A Winter Tale: Tits and Idealism

“J’veux parler des boules, mais j’sais pas comment commencer.”

by Roxane Hudon

So, another standard Friday night: a bottle (or two…or more) of Cabalero de Chile, friends, blasting some Jay-Z, maybe showing some dance moves, laughing, you know, texting obscenities, general life situation for the living. Getting ready for another “Exciting” Montreal Event (Bound to Fail). You know, the type of thing that you get all excited about, invite friends, get them excited about it and convince them to come, even though “Ah Roxane, c’est l’hiver” et blah blah blah.

So, we’re all excited about this Gaga-themed Faggity Ass party. Shawn’s all “Whoo! Roxane’s coming to a Lesbian Party!” I’m like: “Whoo! Drinking!” Vincent is like “Whoo! J’suis Tapette!” Peter is like “Whoo! Quebec is such a nice city! I rap!…..let’s smoke some drugs!” Ryan is like “Whoo! I’m in the Club….the Canadian Club!” And so on and so forth. Red lipstick might have come into the picture at one point. Hip Hop dance tutorials. I may or may not have texted “I’m horny, Just saying”, you know, just to get the feeling right. Just feeling the feeling. You know, Life.

So, we put on our 5 pairs of socks and leave to write a Bad Romance with the Winter Blues. We know we’ll have to put on our Poker Face for the Paparazzi, because something about a Love Game and basically, I Like it Rough with Boys Boys Boys, but you can watch me on your video phone, your video phone. Okay, so  I’m not really good at doing that clever thing where you make a sentence with song titles in order to subtly refer to an artist. Eh, Eh, Nothing Else I can Say. Cherry Cherry Boom Boom? … Moving on.

So, we get the Van Taxi from St-Zotique (don’t stalk me now, Internet). Ryan and Peter disappear, either because they’re gay together or drunk. Either/Or. It’s a very thin line. We arrive at the Playhouse. There’s a fucking lineup at 1 AM. A lineup made up of chubby-faced Squirrel-looking Gay Men or these might have been women. It’s a very thin line. Queer Theory? They were Humans…Anyway, one thing is for sure, there ain’t no way in Hell this group of very good-looking Drunks with Red Lipstick smudged on their faces/lips (cheeks?teeth?) is gonna wait in the -3120937201371 degree weather for two hours of Just Dance Remixes and Questionable alcohol-related Sexual decisions. You know, It’s Not Gay If It’s N.S.A.

So, naturally, we decide to run to the nearest bar. We run down Parc Avenue. And, for the record, the bar closest to the Playhouse is that stripclub with the photo of the girl who seems to be pooing her pants. Exhibit A:

So, basically, I ended up losing my stripclub virginity that night. It was mesmerizing. I’m not going to summarize what I saw. You’ve seen the movies. You’ve downloaded the stuff. I know your style. There was something quietly beautiful. Quiet, because we were four half-drunk half-adults not saying a word to each other and just staring at the girls for what seemed like hours, stuck in some kind of sex trance. There was something quietly beautiful about how they moved, pure, raw Sex. And they all looked so HOT, as the boyz say. But at the same time, there was something a bit off when you looked at their faces. Serious, Cold and a little bit Diseased.

Anyway, at the end of the day, I will now defend the Ladies of the Strip for the rest of my life. In a time when I am wondering how I’m going to manage to pay rent and buy toothpaste. When I realize that I will basically live in poverty for the rest of my days, unless I marry a dying millionaire or become an Internet Sensation, or go into the WebCam business or something really stupid, like go work at a Bank or something….. When I realize that I have to work my ass off every day for projects I have to believe in, because no one else will. And it will probably take years of working this way, every day, whether it be Ballz, or documentaries or writing and so on, before anything happens, or moves forward. And even if it does, it will still only give us a couple of nickels and dimes, enough money to buy 1 or 2 slices of bread and make a nice Butter Sandwich with a side-dish of Oatmeal and, maybe, a can of chickpeas or something, on a day when you’re feeling a bit luxurious with your Nutrition. With all of this, I’m looking at these girls gyrating all over the place. Maybe they got it. Maybe I’m lost. Maybe I’m totally wasting my time. Sex for Money. They look empowered and satisfied. I’m cradling the one bottle of beer I could afford. Sipping it. Really enjoying the taste of Labatt 50 for all its worth. Debating whether I should just walk home, because I might die of hypothermia, but I will save 7 dollars.  They’re butt-naked with people fawning over them. They’re making the money. So, what i’m saying here, is Fuck you Society, Fuck you Planet, Idealism is lost any way. So, what I’m saying here is what does a girl have to do to become a Stripper? History will remember me, History will remember me; I could keep repeating that, maybe. Maybe I’ll feel better. Or, I could just say Fuck It and just get naked. Okay, Internet, I gotta go, I’m going to the Gym and get Waxed and Tanned. GWT. FML.