstie anglais[3]!’
Can you believe it? I froze. I didn’t
know what to say! I thought, do I say something and risk starting a fight? I
decided to just let it go for the moment. But later, when we had our big talk
over my ‘missing him,’ I brought it up.”
“What did he say?”
“Oh, that it was just because he didn’t
like Montreal, and that he was homesick for Quebec City, or something stupid
like that. He was just a jerk.”
“Why did he like you then, you’re anglais.”
“That’s what I wondered, but I didn’t ask.
I didn’t think I’d get an intelligent answer out of him. Maybe it’s because I
speak French.
“And he had opinions on everything, like,
‘Canada là, c’est fini[4],’
and ‘La madame là—pointing to the fat woman sitting on the balcony
across the street from me in the social-housing building—‘elle mange ces
chips pis elle s’en occupe pas avec que est-ce que se passe autour d’elle,’
meaning she doesn’t care about independence as long as she gets her chips to
eat. Like he was putting down his own people. Bla, bla, bla.
“But mostly he was a jerk because of that
note business— Saying it was a joke, and all that. He just couldn’t seem to let
himself let go and love me. I would have gone to Quebec City from time to
time—it’s only three hours away. And sometimes long-distance friendships are
the best.”
“Macho,” I mumbled.
“Macho indeed. You know what he liked in
sex? The guy loved me to fuck him. And he had major problems getting it up. It
was such an ordeal. He had to wear a cock-ring and I had to play with his
nipples just so— I felt I was piloting some kind of a clunky aircraft trying to
get him off!”
“Yeow!” I laughed. “Macho, macho man.
Figures, don’t it? Poor you.”
“Oh, it wasn’t all bad. I love fucking,
and I liked him enough at the time to put up with his dick problem. And that
hairy chest. Mmm!”
“You pig. Well at least you got to fuck a
cop!”
“Yeah— Fuck a cop! Fuck a cop!” he chanted
at the waiter who stopped to take our order.
“Bonne idée,” said the waiter. “Do
you know any?”
Michael and I looked at each other and
laughed. “Forget it. They’re not what they’re cracked up to be,” said Michael.
After the waiter returned with our beers,
I began, “I had an affair that started that weekend, too. I met him at Oka
Beach the day after you met yours. Only he wasn’t hung up on being macho— I’m
still not sure what he was hung up on, but it sure wasn’t me.”
“That hunk you told me about? What
happened?”
I told Michael all about it.
Summer Boyfriend
The first time I
saw him he was naked. It was in a
wood, and he was walking toward me along a path just behind the beach. I was surprised.
Not because he was naked—I had passed many other nude men along the way (I was
that way too), and not because it was my first time at that beach. I was
surprised because he was so perfectly, startingly, good looking. I lurched to a
stop.
Short black hair, blue eyes, a nordic
nose, white teeth and a slight five o’clock shadow—all laid out very evenly on
a very handsome, almost Irish, face. His body, at six feet, was slim with firm
muscle tone, and just the right amount of black hair on his chest and legs to
make me feel that gurgling sensation in my groin. “Salut !” I blurted.
“Allô !” he replied, stopping and
smiling.
Continuing in French, I grabbed the first
words I could find: “Is there more nude beach farther down?” The water level of
the lake was up to the shore, and we had to circumvent it through the woods.
“Oh… Oh yes— I… I’ll show you,” he said. I
felt flattered I might have caused a god to stammer.
We made small talk as he led me back the
way he’d come to a secluded area of the beach. “Have you been swimming yet?” he
asked.
“I just got here,” I replied.
We waded out toward the deep part of the
lake, he ahead of me. Once the water was up to our waists he turned. His dick
had grown rock hard fast, like a teenager, though he looked to be thirty. He
plunged in and I followed. Under water I took him in my mouth. It fitted
neatly. He was blushing when I came up, but only slightly worried someone might
see us.
Soon I was hard too, so we returned to the
beach where we made love behind some reeds to the sound of Seadoos droning and
whining out on the lake. Nobody saw us—even the mosquitoes left us alone,
though it was late June. After coming we lay still for a while, just touching
and caressing. All was quiet.
Before parting, we introduced ourselves and
I gave him my number. “Perhaps we could go cycling sometime,” said Antoine.
Later that week I found a message in
English on my machine: “I call for to go bicycle.” After that he stuck to
French—educated sounding, with words I’d never heard before.
On a beautiful Saturday morning he arrived
at my flat with his ten-speed on the back of his car. We headed for the river.
As we pushed against the wind along the Seaway dike, the city receded behind
scraggly green poplars and frothy rapids, with white gulls skating in the sky.
We looked over at each other at the same time; his blue eyes matched the sky
behind him.
At the park by the locks we eased
ourselves down some rock cliffs onto a seat of stone that jutted out over the
river’s surface. There wasn’t enough room for the two of us to fit side by
side, so I sat partly on his lap and we each had a leg braced against a rock to
keep us from falling into the deadly current. As we kissed and sucked and
groped, the St. Lawrence thundered beneath us, misting our heated bodies,
adding more froth to the rapids.
By the time we clambered back up to our
bikes a family had settled on the grass for a picnic.
“Do you think any of those kids saw us
going at it down there?” asked Antoine.
“I wonder—I did hear shouts. But I don’t really
care,” I said.
“Nor do I,” he smiled.
On the way back to the city, with the wind
at our backs, he asked a thousand questions. What did I do? At the time I was
editing computer manuals. “It’s boring,” was all could say about it.
I learned he worked for the government,
making calls all over the Lanaudière region. He lived in the foothills. “And
every year I travel,” he said. “At the end of August I’m going to Peru; last
year it was China. I like to travel alone.”
“Do you come to Montreal often?” I asked.
“From time to time. That’s where I can
meet men. You see, I’m bisexual, and I recently broke up with a girl because
she wanted to get serious. Women always get serious. That’s one thing I like
about men. But I can’t afford anyone to know that I go with them—Joliette is
too small a town, where everybody knows everybody’s business.”
I pictured Antoine stepping out with a
pretty, chic, dark-haired girl, the pair of them stylishly
dressed—Quebec-style.
Once back at my place, we showered, ate
and had sex again.
“Tu m’excite,” he breathed.
We met often that summer, usually every
Saturday or so. The next time he gave me his unlisted phone number. I guessed
that meant he trusted me; I wondered if I were supposed to feel honoured; I just
thought he was a little over cautious. One Saturday he came up to my cottage,
which was in the territory he travelled. We paddled the canoe across the lake,
conversing all the way. “I was told that in another life I lived in France in
the eighteenth century,” he said. “I was in the king’s service as some kind of
a money man. I was very bad, though. I drank too much and abused power to get
riches for myself. That’s why I don’t drink in this life.” I was surprised he
might have believed in that—he seemed so practical.
We stopped at a secluded beach I often go
to and we lay naked in the sun after sex, caressing each other. Before we left,
Antoine climbed like a monkey up a half-fallen tree and peed from it. Another
surprise; he usually acted so grown up.
As the weeks went on, neither one of us
pried into the other’s business, nor even asked about his sex life before or
apart from the other. I liked the idea that I never had to tell him whether or
not I slept with other men, and delighted in the irony that I didn’t. I wanted
no other lover—no different man’s scents or kisses. I doubted he did (he always
exploded with what seemed like pent-up sex drive) and I didn’t want to think
about him being with women. I didn’t feel I was in love with him—he gave me nothing
to hang it on. Though he’d spoken against involvement, I was puzzled by his
interest in my life and his affectionate caresses after climax, which to me
meant he wanted more than just sex. But during it he was detached. He had said
he didn’t want to get involved with anyone. All he wanted was a steady sex
partner—a ‘fuck buddy,’ I guess. But I wanted more in a man. And I found I was
becoming addicted to him—his smell, the touch of his masculine body, his good
looks and his sharp, rational mind.
One weekend he was busy. Alone I dined at
the cottage as the July moon spilled icily across the lake toward me. I had
tried not to get involved, but habit of our encounters and romantic ideas got
the better of me; I wanted him there.
On our next meeting we went again to the
secluded beach. But after sex I was afraid to caress him, afraid he didn’t want
me to. He didn’t caress me.
“Why don’t you bring your friend to our
party?” implored a girlfriend of mine the following week.
“Hmm,” said Antoine, making a face when I
asked him. The face said: Don’t let us drag each other in front of our friends
so they can inspect the new boyfriend—that’s not what this is all about. I went
alone, a bit disappointed. I would have liked to show off this handsome man.
But I figured he was my summer boyfriend, and thus as private as my summers
always are.
My addiction became stronger as our
meetings grew even further apart—up to three weeks. That’s too long to go
without sex, I wanted to tell say. “What about a Sunday then,” I asked, when he
was busy the next two Saturdays.
“But that’s my day to go cycling avec
les gars,’ he replied. With the guys… He didn’t even notice the paradox: I’m a guy. I felt like a
bicycle widow.
Silently and alone I raged against him. I
made up arguments justifying my demands on him, though he promised nothing. I
felt he’d lost interest in me, as though I were very interesting when we met
but he eventually learned all he needed to know, and I became boring for
him—the novelty had worn off. But sexually, he still became highly aroused with
me; I couldn’t understand how sexual attraction could be sustained without
love. I loved his body, but he wouldn’t let me beyond. As a result I wasn’t
nearly as aroused as he.
After another few weeks apart we met at
the cottage again. We got as far as the doorway, kissing and fondling, when he
came in his jeans—I hadn’t even touched him there. As we dined, the August moon
hovered over the mountain and splashed broad strokes of silver-gold over the
restless lake, only slightly warmer in colour than the month before. I
remembered the romance I’d imagined that July night about a dinner such as
this, and felt a pang of despair: there was none of the warmth I’d hoped would
come by this time. Antoine was even more remote than usual that evening, and
the conversation was as polite and restrained as it usual was lately.
“I’m getting ready for my trip next
month,” he said.
“You must be excited. How long will you be
gone?”
“Three weeks. Don’t expect a post card— I
never send anybody anything.”
“That’s okay.”
Later we had sex and went to sleep, our
first and only night together.
I was awakened by the sound of a porcupine
gnawing at a post under the cottage. After chasing it away, I couldn’t get back
to sleep. The moon shone full upon our bed, and Antoine pushed his body fast
against mine as he slept. Normally I would have been pleased, but he was almost
frenzied in his clutching and holding onto me, as though desperate for
something he’d never admit to in waking life. The porcupine, the moonlight, and
Antoine’s agitation had unsettled me. I couldn’t take what looked like was
coming from his sub-conscious when he wouldn’t give it knowingly. I moved to
another room to sleep. I don’t think he ever knew.
The next day he left before noon, as
planned, and some friends arrived soon after, also as planned. They’d hoped to
meet Antoine—nobody but my roommate ever saw him, and they’d been joking that
I’d made him up. I still wanted to show him off, but I couldn’t call him my
lover. What was it I wanted to display then, a trophy? A tribute to my ability
to bag a gorgeous male?
Two weeks later, on a Friday afternoon, we
met at my flat. After sex he dressed to leave. “You’re going already?” I asked.
“I went to work at six-thirty this morning so I could quit early to meet you. I
thought we’d have dinner afterward.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to be
rude. I have a meeting this afternoon. Maybe I could cancel it.”
“But you knew all along? How do you think
I feel, you coming just for sex and then leaving?” I could tell by the slightly
disgusted look on his face that to him I was making demands. I feel like your
mistress, I wanted to scream.
“We’ll meet before I go to Peru,” he said.
But he “ran out of time,” he said later on the phone. Then he said he’d call
when he got back. He never did. I broke down and phoned him last week. But he’d
changed his unlisted number.
I had a cry about it once. Not a very good
one—it happened as I walking to downtown along St. Catherine Street. I didn’t
really understand why I cried. I couldn’t say I loved him. I don’t know what it
was, exactly. I’ve been dumped before—that’s for sure, so it couldn’t have been
only that. I just got used to him, I guess. I liked his looks, his body, his
mind, and he liked mine, at least at first. But he wouldn’t look at my soul,
and he had none that I could see.
But he sure was good looking. And smart.
And I sure like smart, good-looking men.
Michael had listened attentively
throughout the whole story. After, he fell quiet for awhile. Finally he said,
“He was just a pig, Willy. He only wanted you for sex. Even though he saw you
were falling for him, he kept using you because you turned him on and you were
always there when he wanted to get his rocks off. What a cold fucker. What a
loser. I don’t even feel sorry for him. And you. How could you go on hoping
he’d love you?”
“He was so affectionate at the beginning,”
I almost wailed. “And by the time he cooled down I was hooked. I was trying to
understand him. And he was my type—tall, dark, blue-eyed, intelligent.… ”
“Understand him!? Intelligent!? He’s
stupid. Stupid to have turned down someone as caring as you.”
“Oh, Michael.”
“Type, schmype,” Michael continued.
“Forget it. Sasha wasn’t really my ‘type.’ But I loved him at first sight. And he
loved me. I thought he was funny-looking at first, but soon he was the most
beautiful man I’d ever met. In my eyes there was nothing wrong with him. His
funny ears were cute, his biggish nose adorable. I remember I hated his cologne
at first, but at night in my bed when I could still smell it on me, it brought
him back to me. No, type is hype. I hoped you learned your lesson and you quit
being such a doormat.”
“I guess. Men are such jerks, aren’t
they.”
“Yes, most are. I wish I had Sasha again.
Or someone I could love as much as I loved him.”
Sasha died the year before last. That’s
why Michael came east. To start anew. I hugged him, weeping. “I’m glad you’re
back, Michael.”
“So am I. Poor baby.” He was weeping too.
[1] Quebec’s national holiday
[2] Chum, as in English: friend or pal; but in Quebec it is usually used by women and men to describe their male lovers.
[4] Canada’s finished