Sleaze night

Matt takes us out on a tour of the naaaastiest bars in Toronto. Because you have to.

First up was Remingtons, a gay stripper bar. Matt got us really good seats at the front, by one of the poles. Which meant that, every few minutes, an athletic Frenchman's crotch would fly over my head.

We were the youngest people there who weren't dancers. The clients seemed to be a lot of jolly old Canadians with fat wallets, eager to pay for "A Private Dance in a VIP Booth". This sounds like a euphemism, but, if I remember Lee's visit here correctly, it isn't. The guy just dances around you for a bit and then takes your money. It's more like paying to have Steps come round to your house. Rather than Tatu.

Although, the dancers get naked. This surprised Damien and me. Especially with the way that their shorts just vanished. Blink, and they're gone. Naked man dancing around in socks and tattoos. It just looked weird, and oddly unerotic.

At the back of the stage was a mirrored wall, with massive bum prints on it.

Nearby, a young looking man was being dry humped by an enormous old man. I had to explain what "dry humping" was to Matt, and he added it to "gak" as his new favourite words.

Randall and I went outside for a smoke. Normally, there's a camaraderie among Canadian smokers. But not this time. As soon as they saw us, the smoking strippers went into a huddle.

Second stop was Sneakers. A bar for rent boys to pick up clients. It was just horrid, made worse by a man clapping his hands round our shoulders and saying, "You four pretty boys get on so well. When does the orgy start?"

That killed the conversation stone dead.