(Note: Unless indicated otherwise, all prices are in Canadian dollars. $1 Canadian is approximately equal to $0.65 US.)


I was heading... north, rather than south. On a frigid mid-November Monday, in a rental car, headed for the upper reaches of New England and points beyond. And on the day following a snow and ice storm to boot. Quite a switch from the locale and climate to which I had grown accustomed for this type of pursuit.

I had, on a few prior occasions, experienced the thrill of making a run for the border in search of exotic pleasures on the other side. But my destination then was Tijuana, and the starting point was sunny Southern California, where weather is pretty much a non-issue. Now, the endpoint of my journey was Montreal, a city I had researched, heard much about, even visited a couple of times previously. But this time, I was bent on exploring its more lurid side.

A well-placed job interview had afforded me this opportunity. Still, the trip was a five-hour haul under the best of circumstances. And according to reports, less-than-ideal weather conditions lay ahead. But having had to cancel not one but two adventuring trips (both to TJ) in the recent past, I was determined to forge onward.

As I progressed northward, the snow on the ground deepened from a thin white glaze to a coating a couple of inches thick. A few flakes began to fall from the sky, and before I knew it, the freeway itself had acquired a thin veneer of the white stuff. I had to slow down. This didn't sit well with me; I didn't have much time as it was. I had overnight, and then I needed to be back out on the road again bright and early the next morning.

I was running low on fuel, so I pulled off the highway exit into Montpelier, Vermont... the state capital everyone forgets. The scene looked like something from a Hallmark Christmas card. Quaint old houses with snow-covered roofs, and huge wet flakes coming down everywhere. It was late afternoon, and the sky was slate-gray. Great, I thought. I'm looking for fun in a foreign land, and here I am in Small Town, USA watching the snow fall. I felt like Santa Claus.

I wondered if the weather was an omen. All the popular destinations of our little hobby are warm-weather places... Tijuana, of course, as well as tropical and sub-tropical paradises like Bangkok, Havana, Cartagena and Rio.

With a full tank of gas, I ventured back out onto the highway. Before long, the snow stopped, and darkness fell. A little over an hour later, the US-Canada border crossing station came into view, straight ahead.

Before heading into Canada, I stopped at a nearby duty-free shop to make the currency exchange. I shivered as I stepped out of the car. Brass balls on a monkey, a witch's tit, and all that. (Anyone who has spent time in the Northeast understands those expressions.)

I drove up to the border crossing. As seems to always be the case when entering Canada, the guard started throwing scripted questions at me. Where are you going in Canada? How long will you be there? What kind of work do you do? And then came the one that made me do a double-take: "Are you here for business or pleasure?"

"Pleasure," I deadpanned.

Finally, I was waved through. The freeway quickly narrowed down to a two-lane road. I flipped on the radio. The first song I heard upon entering Quebec province was... Celine Dion's "A New Day Has Come". Before I could think too much about the irony of that one, a tractor-trailer, passing in the opposite direction, splashed up enough slush to put a one-inch coat of glop over my entire windshield. My wipers came to my rescue, but I was jolted back to reality.

An hour later, I was in Montreal. After parking my car, I carefully negotiated my way across the semi-plowed street toward my hotel, the Quality Inn Downtown on rue Crescent. There was a good four or five inches of snow on the ground.

I opened the door to my tenth-floor hotel room, and was immensely pleased at what I saw. A spacious room with a king-size bed, a loveseat and a number of other amenities. Perfect.

It was closing in on 8:00 at this point, so I knew I'd better get started right away. I showered quickly. Then I picked up the phone and dialed the number of Les Filles de Mr. Jacques, the escort agency I had chosen to utilize. A woman answered the phone; she introduced herself as Josee, one of the "proprietors" of the agency. She had a perky demeanor and spoke English well, albeit with a cute accent.

Josee asked what kind of girl I was looking for. For my first session in Montreal, I wanted a tall girl who spoke some English, for a standard one-hour session. "I have just the right girl for you," Josee replied. "Her name is Marcine. You'll love her." She went on to say that it was a busy night, and with the weather and everything, Marcine wouldn't be able to show up at my room for about 45 minutes. I didn't mind the idea of chilling out for a little while, so I told Josee to send over Marcine as soon as she was available.

I decided to time her arrival. And sure enough, almost exactly 45 minutes later, there was a knock on my door. Marcine was, indeed, a tall girl, about 5'8" or so. I detected a noticeable resemblance to Jewel, the singer, in both her facial appearance and her slightly spacey demeanor. She had a slender build, very fair skin, medium-length blonde hair, and blue eyes. She wasn't bad-looking at all; like most French-Canadian women I've observed, she wore hardly any makeup. I didn't ask her age, but she was fairly young... I'm guessing 20 or 21.

She first asked if she could go into the bathroom and check in via phone with the agency. I recognized this as a necessary first step in the proceedings, and agreed. She took a couple of extra minutes in there, and finally came out. After asking for payment up front ($130 Canadian for an hour), she sat next to me on the bed.

We engaged in some quick small talk; her English was passable if not perfect. Then she smiled at me, and knelt down in front of me. "Sucky?" she queried, and began to tug at my belt.

I grinned... the same slang expression is used along both of the United States' borders. In no time, she had my shirt off and my pants down around my ankles. She proceeded to launch into a more-then-adequate BBBJ, which produced a faster-than-I-would-have-liked climax about 15 minutes in. For a split second, I thought she intended to let me finish in her mouth, but she pulled back and finished the job with her hand.

Well, there was still plenty of time left. Marcine flopped back on the bed and allowed a little DATY, which she didn't seem to be into all that much. She offered me her breast, and I started to work on that instead.

Just then... her cell phone rang. She picked it up and looked at the caller ID. "It's my mother," she announced. Oh great, I thought. Her mom checks up on her while she's out entertaining clients? But I nodded, and she took the call.

She pointed at her exposed, taut nipple, directing me to continue doing what I had been doing. Hey, why not? So, while she talked to Mom on the phone, in French, I continued to suckle her breast. A weird experience, to be sure. I was extremely curious as to exactly what they were talking about, and I added French to the list of languages I need to learn in order to extract the most enjoyment from this hobby.

Eventually, she ended the call and produced a condom. "Two service?" she asked. I've never been able to get a second nut in a one-hour session, but I figured, "Why not go for it?" So we went at it, first missionary and then doggie, but the well was pretty much dry. We cuddled for a little while afterwards, and then she got up and slinked into the bathroom to call the home base once again. The total time was almost exactly an hour. My experience so far in Montreal is that you get exactly what you pay for.

Marcine got dressed, and before she exited the room, I gave her a quick peck on the cheek (she didn't allow lip kissing). It was an above-average session, but something seemed to be missing. The connection that I look for, the "vibe" that elevates a good session to a memorable one, just wasn't there. Marcine is a nice girl, though, and definitely aims to please.

I got dressed myself, and decided to go outside and look around. I knew that a strip club, Teazers, was just down the street. This place had pretty good recommendations on other sites, and I knew that $10 lap dances (completely legal in Canada) were the fare, and that anything beyond that was not to be found in Teazers. Generally, places like this are not on my agenda, but I thought it would be a fun change of pace.

I was quite hungry at this point (by now it was almost 10:30), so I decided to grab a bite to eat first. There's a habit I have whenever I'm indulging in adventuring, poker playing, plain old shopping, or any activity where money tends to flow from my wallet faster than I want it to. I bring exactly what I'm willing to spend, and that's it. But perhaps, after the experience I'm about to relate, I might have to reconsider that philosophy.

I stuffed about $70 into my pocket, leaving the rest of my money hidden in the room. The only restaurant open at that hour was a nearby Burger King, so I wolfed down some grease-laden fast food. I headed back out into the cold, and entered Teasers. It looked like a bit of a dive from the outside, but I soon found out the interior wasn't bad. There was a coat check, then nearby, there were stairs going up. I handed my coat to the girl at the desk, who hit me up for a $5 cover charge. (remember, all money amounts here are Canadian)

I went upstairs, and was immediately greeted by a bouncer. He said hello and asked for a tip. Damn, I thought... but I handed him a twenty-dollar bill and asked for $18 change. He gave me nine of those Canadian two-dollar coins, and told me, "These are good for tipping the dancers." I was beginning to get the picture.

The place was reasonably nice... dimly lit, with a dance floor in the center. There was an upper, elevated section toward the rear, where the main bar was located. Most of the patrons were professional-type men. There was a girl performing on the stage, wearing nothing but the bottom half of a thong bikini. There were a number of girls circulating amongst the guys, and a few of them were knockouts. In many ways, it reminded me of Chicago Club in Tijuana, only smaller and less crowded. And of course, you couldn't expect more than booth dancing from the girls.

I ordered a Coke from the bar, which set me back another $6. The bartender was a young girl who had on a slinky dress which revealed much cleavage. I reached into my pocket and handed her a $1 tip. She pouted at me, trying to extract more. This place is more aggressive in soliciting tips from customers than any business establishment I've ever patronized in my life.

I leaned against the rail surrounding the bar area and watched the dancer rub herself against the pole. But not for long. A tall, attractive girl with a medium complexion, short black hair, and large brown eyes slid up next to me. She introduced herself as Bianca. "Want me to show you a good time?" she asked in perfect, nearly unaccented English.

Well, she had me... I continue to be a sucker for the quick ambush approach. Before I knew it, we were in a private booth about four feet on each side, with five-foot high walls that were painted dark gray.

Bianca had a great body, and she allowed total access to everything but the immediate crotch area. Into the third song, she even relaxed that restriction a bit, pulling aside the thong to expose her bush, and allowing me a brief touch, which went above and beyond the rules of the house. I watched her as she slid all over my lap and lip-synched the words to Madonna's "Justify My Love".

I was so captivated, I nearly lost track of the time spent in the booth. At the end of the fourth song, I suddenly stopped her, realizing my funds were limited. I knew I had the required $40, but I was sure I'd be counting up the spare coins to come up with it. And she wasn't getting much of a tip.

"How much?" I asked her, as a matter of routine. She replied, "So far... eighty dollars." EIGHTY?? I stepped back incredulously. "But there were four songs... I counted them!"

"Eight songs," she said, pointing at the sign on the wall. "And it's ten dollars a song."

Stunned, I told her I didn't have eighty on me, and in any case, I shouldn't have to pay more than forty. She pointed at a nearby ATM. "Use your card and get the money," I declined, telling her that my ATM card was up in my hotel room across the street. And actually, that was the truth. I asked to speak with the manager.

Bianca's demeanor instantly changed from sultry to icy. Instead of getting the manager, she flagged down a bouncer... a large, hulking guy, much bigger than yours truly. This situation was spiraling out of control, and as much as I'd like to say I kept it cool, figuratively speaking, I felt like bricks of gargantuan proportions were about to come slamming out of the lower terminus of my alimentary canal.

It turned out, though, that the bouncer she grabbed was the same guy I had tipped earlier. I immediately told him that I didn't want any trouble, and offered to pay the whole $80 if I could go back to my hotel room and get the remainder. He agreed to accompany me, to satisfy Bianca's concerns. What concerns? She was hitting me up for twice the amount I owed!

While walking across the street with the bouncer, I reiterated that Bianca overcharged me. He said that he didn't doubt my story, but since it was my word against hers, it could cost me quite a bit of time to fight this one. He did allow that, "from time to time, the girls do try to overcharge out-of-town visitors." Guess I stuck out like a sore thumb in that regard. He suggested that next time, I should consider paying the girls after every two or three songs, to prevent that kind of scam. That's probably a pretty good idea.

The bouncer was somewhat sympathetic to my plight, and I guess I should be grateful for that. I made it plenty obvious that I wanted no trouble. But I wonder what would have happened if I had refused to ante up the extra $40.

He offered to wait outside the room while I retrieved the money; which was a considerate gesture, but it still made me nervous that he knew where my room was. I handed over the money, and he invited me to come back to the club. There was no way I was going back there, so I declined that offer.

Yes, I could have handled that situation differently, and I might have if it had occurred in TJ or another place I knew fairly well. I wish I hadn't paid Bianca the extra amount, because it meant that her scam worked. But I also look at it this way. I was in a largely unfamiliar locale, wasn't familiar with the local customs, and when you get right down to it, it just wasn't worth it to haggle over $40 (which is about $25 US) under those circumstances. I chalk it up to experience, and consider it a lesson learned at a low price.

Back in my room, I contemplated folding up the tent and calling it a night. It was closing in on 1:00am. But I didn't want this mini-trip to end on such a down note, so I picked up the phone once again. Josee responded with the usual, "What kind of girl do you like?" Feeling like I was ordering a pizza from Domino's, I replied, "How about a dark-haired girl this time?" She suggested a couple of girls, rattling off their names and descriptions, but neither would be ready for an hour. I was tempted to reply, "Just send over any girl... surprise me." But I didn't want to even contemplate what might show up at my door in that event.

At any rate, I certainly didn't want to wait an hour, so I asked her if any girls were available now. She responded, "I have one girl who can come over right away... Angela."

So it would have to be Angela, and I told Josee to go ahead and make the arrangements. "You'll like her," she chirped.

Less than fifteen minutes later, there was a knock at my door. I must say I was impressed with the promptness of these ladies; they definitely show up when they are supposed to. I opened the door, and Angela stepped inside.

She was a petite lady, around 5'1" or thereabouts. She had light brown hair and brown eyes, and was wearing a tan top, nice-fitting jeans, and tan boots, with a faux fur-lined multicolor coat. Again, like just about every French-Canadian woman I've ever seen, she largely eschewed facial makeup. She was more attractive than pretty. The wrinkles in her face indicated that she was older... I'd put her in the 30-35 range. But I was glad for that, because she was exactly the kind of lady that I've had good luck with in the past.

Angela smiled at me... a reserved but warm smile. She spoke a few words in French, presumably to gauge my proficiency in the local tongue, which is pretty much nonexistent. My French is even worse than my Spanish. It became quickly apparent that Angela spoke very little English, as well... but, amazingly enough, that would not prove to be a problem.

She removed her boots; I took her coat and hung it in the closet. Instinctively, I went over and sat on the edge of the bed. She came over and sat on my lap, facing me, straddling her legs around me. She drove her mouth into mine and parted my lips with her tongue before I could even react. But react I did, and I responded in kind. After a couple of minutes of tongue wrestling, she embraced me, and pressed her cheek, still cold from the chilly night air, against mine. She rubbed her foot against the side of my leg. "Cold," she said. That was the only word I heard from her in English the whole time. We remained glued like that for a few more minutes.

Then, and only then, did Angela take her cell phone into the bathroom, call her boss and start the time clock. I told myself, "I've got a winner here."

She came out, started to get undressed and started to remove my clothes as well. These ladies appear to take great delight in undressing you. She knelt down between my legs, with me sitting on the side of the bed, and took me into her mouth sans condom. As she began her BBBJ, I thought, "Hey, this isn't bad." Then she began to devour me voraciously, and I told myself, "This is good. DAMN good." With the exception of my fave at Adelitas in TJ, Angela delivered the best oral sex I've ever received. I'd even put her ahead of the famous Tanya at AB.

Had I not spent one bullet earlier in the evening, there's no way I would have been able to hold back. But I let her work on me for a good twenty minutes, and she never let up.

Note to anyone who might be planning a trip to Montreal: If Angela and Marcine are in any way typical, French-Canadian ladies are some of the most skilled fellatrices on the planet.

Finally, Angela applied a condom, and rolled over on her back for some vigorous missionary. It didn't take long for me to finish.

I rolled over next to her, and suddenly, she began talking to me in French. Of course, I couldn't understand a word of it. But that didn't appear to bother her. I couldn't tell if she was just making small talk or pouring out her heart. But I just kind of nodded my head as if I was hooked up to some French/English translation device.

Shortly thereafter, Angela drifted off to sleep in my arms. I caught some brief shuteye myself, then woke and noticed the hour was almost up. I wasn't sure if she'd get in trouble for staying too long, so I woke her. She went into the bathroom, called the home base, and started to get dressed.

Angela reappeared and gave me a hug and another deep, wet kiss. I had prepared the $130 ahead of time, putting it in one of those giveaway envelopes with the hotel insignia on it. I handed it to her; she never explicitly asked for it. "Merci," she replied, uttering one of the approximately five French words that I know.

I walked her to the door. "Bonsoir," she said with a smile, pinching my cheek.

Angela was truly a delight. Almost entirely because of her, I have more positive than negative memories from this trip.

One of the nice things about entertaining girls in your hotel room is that when it's time to crash for the night, you're already where you need to be. I was dead to the world ten minutes after Angela left.

I needed to be back in the States the next morning, so I was up at the crack of dawn. The skies had cleared, but the air was frigid. I spent a few minutes scraping a coating of ice off my windshield as I prepared to head south. I figured I had a routine drive ahead of me.

But alas, one more headache was in the offing, and it happened at a place where I wouldn't have expected it: the border crossing.

The sun was well up above the horizon as I approached the border station. As soon as the guard looked at me, I could see he was the no-nonsense type. First question: "Where were you staying in Canada?" I replied, "Montreal."

Second question: "How long were you there?" My honest response was, "Less than twelve hours. I crossed the border at about 7:00 last night."

Third question, the dicey one: "What were you doing up there?" I thought I'd better play it straight, so I continued to be honest, although somewhat indirect. "I was up there for the nightlife."

He took that answer at face value and didn't press any further; I was momentarily relieved. But then he started to ask me about where I was from and why I was driving a rental car. I explained the whole story: I was in New England for a job interview, had made the five-hour drive up to Montreal last night and was now returning. He wasn't buying it; I could tell that he thought my story was fishy. He asked me, in rapid-fire succession, "How much money did you bring up there? Are you bringing any money or goods back with you? Did you conduct any business up there?"

I answered as best I could, but he still wasn't satisfied. He instructed me to get out of the car and pop open the trunk. I did so. Inside the trunk was a suitcase and my briefcase, which I had brought along for the earlier, business-related portion of my trip. As soon as he saw that briefcase, he was all over me. "No business up there? Why are you carrying a briefcase?" He instructed me to pop it open. He then pulled the suitcase out of the car and checked inside the spare tire well. What did he expect to find in there? Drugs? Explosives? A girl?

By now, another customs agent had joined in the inspection. They asked me to pull up to the secondary inspection area. I went inside, where I had to fill out some forms and was questioned further. They drove my rental car into an enclosed garage area for searching and closed the door. Well, I knew they weren't about to find anything questionable, and I also knew that my story was 100% true. Finally, after about a 30-minute delay, the car was driven back out. They handed me the keys and told me I was free to go.

Later, when I got home, I saw that they had rifled through my briefcase and suitcase and checked everything. They even looked inside a bag of dirty clothes.

Moral of the story: the probability of being unduly hassled at the US-Canada border is, believe it or not, higher than it is at the US-Mexico line. I have crossed the US-Mexico border many times, and have never had an experience that even closely approximates that one. And at the Canadian border, you get asked pointed questions going both inbound and outbound.

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In spite of the trials and tribulations, I enjoyed my brief Montreal sojourn. Will I go back again? Yes, I'd like to. I'll do a few things differently next time, for sure. I'll probably also wait until summertime. I think Montreal is a place that's most amenable to a 2- or 3-day stay, no more, no less. So, in conclusion, if your preferred mode of operation is setting yourself up in a nice, inexpensive hotel room and having a steady stream of attractive, ready-to-please women pass through, at prices similar to what you'd pay in Tijuana... then trust me, you will LOVE Montreal.

Farsider i want to commend you on a very good report. This one is easy to beleive also. I find it interesting that you also had problems crossing back into the USA.
Every occasion that i have ever entered Canada, I have encountered the same border crossing difficulties. That is when traveling with someone else or going solo.
Having gone to Canada for the same pleasure trips that you did, I found Canadian women to be very accomidating. That is in Toronto, Montreal, Vancouver.
One thing that i would like to advise fellow mongers against is the SG action. They tend to be very much con artists. They qoute one price to go to your room..... then once there they will state that is only for a handjob. The prices start es alsting from there. The upper end was actually $700 (Canadian). This was a lesson well learned. Upon talking to fellow mongers, they said that is vdery common, stick with the PRO'S.
Unpon my last visit.... Vancouver we were instructed to find a place "Madam Cleo's" (they have a website) and were greated by about 15 of the most beautiful women that i had seen in sometime. (I had been working in rural WA)
Upon choosing the beauties that had interested us (myself and friend each went with seperate women) we were instructed to choose a theme room. They had about 12 to choose from, but only 3 were currently available.
Once up in the room i was asked if i would like something to drink (included in the price)$200 Canadian i think for an hour. They also take CC. Being that i am not married i chose that option.
Then i was asked if i would like a shower.... great shower room with complete toiletries. Then back to the room.
The woman (19yo)had for company then undressed and proceeded to give a great massage followed by decent BBBJ.
i will not go into all of the details of the session.... condom was provided.... She provided multiple positions (I had a fractured back) so i was not even asked to preform missionary. After about 45 minutes and completion, she asked if i would like another drink.... then another massage.
At the end of the hour, she then again asked if i would like to take a shower, to which i obliged. so from the time in the door to the time leaving was about 2 hours.
I would reccomend this establishment to anyone in Vancouver.
We then ventured on to many different strip joints, and found it interesting that there were more women than men in most of them. Note: this town does not pick up until later... Kinda like Chicago Club.
Once the sun goes down in this town, the real beauties seem to come out of the woodwork.
Also there are a number of newspapers that have escort advertisements... another reccomendation.
I will hit on more info at a later time.
Farsider it was nice to hear that others have had the same pleasurable expereinces as myself going North of the border
Slick1

Madam Cleo's brings back some old memories! And actually, I've had fair experiences with the street girls down on Richards Ave too. Some upscale girls there, but pricey (before you figure in the Canada dollar at a discount!)

In Toronto (Markham) the strip clubs tend to have more of anything goes attitude. You can even get laid in one of those booths.

I walked into the brass rail one night and pulled out a famous ex-big bust pornstar. 300US for the hour but hey, I had one of her videos so I had to have her... Unfortunately, she had gotten a reduction when she 'retired'.

Canada can be fun.

Great report Farsider.

You mentioned that "French-Canadian ladies are some of the most skilled fellatrices on the planet". Were it not for that fact, Quebec would long since have become an independent neighbour of the USA. It's rumored that the french chicks are indeed the only reason why frenchmen are tolerated in my homeland.

Geographically, Canada is far too large and rural to have enough strip clubs for all of her people. Many of the rural areas have hotel bars or favorite watering holes that will have a stripper one night a week, and that is a busy night indeed. And the fare de jour is often a frenchcanadienne stripper. Local girls would never think of stripping, eh?

There's a saying in western Canada "If it weren't for the french, Canada would have NO strippers for the 'peeler-bars'"

Slick1
I've been to Madam Cleo's. They have a beautiful set up, don't they? Vancouver has some great action at very low prices.

Excellent report, Farsider. Something tells me that it only gets better...

A good time to go to that part of the world is during the Montreal International Jazz Festival. At least that used to be true, as the event draws more than Jazz bands. It takes place in June and July.

Farsider,

Great report. I got into a similiar situation with the bouncer at my hotel collecting money due to a misunderstanding. It is an uncomfortable feeling to say the least.

Thanks for a good report,

Moondog

Farsider,

First time I read one of your reports. Excellent! I like your detail. There is definitely some value in Canada depending where you go. I used to go skiing up there several years ago and saw several girls. I always got pretty lucky and had great sessions. I too had some GREAT BBBJ's so there is definitely something there.

Actually, I for one am kind of glad they are so extensive at the border now. I've always thought that the Canadian border was so easy for people to bring dangerous goods into the US. Several years ago it was a breeze to go from Canada to USA..it appears that has changed.

I might be up in Canada later this year for a mini-vacation. If so, you can bet I'll be seeing some of it's women. Thanks again.

Thanks for all the comments. Godfather... they've gotten much more strict at the Canadian border since 9/11, and it's probably due in part to the fact that the hijackers entered the USA through Canada.

One thing I forgot to mention earlier is that I brought along a passport that I had gotten several months ago (but haven't used yet). At the Mexican border, you can just wave a valid US passport at them, and they'll back off. Not at the Canadian border. They took it from me, looked all through it, and even questioned me as to why I had a several-months old passport with NO stamps on it.

Yeah, it's a relief in some ways... except when you're in a rush and they hold you up for a half hour.