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The Montreal Diaries (Part 2 of 3)

  • October 14, 2015 /

I get her upstairs, on the bed, and start escalating. I manage to get my hands touching outside her panties, and then she drops this bomb while shutting me down.

“I have a yeast infection.”


I could smell something foul going on down there just from getting her legs spread, even with her panties on. I’m trying to push questioning whether or not I could catch a disease by sticking my dick in this petri dish, and if it’s worth it for the Canadian flag.

Read Part 1 of the Montreal Diaries by clicking here.

Before I continue the stories though, I do want to ask this to readers – have any of you ever banged a girl who had a yeast infection at that moment in time? I’m genuinely curious as to what level of perversion you guys will go through with to obtain a new notch. Judging by the fact that all it took was an extra shot of shitty vodka for me to have no qualms about it…

Anyways, continuing on with the story from Friday night.

Yeast Girl drops me off a mile or so away from my apartment at club called Mme Lee – which is technically in the Quartier des Spectacles for those who are considering a stay in Montreal. It’s past midnight at this point with no wait whatsoever. I walk in to a small bar with two rooms. It’s got a very tiny dance floor, but the dancing is very minimal. It’s much more of a social environment, and the low music volume (at least in comparison to places like Tokyo Bar) is very conducive to conversation.

I managed to find a picture on Google:


Mme Lee, Montreal

Now, this kind of place is really just my “style”. I hate clubs unless I’m popping a bottle with someone like McQueen. Too loud, too crowded, too hot for my taste. But Mme Lee is much more of a “lounge” environment where I thrive. As I walked around Mme Lee, I realized something: there were a lot of stunners in this place.

And maybe it was because I’d just had the Yeast Infection Girl over (who despite the fish-like scent coming from her vagina was actually quite pretty), or because I found myself in a place with girls much nicer than Los Angeles – but for one reason or another – I caught fire.

It happens once in a while, and it’s usually a combination of a good mood, just the right amount of booze, and an environment I really like. I was tired but chipper, had a few drinks, and loved the venue. And the girls loved me. I opened probably two dozen girls in this tiny place and just bounced back and forth between groups of them all night. One girl even poured a shot of Russian Standard straight into my mouth, and then topped my drink off.

(Of course, the bottle was bought by some beta boy trying to fuck her.)

A couple of hours later I’m vibing really well with yet another brunette. Don’t know what it is about brunettes always liking me – I don’t ever get as much interest from blonde girls. The interaction started out with her and a friend but the friend has now left us. We kiss a bit and I’m beginning to think that this is a good lead. The friend has seemingly disappeared; I mention this to my girl.

“Yeah, she tends to just do that.”

Thanking the gods of game for seemingly (ha) making my life easy, I suggest we bounce out. My place. I have wine. It’s quieter.

She agrees.

We walk outside, and since my iPhone doesn’t have service, Uber is out of the question. Manage to hail a cab just around the street. Thankfully they’re pretty affordable. So begins the only-one-mile-but-much-longer-because-of-absurd-drunk-traffic ride to my apartment. Logistics are everything.

And the long car ride and poor logistics to Mme Lee bite me in the ass.

Right when we get to the door of my apartment, her phone rings. Fuck. Seriously gents, if you manage to pull a girl home and have the opportunity to silence her phone while she’s in the bathroom, I strongly encourage you to do it. I’m adding it to my first-date-bang checklist. Worst part is that it’s not even her friend that she ditched. It’s her little brother. He’s drunk and needs a ride.

Despite my protests that she herself probably isn’t fit to drive (and who knows where the hell her car even was), and that she should come upstairs and “sober up” for just a half hour, nothing works. She gives me a kiss goodbye and says we can try to get together tomorrow. I know it’s bullshit.

She gets in a cab, never to see me again.

My balls are as blue as the polluted sky that would bring nothing but rain the following night.


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