Just in case you ever need to know, if you're ever reading a hook-up site in Montreal, and you see "Je ne peux pas recevoir" or the literal English translation, "I cannot receive," it doesn't (necessarily) mean that ass of the guy in question is too tight to accommodate your cock: it means that his wife, partner, or roommate isn't cool with him trying to accommodate your girth in their house or apartment. AKA, "I can't host."
Although I wasn't able to post an ad on Montreal craigslist -- because of a bizarre computer glitch -- I had mentioned on another hook-up site that I would be visiting the second-largest primarily French-speaking city in the world, and a number of men had contacted me to ask whether I would be able to receive. Sadly, there was no meaning of the word for which I would be able to answer the question in the affirmative. My hotel room was on a different floor from the room YFU and EFU was sharing, but I didn't fancy the idea of bringing strange men back to the hotel and up the thirty-eight stairs to the second floor. Besides, the bed was so terrible that I was only managing to sleep on it with the assistance of two camping mats. They were rather slippery entities, so I was pretty sure they wouldn't hold up to any manner of energetic sexual activity.
Fortunately, there was one guy in particular who seemed interesting and who had his own apartment not far from a Metro station. He had written me in English and asked whether I spoke French, and I had painstakingly written him back with reasonably correct grammar and accents to say that I would happily speak French with him and read his French e-mails but that I would prefer to write in English. He turned out to be a translator, so that was no problem. He also said that he was a submissive bottom who liked "uncomplicated" (i.e., NSA) sex, and that was even less of a problem.
I didn't want to cut into my time with the girls, but they were in the habit of retiring to their room by about 10 to read, watch TV, surf the Internet, etc., so I told Jean-Claude that I'd happily come to his place to play so long as we could do it either late or in the early morning (the girls rarely woke before 11). He was busy in the mornings, but we settled on Wednesday night as a time that was suitable for both of us.
I was later getting started than I would have liked, so I ended up taking a cab from the hotel to his place. Montreal taxi meters go up by increments of 5 cents, and they, not surprisingly, do so very quickly. The fare is, apparently, based on both time and distance so that if you're at a red light, the fare increases by 5 cents every four to five seconds, but if you're speeding down a main thoroughfare, the increments happen every two seconds or so. This didn't seem like an unfair arrangement, but it was very distracting.
Anyway, I had gotten out of the cab, paid and tipped the driver, and been buzzed into the apartment building, and Jean-Claude leaned out of his ground floor apartment door to beckon me. He was still dressed, but nobody's perfect. He said hello, and while it was clear to me from our correspondence and even a half-second's glance around his apartment that he was a person of considerable education and refinement, I still pulled him to me and began to kiss him immediately, just as I'd have done if we'd hooked up at my place back home. It is, of course, important to follow local customs, but when you're dealing with a submissive, it's more important to establish toute de suite that you'll be setting the agenda.
J-C was a responsive if not enthusiastic kisser. I wondered briefly whether the extreme lingual reticence was a cultural phenomenon that's widespread among Montrealers, but it seemed easier to just keep kissing him and not worry about the limited tongue contact. Lots of American guys are way too eager with the tongue, so it's not such a big deal if Canadians like to keep their tongues more to themselves, I reckon. I stopped kissing him long enough to let him declare himself pleasantly overwhelmed by my forthrightness, then I ushered him into the bedroom and pushed him down to the mattress resting on the floor.
I was kissing him again and working on his nipples with my hands, and he expressed a desire for both of us to be naked, so I started to undress him and then let him undress me. Voilà: naked. Then I went back to kissing him, soon moving to licking and sucking his nipples. He seemed very unused to that as well, but not at all ambivalent in his appreciation. Around this point I began to hypothesize that J-C while cute, was probably somewhat shy with men and probably didn't have nearly as much sex as he ought and perhaps had taken the opportunity of a visiting top to try something he wouldn't often experience otherwise.
Certainly, he was an eager but not especially skilled cocksucker. And when, sometime later, I told him I wanted to eat his ass while he went down on me, he acted like a child being offered a new and especially desired toy. And, of course of course of course, I loved eating his ass. It was a bit on the small side, but it was very firm, and he really got into it.
A little bit later, I worked a finger into his ass, and it was immediately apparent to me that I would never get him to loosen up enough to receive my cock, so I went back to working it with my tongue, then I pulled him down on me to kiss him some more, and after a bit more work on his nipples -- I could tell they were getting sore: awesome! -- I lay next to him, and we kissed while we both jerked off. When he was very hard, he was still a scant five inches and not at all thick, so I couldn't resist sucking on his cock. As usual, though, that became thoroughly resistable after about forty-five seconds, and we resumed the side-by-side jerking position. He came first, of course. And he watched with awe as my load shot all over me. I used the last of his Kleenex trying to clean it up.
We lay there for a minute or two, and I attempted to chat with him, but I could tell he wanted to get to sleep soon. I rolled over to start getting dressed, and I noticed that he was reading L'Elegance de l'Herisson, a recent French novel that even I had heard of. He offered me some water. I accepted it and remarked favorably on his very comfortable, very crowded living room. He had a painting that made me smile and somehow reminded me of Virginia Woolf. It was a gift from his sister.
Then I asked him for directions to the Metro station (Guy-Concordia), which was not far away. He was fun, but he was only worth a one-way taxi ride. Besides, it was a nice night. I took the metro back to Berri-UQAM and walked the five or so blocks back to the hotel.