Where it happened: Quebec
Langauge: English
Sex: Male
Rating: 3
Category: Straight
I graduated near the bottom of my class in 1970, largely due to spending most of my senior year in a cannabis induced haze. My prospects for college were slim to none, and I had Vietnam looking me in the face, so I and several of my buddies (read fellow druggies) opted for an extended vacation north of the border to avoid the draft.
Funny how 30 years can change your perspective. Back then I thought I was much smarter than anyone else. My parents were too old fashioned, and too into the whole conservative right wing thing. They supported a war to halt the expansion of a political system that I thought had merit. They thought that weed would lead to harder drug use, I knew better. They thought my friends were a bad influence, I thought they were being intolerant of my friends’ long hair. I wish I could go back and tell my dad how wrong I was, and how badly I have fucked up my life. I was able to tell my mom before she died, but by the time I pulled my head out of my ass, dad was gone. That’s all water over the dam, and I’m off topic, so let me get back to the issue at hand.
Canada wasn’t all I thought it was going to be. There weren’t any gorgeous French-Canadian girls in bikinis eagerly waiting to greet us at the border. We weren’t viewed as progressive thinking American expatriots who were escaping the oppression of the establishment. We were pretty much ignored. We had no skills with which to earn a decent living, no desire to do so anyway, and most of us in our group had some chemical dependency issues. In short we were a bunch of sorry assed stoners who jumped without looking.
I was living in a second floor apartment in Quebec with a couple older guys, five or six of my buddies, and a stray cat. I had a shitty job mopping a store after hours for next to no pay, which usually went for booze. The night this happened I had gotten yelled at in French (which at the time I barely understood) by my employer, I had gotten shit faced on the way back to the apartment, smoked a couple joints, and was feeling pretty low. I think i must have started blubbering (I have since realized that I am a maudlin drunk), because one of the older guys came over and sat next to me on the floor, put his arm around my shoulder and started talking to me. Most of what he said I can’t even remember, but I recall feeling like he cared about me. He got me to go into a back bedroom with him, and over the course of the evening he felt me up, jerked me off, and fucked me up the ass.
The next morning I woke up in bed with this guy, my ass hurt, I felt like a pig had used my mouth to take a shit in, and I was so ashamed of myself I just wished I could die. I’d like to say that this woke me up, I pulled myself together and went home to face the music, but I didn’t. I became more depressed, got fired, and essentially became the house ass-whore in exchange for heroin, weed, booze, and a place to stay. I even convinced myself that it was my “chosen lifestyle”.
Ten years ago I came back to the states. I came back with hepatitis, cirrhosis, a wasted life and a shitload of regrets. This is my story, and I wish the hell it wasn’t. Kids, listen to your parents, I wish like hell every day that I had.
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