Come back swinging

A year after the Supreme Court ruling on swingers clubs, Montreal’s hopping échangiste scene is changing dramatically

by CHRIS BARRY
Come December, it will be one year since the landmark Supreme Court ruling came down, stating that on-site boinking in membership-only “swingers” clubs was no longer a criminal activity. The result, perhaps not all that surprisingly, has had a significant effect on the local swingin’ scene, as the curious but heretofore understandably cautious have been heading out to our fair city’s numerous échangiste, or swinger, clubs in record numbers.

No longer need one worry that the cops are going to bust in and arrest everyone just as you’re about to blow your love load into some sexy échangiste, dragging you and your unfulfilled erection up to the inevitable throng of media waiting outside to report upon your most important of arrests. These days, the concern among longtime échangistes tends to be whether the recent influx of newbies is actually helping or hurting the local swinging subculture.
Jean Hamel, who heads up the Quebec Swingers Association, notes that a lot of veteran (for lack of a better word) swingers have been avoiding the established commercial échangiste clubs lately in favour of more discreet, private gatherings, run out of people’s homes or in motels whose rooms have been rented out en masse for the occasion.
“What’s happened since the Supreme Court judgment,” says Hamel, “is that we’re starting to see more voyeurs than participants in the clubs. Before, on a typical Saturday night at, say, l’Orage, you’d find maybe 200 people, and 175 of them would be having sex while the other 25 were either newcomers or voyeurs. But that’s completely turned around now. These days you may have 200 people coming out and 175 of them won’t be doing anything while the other 25, who want to have sex, find themselves too intimidated by the other 175 people looking at them. This is a big problem.”
Home is where the hard is
Hamel estimates there are about 20,000 swingers in Montreal, with half that number being what he calls occasional swingers, i.e. folk who make the scene every once in awhile but aren’t full-on devoted to the lifestyle.
“Back when there were only one or two clubs, everybody would come out and these places would always be full,” he notes. “Now, sure, you have a lot more places, but the core community is still pretty much the same people, only they’re spread out in all these different clubs. So these days, it’s possible you could head out to, say, Club Nuance on a Saturday night and find no more than six other couples there. Honestly, I’d be surprised if we didn’t see some club closings in the next year or so.
“What’s been happening,” Hamel continues, “is that many of the real swingers have been abandoning the clubs in favour of the private houses, like Chez Catherine. At the private houses, you don’t have all the facilities of the clubs, swimming pools, jacuzzis and the like, but the people going there are looking to have sex—it’s not about going out to dance or just look at people. The private houses are smaller and a lot of the people already know each other. If you’re there as a voyeur, you could feel unwelcome, like you really should be participating. It’s not a legitimate pressure, certainly not one put on by the owners of the houses, but a pressure you might feel anyway if you’re, you know, the only person with your clothes on in a room full of naked people. Similarly, if you’re in a house with 40 other couples and you’re the only couple not participating, you might find yourself feeling kind of awkward.”
Young and the restless
One thing, as anybody who’s ever spent time at any of the local échangiste clubs will tell you, is that the swinging set are a very respectful lot—nobody is pressuring anybody to do anything they don’t feel like doing. As Alain Joyal, he of the hugely popular l’Éclipse/l’Auberge le 1082 complex and the man behind local Web site infolibertins.com, points out, “single women are way less likely to receive unwanted attention in an échangiste club than on the street or in another, more traditional, club. It’s just not acceptable. Everyone understands and respects that.”
Perhaps that good word is getting around more these days. Joyal reports that the clientele stepping into l’Auberge le 1082 complex keeps getting younger and that the number of single women coming out continues to multiply.
“The crowd at [dance club] l’Éclipse is actually very, very young. And on a good Saturday night, you’ll find maybe 200 people having sex inside l’Auberge le 1082, with the average age being about 30. But we get many people in their early twenties coming here now as well. On big theme weekends, people are reserving their rooms and lockers well in advance, because inevitably they’ll all be sold out if they decide to wait until they get here.”
So, if l’Auberge le 1082 is any indication, certainly not all local swinger clubs are feeling the negative effects from the sudden influx of voyeurs among their ranks. It might well be that these newcomers to the scene just need a little time to adapt to the magical world of swingin’. And then, before you know it, perhaps a whole new legion of young swingers might find themselves comfortably throwing their panties to the wind and announcing loudly in a room full of strangers, “Come fuck me, everybody, I understand the scene now and I’m all ready to go!” Perhaps the local swinging scene is just suffering from growing pains. Time will tell.

Racy places

>> Spots where things get hot

    So, you’ve been entertaining the idea of getting naked in a room full of swingers but haven’t quite figured out where you want to do it yet? The following is a list of establishments where you can find other couples to do the nasty with, or, to simply explore the swinging lifestyle before deciding to get down and dirty yourself.

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- L’Éclipse Night Club/Auberge le 1082 1082 Rosemont E., 272-1082, www.le1082.com
The happenin’ spot at the moment, l’Eclipse/Auberge le 1082 is an enormous complex. Attracting a slightly younger, “good-looking” crowd, le 1082 boasts a whirlpool spa that can accommodate up to 30 people, a large, spacious sauna and a “fantasy room” that’s said to really get going weekend nights.
- Club Nuances 4467 St-Laurent, 845-1741, www.clubnuances.com
The former home of the notorious yet highly celebrated club l’Orage, Nuances may not be packing them in lately like l’Orage did in its heyday, but it’s still well worth investigating.
- Club Nuances 4467 St-Laurent, 845-1741, www.clubnuances.com
The former home of the notorious yet highly celebrated club l’Orage, Nuances may not be packing them in lately like l’Orage did in its heyday, but it’s still well worth investigating.
- Le Lucky 7 7 René-Levesque W., 874-7777, www.clublucky7.com
The newest kid on the swingin’ block, having only opened officially this September. Gang-bang nights every Thursday and Friday.
- Auberges des Libertines 2100 Mario (Brossard), (450) 656-0160, www.aubergedeslibertins.com
Where South Shore libertines go to get down.
- Complex 3333 3333 Belanger, 807-2424, www.sauna333.com
Described on the Montreal Escort Review Board as “like a gay sauna/bathhouse except for straight people,” the 3333 has a large swimming pool, glory holes and, of course, their notorious “sex swing.”
- Montreal Sexy Boat www.montrealsexyboat.com
In the warmer months, you and your honey can climb aboard the bacchanal that is Jean Hamel’s Sexy Boat and do the deed under the stars while cruising the mighty St. Lawrence River. Leaves from the Boucherville wharf.
- Le Celeste 7067 St-Hubert, 886-5633, www.leceleste.com
Glory holes, a “Garden of Eden” room, a mirror room—what more could you ask for? Bring your mom

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    For more information on the Montreal swinging scene, and to find out where the private swinging action is, be sure to check out Jean Hamel’s Quebec Swingers Association’s Web site at www.aeqsa.com, and/or Alain Joyal’s site, www.infolibertins.com. Both Joyal and Hamel sponsor introductory swingers evenings, if you decide you want to learn all the proper etiquette before taking the plunge.

—CB

Kicking junk with TRASH
>> Jailhouse fundraiser aims to help addicts wrestle with the bear

by CHRIS BARRY
You know, kids, kicking a dope habit can be a difficult and nasty business. Not that I would necessarily know, mind you, but I watch a lot of daytime television and I've heard the stories. And I can tell you that if there is anything worse than going through heroin withdrawal yourself, it's being stuck in a room with some whiny baby who is barfing, shitting and sweating all over the place and discovering for the first time just how unpleasant an experience detoxing truly is. Trust me, this is not humanity at its finest.

It takes a special person to volunteer their time to sit through someone else's detoxification process. I mean, the whole ordeal takes at least a few days and I think it's safe to say that sitting around in some junkie's apartment, feeding them tea and special herbs and practicing reflexology on their sweaty yellow feet while trying to dodge the puke they keep spraying into the atmosphere is not most people's idea of a swell time. You've really got to be a trooper.

This is why you've got to admire the volunteers who devote themselves to TRASH--a local grassroots organization dedicated to helping junkies detox. In business for just under a year now and operating primarily by word of mouth, TRASH, which stands for Techniques and References for Addict Self-Help, has already guided several dozen addicts through the fun of withdrawal and claims to have a 90 per cent success rate.

Of course, as anyone who has ever tried wrestling with the bear will tell you, detoxing is the easy part, it's staying clean that really presents the challenge. But as head TRASH-woman Catherine Lavarenne explains, "A lot of the people who come to us have only just recently become addicted to heroin and have already tried to stop by themselves, which is practically impossible. And not everybody has the time to wait or the money to get in to the established detox centres. We are there to help and guide people through the process, discreetly and in the comfort of their own homes. Once they've detoxed we can only hope they will have the strength and wisdom to stay off dope for good."

Not surprisingly, however, finding responsible volunteers who are prepared to devote 24 hours a day for several days at a time is not that easy and, in recent months, TRASH has been forced to deny its benevolence to legions of wannabe-ex-junkies.

"The last thing we want to do," says Lavarenne, "is have somebody get themselves mentally prepared to withdraw and then let them down by not having one of our volunteers show up. So we are trying to augment our volunteer network with a couple of paid employees who can go at this full-time."

In other words, the TRASH gang needs money. Yes, the requisite applications have gone out to the requisite government and charitable organizations that fund this kind of thing, but the jury is still out on whether TRASH is in line for them big philanthropy bucks or not. In the meantime, a benefit is going down for them this Saturday, October 14 at Jailhouse Rock featuring local oom-pah punks the Subumlauts, Line 3 and Akuma. Admission is $5. :

Hells in paradise A Mirror writer hoping to escape Montreal’s brutal winters found himself sharing a tropical resort with local criminals—and witnessing their unlikely takedown at the hands of the Dominican Republic’s notorious cops CHEAP, SUNNY, WELL-GUARDED: Cita del Sol

by CHRIS BARRY Up until last spring, when an international posse of cops possibly slowed down the Quebec Hells Angels’ various rackets as a result of a multi-year investigation labelled Operation SharQc, anyone obsessed with the biker gang’s various chapters need only head to Cabarete, on the impossibly beautiful North Coast of the Dominican Republic, to get up close and maybe even personal with their outlaw heroes. For years, the bikers have been coming to the D.R. to hide out and/or hang for a few weeks to chill in the sun with their families on vacation. It’s been a great country for them: the gang and their endless supply of blood money have been welcomed with open arms. The local authorities, mostly criminals in their own right, were so impressed by our Angels, they even named the street where their new bunker resides after them—Calle 81 (the “8” standing for the letter “H” and the “1” standing for “A”). That they could ever be rounded up and carted off to jail by their Dominican benefactors just seemed too remote a possibility to even consider, yet, on the morning of April 15, 2009, that’s exactly what happened—sort of. BUSTED: Aurèle Brouillette, Marc Readman, Steve “Tiny” Rainville, Sex sells, everyone buys Contrary to how it’s often portrayed in tourist guides, Cabarete is hardly just the quaint little surfer/tourist town they love to claim it is. Oh sure, compared to Sosua, some 20 minutes or so west of here on the road to Puerto Plata, why, it’s downright sleepy, but that’s not saying much. Sosua, with its endless array of sleazy watering holes, bargain prostitutes, toothless Dominican pimps and the fat old German expats and tourists who keep them all in business, has long been one of the world’s foremost sex tourism destinations—catering to both men and, increasingly, women. Nobody who’s spent any time here bats an eye upon coming across some stinky white-haired Euro-stud mauling their latest 15-year-old “girlfriend.” Nor does anyone give it a second thought when spotting teenage “sanky pankies”—these ripped, criminally good-looking ebony kite surfer dudes who generally work the resort beat—playing tonsil-hockey on the beach with somebody’s saggy-titted, liver-spotted grandma. It’s just an accepted part of the scenery, like palm trees and garbage-strewn streets. As with most, if not all, third world sex tourism hot spots, prostitution, much like the drug biz, thrives here because, well, there’s simply not a whole lot of career choices open to the largely uneducated, dirt-poor masses who inhabit the Dominican countryside. Outside of the major cities, Santo Domingo and Santiago, the poor rural people who make up the bulk of the population spend their days lounging outside their one-room wood and tin shacks getting pissed on cheap rum, watching chickens chase each other around, shitting in their backyards, betting on birds at their friendly neighbourhood cock-fighting ring and constantly enjoying that most inexpensive of activities affordable to all with functioning, disease-free genitals: fucking their brains out. If there’s anything absolutely indisputable about the D.R., it’s that they share one hell of a highly sexualized culture in this most delightful part of the tropics. As the expat gringos in these parts are fond of saying, welcome to paradise. The devil finds work… But as idyllic as the life of a Dominican campesino most certainly sounds, there’s also no shortage of misery in this country. Putting it bluntly, they have more than their fair share of desperate people here, especially among the Haitian community, the Dominican Republic sharing the island of Hispaniola with Haiti, and Haiti being, of course, the grand old dame of fucked up nations. The North Shore, where Cabarete is located, is chock full of mostly illegal Haitian immigrants. So perhaps nobody should be all that surprised to learn there’s also quite a bit of violent crime here, although, like everywhere else in the world, most of the gun violence takes place among the various criminal outfits who run the local drug and prostitution rackets. While it does happen on occasion, your average sun-seeking tourist isn’t all that likely to get killed, unless, of course, he/she tries to fuck over the local underworld or foolishly decides it’d be cool to get rip-roaring, pass-out drunk and go down to the barrio at 4 a.m. with a wad full of money taped to their foreheads looking to score blow or companionship. Still, everyone who can afford them has guns here, and few think twice about using them when the situation calls for it. A Tiny problem So on that fateful morning of April 15, 2009, when I stepped out the door of my rented condo unit at 5 a.m. to investigate what all the commotion in the hallway below me was about, I wasn’t as shocked as I might have been to discover a six-man posse of masked machine-gun-toting maniacs readying to break down the door of my downstairs neighbour, Steve “Tiny” Rainville. After all, only a few days earlier, I’d witnessed some poor Haitian dude getting blown to bits in broad daylight while I sat on a lovely shaded terrasse enjoying a quiet steak dinner with my wife, and, well, after enough exposure to this sort of violence, you kind of get used to it. The real shocker that morning was the fact that these guys were coming after my man Tiny. Tiny, you see, must weigh about 350 pounds and possesses a demeanour that cries “I KILL PEOPLE!” When he, I and the neighbourhood children would all be frolicking at our complex’s swimming pool together—Tiny inevitably with some smokin’ hot new Haitian chick at his side—I couldn’t get over how much the guy bore a resemblance to a giant, foul-mouthed manatee, except not quite as cute as the ones you find in the ocean, given that this manatee could easily, if provoked, kill me in a heartbeat without giving it a second thought. Outside of being a looker, Tiny also happens to be a full-patch member of the Hells Angels, fun-lovin’ Québécois fellas who even the dimmest Dominican criminal knows not to fuck with. For that matter, even the police, by far the biggest, baddest criminals on the island, knew better than to fuck with them. These guys had power, man. Bad men make good neighbours Cita del Sol, the condo complex where I’ve been wintering these past few years, used to be owned—or at least, operated—by the Quebec Hells Angels. And while the bikers and their families still regularly stay here on vacation (You’ve got to wonder sometimes just how much vacation time these guys get every year anyway. Two weeks? Three? Do they get stress leave after killing somebody?), your average Cita del Sol dweller ranges from wealthy American windsurf-loving millionaires who’d rather hang among regular people than their snooty uptight colleagues, to bargain hunters like me, who are in Cabarete because it’s as inexpensive a Caribbean winter destination as you’re ever going to find. Cita del Sol is a pretty safe place to live by Dominican standards, not only because of the shotgun-toting security guards stationed outside in the parking lot 24/7, but because all the petty criminals in the area are terrified of the complex’s rep as “the Hells Angels house” and don’t want to make the mistake of possibly burgling a biker’s apartment to consequently get hunted down and killed for their efforts. Courteous crooks To most Cabarete gringos, in a land where the cops usually want to know how much money you’re prepared to give them before deciding whether to come to your aid or not, having influential thugs like the Hells Angels in town hasn’t been much of an inconvenience. They’ve never been known to beat on anybody just for the sake of it and, for the most part, are pretty respectful to their neighbours. Many a courteous Angel has politely held the gates to Cita del Sol open for my wife and me when we’ve passed by, not necessarily smiling at us, but at least grunting our way in a friendly, non-threatening manner. The whores in town, along with every bar/restaurant staff along the North Coast, love them because they’re always throwing their considerable loot around. And for those few who were down with them on a personal level—the Angels generally stick to themselves—a phone call to their bunker could well save your ass should you find yourself caught up in the Dominican justice system. Even though the majority of the bikers hanging in Cabarete were/are older, semi-retired crooks, the accepted wisdom is that they initially set up shop in the D.R. to filter Colombian drugs back to Canada. Whatever the case, they certainly had plenty of influence with the local police. It wasn’t uncommon to see Tiny, or fugitive Aurèle Brouillette, the influential father of alleged Quebec Hells Angel head honcho Mario Brouillette, or my very favourite Angel, the Tickler, a little guy with a fierce reputation and a face that’s a dead ringer for Leonard Cohen circa 1971, drinking champagne in Sosua with the local chief of police. The cops are so corrupt around here, they’re not particularly concerned about being spotted in public hanging out with the same fugitives they’re theoretically supposed to be arresting and deporting back to Canada. Like, what’s anybody going to do about it? SharQc attack Which is what made seeing all those masked gunmen at Tiny’s door that morning last April all the more bizarre. Could these guys really be, like… cops? How could such a thing even be possible? Yet before I ducked back into the relative safety of my apartment, I could have sworn these guys were wearing uniforms, and sure enough, I was to find out later, they were. The guys coming to get Tiny were a Dominican SWAT team, masked only to conceal their identities lest Tiny’s associates figure out who they were someday and come back to take revenge on them and their families. The word around town was that the bikers must have refused to pay bribe money, or enough bribe money, to some government bigwig in Santo Domingo in order to have finally been rounded up and deported to Canada the way they were. Tiny’s bust was just one part of Operation SharQc’s mass arrests in the D.R., France and Quebec, which saw some 156 Quebec bikers rounded up and carted off to jail to await trials that are just now getting underway. But the feeling among Cabarete townspeople was one of absolute disbelief. For those familiar with Dominican justice, the idea of these rich, powerful criminals being forcibly expelled from their bunker on Calle 81, their zillion-dollar fleet of Harleys and Range Rovers all seized, of Tiny and his heretofore omnipotent Aurèle Brouillette pal actually getting carted off to prison, well, it was nothing short of incredible. The end of an era. But of course it wasn’t. Back to business The word on the street last spring was that the Dominican police/Armed Forces had rounded up every last Canadian biker on the island, were laying claim to all their considerable personal property and shipping every last one of them back to Canada. Yet that’s not quite how it’s played out. Outside the Cabarete police station on the day of the bust, you could count dozens of recently seized Harleys all chained up in the parking lot and you couldn’t even get close to their bunker on Calle 81 for all the SWAT team action going down. Yet to date, after all the activity that transpired that morning, only three bikers were actually arrested and deported to Canada: Tiny, Aurèle and Marc Readman, whom I’d never seen before—hardly the entire D.R. HA operation. After keeping a relatively low profile in town over the spring and summer, the bikers have a presence in Cabarete again. There’s new activity in their bunker (which, if it was ever properly seized in the first place, has been returned to them), the local prostitutes are suddenly flush and the bar they recently opened behind the HA-affiliated “Bozo beverage house” saw some 200 bikers stopping by to initiate its grand opening a couple weeks ago. So while Tiny and Aurèle sit in Canadian jails waiting to face murder and various other charges stemming back to the biker wars of the 1990s, it appears to be only a matter of time until life returns to normal in Cabarete, with our very own Québécois outlaws once again ruling the roost in their adopted homeland of the sunny Dominican Republic. As they like to say around here, welcome to paradise.

Rad reputation >> Thirty years after her debut with the Runaways, renegade rocker Joan Jett rules the roost at this summer’s Vans Warped tour

by CHRIS BARRY In a rock ’n’ roll landscape dominated largely by phonies and bullshit, you’ve got to give props to Joan Jett for consistently keeping it real. Sure, she’s had her creative ups and downs over the years, as with any artist who’s managed to survive some three-odd decades in the biz, but the bottom line is that with Jett, truly, what you see is what you get. Having rubbed shoulders with the woman many, many times over the course of our lives, I can tell you with absolute certainty that what you get with Jett is a chick whose passion for rock ’n’ roll is, seriously, probably unprecedented. Not to mention she’s a way underrated rhythm guitar player. Rest assured, when Jett gets up to sing her 1982 mega-hit “I Love Rock ’n’ Roll” for the sixth millionth time in her life, she means every line of it—still! Her latest record with her band the Blackhearts, Sinner, has been garnering rave reviews, and hey, if there’s any justice in the world—which of course, we all know there isn’t—might even saddle our proudly androgynous miss with yet another hit single by way of the old Sweet song, “ACDC.” The Mirror caught up with Jett, who’s been spending her summer “rockin’ out” on the Warped tour (which hits Montreal next week), over the phone. Mirror: It’s been a while since your last record. How long were you working on Sinner? Joan Jett: It was a long process. It’s been, like, 10 years since our last new CD. But we’re having a good time. [The release] coincided with the start of the Warped tour, so I’ve kind of been in this Warped tour bus bubble since it came out. But it’s doing well on college radio and I think the video’s getting some decent play. We’re just trying to build it up. We’ll be doing a headlining tour in the fall and out supporting it all year. People are responding really well to it. They like the songs, think it’s quality, and I’m really proud of it too. I think it’s just what people would expect from me. M: I get the impression people really want to like it, that they want to get behind you. JJ: Well, that’s great. I don’t know if it’s just the underdog aspect or the fact they’re somewhat aware that I didn’t just sort of retire for a while. I’m out there touring every year, regardless of whether we have a new CD or not. I’ve never really taken any time off my whole life. M: You don’t ever tire of it, do you? You always seem to have the same enthusiasm—it’s really quite remarkable. JJ: It’s easy to get enthusiastic about. Beating on Bush M: Does it feel like a new audience for you on this Warped tour, or do most of the kids already know you? JJ: It’s definitely a combination. There’s plenty of people out there who’ve been fans for awhile, and then you see the kids who look like newer fans. People are buying the new CD too, and singing along to not just the single, but to “Riddles” and a song called “Change the World.” But I’m sure there’s plenty of kids who don’t know anything about me, or might only know I did “I Love Rock ’n’ Roll.” But they’re curious, and hopefully, by the end of the show, they become at least some level of fan. Some like it more than others, I suppose. But the audiences have been treating us really enthusiastically. M: Speaking of “Riddles,” this is the first time you’ve written anything political, right? JJ: Definitely. My first protest song. I’ve been wanting to write about this stuff for years but was sort of having writer’s block in general, and when you broach these subjects, you really don’t want to be preachy or corny, so that surely held me back. I didn’t really know how to approach it, and maybe there wasn’t anything necessarily in the world that was bugging me to the degree that I felt it was time to write. But every line in the song applies to something going on in our country. Whether you’re talking about the economy, or lack of jobs, or tax cuts for the wealthy, the environment, Hurricane Katrina or the war, I mean it just goes on and on. I’m just saying, “People, it’s our government, we should make them speak directly to us.” As a citizen, it’s frustrating, you know, wondering why it doesn’t fire other people up as much. Edgy about Edgeplay M: Why did you choose not to participate in Edgeplay [former Runaway Vicki Blue’s documentary film about her and Joan’s iconic ’70s teenage girl group the Runaways]? JJ: To me, the Runaways is my baby, so you have to understand my perspective. If there’s gonna be a Runaways movie, it should be about what we accomplished, the tours we did, the bands we played with, the people we inspired. I’m not gonna participate in a Jerry Springer fest, bottom line. With any band, you’re gonna have interpersonal conflicts, but if that’s what they thought the Runaways were about—about breaking a bass or putting on make-up—well, it’s very disappointing. Very, very disappointing. I wanted nothing to do with it because that’s not the band I was in. [The film] was a totally different take on what went down. M: Back when you were a 16-year-old chick in L.A., playing rock ’n’ roll, did you ever imagine you might still be doing it as a grand old dame of 47? JJ: Well, I didn’t project the year, but I definitely thought I’d be doing it, you know, in that naïve teenage way where you think you can do anything. The power of pussy M: It’s sort of become respectable these days for old guys to keep playing rock ’n’ roll long after they’ve been admitted to the geriatric ward. Do you think it’s the same deal with respect to women? JJ: No, I’m sure it’s not. I mean, I take a lot of shit because it’s very ageist. In any article I’ve seen on me this summer, they always list my age after my name. But, like, Mike Ness—he’s my age or maybe a little older—or any of my male contemporaries, they never list their ages after their names. It’s only with the women, always about their desirability and all that shit. It’s really annoying. M: Why do you think that is? Do you have any theories? JJ: It’s all about the pussy. Pussy rules. Pussy rules if you love women, it rules if you hate women. It rules, it’s just constantly in the mind of everyone. Whether it’s women who want to feel desirable or feel a lack of desire because they’re getting old, or they think it means they can’t be desirable because they’ve hit a certain number—I just don’t think about it, you know? I just go out and rock, and don’t think about it. But yeah, it can piss me off, piss me off greatly. I guess I’m lucky because I still look okay, so people aren’t really hassling me about being too old yet, but— M: Yeah, it’s true, Jett, how d’ya stay so svelte? Is it from constantly gigging? Or an exercise routine or something? JJ: Ha, it’s probably clean living, really. I don’t drink, I don’t smoke—I pretty much stopped drinking after the Runaways—and I try to stay out of the sun, three things that can really kick the shit out of your skin and make you look years older. That’s just a fact. That, and I’m a vegetarian and have been for upwards of 15 years. (laughs) Maybe it’s good genes.

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Skin deep
>> Glory, grudges and sleaze: the Mirror roots for the hometown girl at the Miss Canada International 2002 beauty pageant
by CHRIS BARRY

It's Thursday evening in beautiful downtown Mississauga and I'm sweating in a basement conference room of the local Novotel hotel preparing to take in the splendour of the Miss Canada International swimsuit competition. Thirty or so naive young women from across the country have taken the journey to the land of sprawl with the hopes of securing this most prestigious of titles. Tonight, they are gathering to flaunt their nubile bodies to the assembled media horde and a panel of three judges: two horrid old bags with overly made-up plastic faces and the male executive responsible for marketing the remarkably unflattering "one-size fits all" swamp green and bright orange swimwear the contestants will be sporting.

The swarm of media in attendance for this most important of events is, by the way, me. Well, to be honest, not just me. There's also an Iranian couple with their adult son who is taking pictures for their Web page, and some other guy with a used digicam who, ostensibly, is recording the competition for some obscure Web channel but whose motivations, I suspect, are of a more prurient nature. Having my own unwholesome interest in beauty queens, I can spot a fellow enthusiast from a mile off.

The chicks arrive late and immediately start prancing awkwardly before the judges to a loop of Buster Poindexter's "Hot, Hot, Hot"--a hip little number that the pageant's head of security/DJ is pumping from his PA system, a ghetto blaster. Under the nasty fluorescent lights you can see every pimple, vein, and hint of cellulite that these earnest young babes have to offer and, if you station yourself at the right angle to the rear, you notice that the ill-fitting bathing suits offer a nice--and sometimes not-so-nice--cheeky view on a couple of the contestants. I position myself accordingly.

For absolutely no good reason at all, the snap-happy son of the Iranian couple decides he wants to make friends with me and comes over to speculate on why this media friendly event seems to be void of anything resembling media. I suggest that perhaps since the pageant hasn't been televised in over five years it is essentially a non-event and he responds by saying he thinks he knows me from another life. "That's nice," I tell him.

I saunter over to the pageant's sleazeball PR guy, Larry, to inquire why the room is so unmercifully hot. He tells me they turn off the air conditioning for the swimsuit competition in an effort to keep the nipple action to a minimum. "We forgot one year and, let me tell you, you could see everything, heh, heh, heh. We wouldn't want that to happen again, now would we? Heh, heh, heh." I suggest that we would but he isn't listening and wouldn't care what I have to say anyway.

Larry doesn't like me and I don't like him. He's a fat middle-aged fucker in a bad expensive suit and bowtie. He won't give me a media package.

Welcome to the Miss Canada International 2002 pageant--a decidedly low-rent affair. The contestants have been here for almost a week now doing fun, fun things like dining at the Keg and posing at Canada's Wonderland with some of the pageant's sponsors. They've been bunking upstairs in the Novotel together and the girls all say they've become like a big happy family--a team actually. Everywhere they go they are obligated to wear their sashes and sometimes people point and make fun of them. The winners of the swimsuit competition will be announced at the big gala scheduled for Saturday. I am beside myself with anticipation.

Cash bar and eager teens

Tonight is the big wingding where all the parents who have accompanied their daughters to Mississauga can get together and mingle at the hotel dining room over a $30 buffet-style pasta dinner and cash bar. It's a happening event to be sure and everyone is there, including most of the contestants from the Miss Teen Canada International pageant that is running alongside the main event. Also scheduled for tonight is a silent auction for some charity that nobody is quite sure of. All of the beauty queens, in an effort to demonstrate their Miss-Canada-worthy benevolence, have dutifully gone out and bought consumer goods that will be auctioned off at a no-doubt inflated price to their families in attendance. Later, I'm told that the charity auction is for the benefit of the pageant itself. Nice.

I am introduced to Tiffany Dawson, a 14-year-old Greenfield Park girl who is running as Miss Teen Quebec. She's a Mormon and has been sponsored by her church to come here and kick some teen pageant ass. She's excited to finally be talking to a big important media person like myself and asks if I have any interest in the teen competition. I tell her I have a very keen interest in teens and spend a lot of time researching them on the Internet but that, no, for all intents and purposes, I was planning on writing my story on the older girls. She seems disappointed. She is cute as a button and refreshingly un-beauty- queen like, almost like a normal kid. She'll make some polygamist very happy someday, but she also hasn't got a prayer of winning. I want to put my arms around her in a disturbingly paternal way and shield her from the sickness that is the pageant but decide I had better not, all things considered.

My Iranian friend is in attendance taking pictures of Miss Ontario, who also happens to be of Iranian heritage, hence his Web site's interest in the pageant. He spots me in the crowd and excitedly rushes over to tell me that he's finally figured out where he knows me from.

"You're the guy from the movie! The journalist in that documentary I saw who wants to get in to the porn industry, that's you, right? That fucked up guy!" I tell him I don't know what he's talking about, because I don't, but he's sure he's got me pegged and can't understand why I don't want to cop to my true identity as an aspiring pornographer. He thinks I'm pretty cool. Several times that night I see him pointing me out to parents and people from the pageant as the guy from the porno industry. I decide to discreetly ditch my new Persian pal and go hunting for Dahlia, this year's Miss Montreal and my excuse for being here. I find her at a table with her family, daintily slurping up pasta.

Here she is: Miss Montreal!

Like the majority of Miss Canada International contestants--or "delegates" as the pageant's organizers insist they be called--Dahlia Mills was recruited over the Internet and pronounced queen of our city in exchange for a $2,600 entrance fee. No need to stage a costly local beauty pageant that nobody cares about, $2,600 will buy pretty well anyone a title. There are a few other girls from Montreal registered in the pageant as well, but they've been reclassified as Miss Quebec's or Miss St-Tite's so as not to confuse things. Come up with 2,600 bucks and MCI will find a town or province for you to represent. Don't worry about the logistics.

A 19-year-old retail clerk with vague aspirations to a modelling career, Dahlia stands out from the other delegates in that she is actually kind of hot. Given the primary entrance requirement, it comes as no big surprise that many of the delegates leave something to be desired by way of physical beauty. Most of the girls come from small towns and are, to say the least, neither the most stunning nor sophisticated group of chicks one could ever hope to meet. They all, of course, possess an exceptional inner beauty that is difficult to quantify.

Dahlia, on the other hand, is poised, graceful, and, God forbid, even exudes a hint of sexuality--something which I fear may hurt her chances of becoming the next Miss Canada International.

Dahlia also comes off as being a little brighter than most of the contestants, another thing which I'm concerned might work to her detriment. Last year's Miss Canada, Connie Cho, apparently has an IQ over 70 and is rumoured to have been none-too-pleased with her treatment at the hands of the MCI establishment over the course of her reign. Rumours stemming from a recent Toronto Sun story about her displeasure with the organization have people speculating on whether she will even show up on Saturday to crown her successor. None of this bodes well for Dahlia. The last thing the MCI brass need is yet another ornery and remotely intelligent Miss Canada to bitch about them in the media.

Despite Dahlia's well-rehearsed rhetoric about just entering the competition to have a swell time with a bunch of swell gals from "all over Canada," our Miss Montreal has clearly come here to win. Plus, she has an ass that won't quit. I decide I like her and plan on rooting for her at the big showdown tomorrow night.

Larry the PR clown comes by our table and I overhear him talking enthusiastically to some aspiring beauty queens about one of the celebrities he's just landed to appear at Saturday's event. Some kid from some Canadian reality TV show called The Lofters. I expect to hear laughter but everyone is suitably impressed. I'm told I will probably get a chance to meet the kid tomorrow. I am beside myself with anticipation.

Wacky dancing and shameless advertising

The atmosphere in the gloriously generic Mississauga Living Arts Centre is electric. Approximately 500 people, all no doubt friends and family members of the contestants, have forked over $30 each to bear witness to this momentous occasion, the crowning of Miss Canada International 2002. Nobody seems to be all that sure exactly what tonight's winner will actually win, other than the opportunity to represent Canadian womanhood at next year's Miss World pageant, but no one seems to be all that concerned. One of the contestants told me earlier that Miss Canada 2001 got a lot of free shoes from Payless, one of the pageant's major sponsors. Lucky girl.

The lights go down and the chicks stumble out to do one of two wacky dance numbers they've been rehearsing all week with Bob, the pageant's temperamental artiste/choreographer--a man whom I've been instructed to treat with kid gloves should I decide to interview him. Bob takes his art very seriously and doesn't take kindly to jokes about his dancers' limited abilities or the deeper, more spiritual side of himself so eloquently expressed in his presentations. If you've seen the movie Waiting for Guffman, you've seen Bob represented as the Corky St-Clair character. He's overweight and sweats a lot. The girls are all afraid of him. So am I.

No girls fall down during the dance number or do anything else particularly embarrassing outside of simply participating in this foolishness to begin with. The June Taylor dancers they're not, but the girls do their best. Dahlia looks good in her ballgown, which we are told repeatedly has been provided to the contestants courtesy of Aldo.

When they introduce my hometown gal I yell, "Yahoo!" very loudly and get snotty looks from the people around me. A few rows over I hear somebody mumbling something about "a goddamned pornographer." I get intimidated and quiet down for awhile.

The pageant itself is spectacularly dull and seems to go on forever. Twenty minutes of the gala, count 'em 20, are taken up with a PowerPoint display celebrating MCI's many proud sponsors, like Dave and Buster's Restaurant/Arcade at 120 Interchange Way, S.E. Corner Highways 400 and 7, "great food and a big fun time!"

After close to three hours of shameless advertising, nutty dance numbers and heart-to-heart interviews with the contestants, Sylvia Stark, a 250-pound horse of a woman and the convicted criminal who owns the Miss Canada International pageant(she was brought up on a couple of fraud-related charges back in 1995 when she was head honcho of the Miss Huronia pageant) waddles on to the stage and informs us that Connie Cho, last year's beaten-down and sullen winner, is in the house. Everybody cheers, relieved, I assume. The divine Miss Cho takes the mic and, not missing a beat, gives a polite and tearful thanks to, among others, Payless Shoes for all the top quality footwear they've donated to her over the course of the year. Everybody cheers. Yay Payless!

Crushing disappointment

Finally, and mercifully, the moment of truth arrives when we learn which lucky girl will be crowned Miss Canada International 2002. Dahlia has performed well. Her heart-to-heart interview with witty co-host Ken Atkinson has revealed her to be a thoughtful, altruistic young woman with an intense desire to help the poor people of Little Burgundy. She placed in the swimsuit competition. She is glowing, charismatic, alive! Her spectacular ass has been well represented in all of the silly costumes the pageant's clothing sponsors have decked her out in. She has made Montreal proud.

But it is not to be. Our heroine makes it to the final 10 contestants but ultimately loses out to Tara Hall, Miss Thornhill, Ontario, a 21-year-old traffic announcer for the Skywards Traffic Network. Dahlia politely applauds the announcement but I suspect inside she is crushed. She is conspicuously absent from the post-gala festivities back at the Mississauga Novotel, where I proceed to get good and drunk at $5 a beer. I start asking around if anybody has seen the kid from The Lofters anywhere but nobody has. More disappointment. I cozy up to the new Miss Canada International and ask her what incredible prizes she has won. She tells me she's not really sure just yet. She seems to be somewhat wary of me. I'm not sure if it's because of my rep as a pornographer or just as a result of my general disposition, but along with most of the people in attendance, I get the feeling that she thinks I'm kind of sleazy. Normally this sort of thing wouldn't bother me, but under the circumstances, I find myself deeply offended. Go figure.

---

Spring colon cleaning

Spring colon cleaning

One carnivore's brave encounter with colonic hydrotherapy

 
by CHRIS BARRY
Theoretically, I should have one motherfucker of a messed up colon. I haven't eaten a vegetable since 1965 and, even though I feel kind of bad about it politically, every week I probably consume about eight pounds of red meat.

That's not supposed to be the healthiest thing a man can do. In fact, just being alive and as healthy as I appear to be has turned me in to something of a medical curiosity. Not that long ago, I was offered a substantial wad of cash by a team of researchers at Columbia University in exchange for my allowing them to probe the mystery that is my digestive system. I declined. If there is anything scarier to me than my mother's mashed turnips, it's doctors and hospitals.

But in my weaker moments, I do occasionally stress out over the reality that my eating habits will no doubt kill me at an early age. The concern that my meat-only diet raises in the various health professionals I've visited over the years does nothing to alleviate the stress either. Apparently if my heart doesn't give out on me in the next 10 years, then all the muck in my colon is going to mutate into cancer and I'm going to have to suffer the indignity of wearing a colostomy bag until the good lord takes mercy on my soul and finally claims me.

So what to do?

Colonics or death

I've been hearing about the miracle of colonics for close to 10 years now. The health-conscious people I know who become aware of my diet will invariably--and always with the same panicky tone--make a big ordeal of how important it is that I start getting the treatments immediately. "You need a cleansing and now! Or you're going to die," they perpetually cry.

But a colonic... That's just never sounded like a whole lot of fun to me. Especially since I've never been truly convinced I needed one, given that my old bowel gets moved pretty regularly and I'm rarely constipated. I mean, think about it: hot shooting liquids, shit, grease, ass probing, a chick in a nurse's uniform. Sure, it has all the elements of some of my more interesting erotic adventures but, in the context of a preventative health measure, it decidedly loses much of its allure. So I have to wonder, what's the point?

Well, apparently healthy colon maintenance is the point. According to the people who champion this procedure, having your hole professionally cleansed on a regular basis will keep those nasty cancer cells from forming, reinforce your immune system, and leave you with a general sense of well being. But that ain't all--after your colon gets irrigated you're supposed to be able to think more clearly, sleep better and, if you've been constipated for awhile, have the edge taken off your foul mood.

Lucie Courchesne is a naturopath who does a brisk business in hydrotherapy--the polite term for colonic irrigation, aka getting your ass blasted with treated water and cleaning out all the leftover shit that is stuck to your insides. She works her magic in the basement of an office building on Ste-Catherine Street in Westmount, and tells me that the majority of her customers are clogged-up, middle-aged professional women. "Most men aren't all that comfortable about having things inserted in to their anuses," she notes.

And I suppose you can count me among them, but as a serious health journalist with a colon that has plans to kill me in the next decade or so, I recently decided it was time to stop being a sissy, bend over and get the treatment. I picked up the phone and called for an appointment, and exactly one week later I was lying on Lucie's table with a hose up my ass and a smile on my face.

Undeniable sensuality

A lot of people seem to think that hydrotherapy is a smelly, degrading procedure that is both uncomfortable and a little humiliating. But answer me this: what possibly could be undignified about lying ass bared on your back with your feet locked in stirrups and a hose up your bum while a disturbingly pleasant young lady, who has just finger-fucked your asshole with lubricant, takes complete and utter control of your bowel? That's right: nothing. Unless the sheer and undeniable sensuality of it all renders you with a big old involuntary erection, which is a potential side effect I'd prefer not to discuss at this juncture.

Truth be told, the procedure is neither particularly messy or uncomfortable and Lucie, considerate to the fact that many of her customers may find surrendering control of their bowel to a stranger somewhat compromising, has taken measures to keep the humiliation factor to a minimum.

After a short interview wherein I revealed my dietary and elimination practices to Lucie's shocked dismay, I was sent off to the changing room to put on a pair of colonic shorts (a terrycloth number with a flap on the backside allowing easy access to the good stuff). I was encouraged to see that my colonic shorts fit like a glove and did a bang up job of accentuating the finer details of my best parts, leaving me with a nice pouch and flattering the curves of my behind.

"Can I take these with me when I leave?" I asked Lucie while proudly emerging from the changing room to take my place on her colonic table, "These would be bitchin' at my next fetish party."

But the colonic table is no place to be making jokes, and before I knew it, a determined Lucie had me greased up and was inserting a sterilized hose, about two inches long, into my rectum. It felt kind of good.

Coaxing the colon

One end of the hose is hooked up to a sophisticated distribution system that pumps filtered water up your colon, while another works as a drain to remove all the nastiness that the water pressure clears from deep inside your gut. Lucie controls how much pressure goes up your ass while alternately massaging your abdomen with a semen-like substance, gently manipulating your colon in to parting with the stubborn sweet stuff.

By your feet is a mirror aimed at a clear plastic tube in the drainage system which allows you to observe and admire some of the goodies you've been nurturing as they swim through the tube and make their way in to the sewer system like little brown goldfish, never to be seen again. Visually, it's actually quite soothing.

Unlike an enema, where you suck a whole bunch of liquid into your ass and then run as fast as you can to the crapper, the whole colonic mechanism is enclosed. So you don't get the chance to enjoy the smells generally associated with bowel relief or have any opportunities to roll around in your fecal matter. There is no spillage whatsoever and, in fact, at the end of the 45-minute session, the colonic table is so clean you might be tempted to eat off it.

When we were done and all the shit had been cleansed from my system, Lucie shot a syringeful of healing bacteria up my rump to replenish the supply that had been drained through the treatment and handed me a maxi-pad to stick in my underwear in the event that some goop would decide to drip out while I was walking home.

"But I'm not wearing any underwear," I told her.

"Well, just stick it in your pants then, there probably won't be any leakage, but just in case you don't want to be caught in an embarrassing situation," she told me.

Certainly not. So I paid her the $60 she charges for her service, slipped in my maxi-pad, and sashayed home through the Alexis-Nihon Plaza, feeling light-headed and thoroughly rejuvenated. At peace with both my body and the world.

That is, of course, until my maxi pad came loose and started sliding down the leg of my trousers, forcing me to grip the side of my pants until I could get out on to the street and covertly shake it out past my ankle. An event which some might construe as an embarrassing situation, but in my enlightened post-colonic state of being, just seemed like the funniest thing in the world.

As for the condition of my colon, I'm proud to report that I continue to baffle the experts in the medical community. Lucie says my digestive system is A-1 and I don't need to go back for another session for at least another six months. Will I ever go back? Sure, why not? Having your colon blasted is a much more pleasant experience than most people realize.



Hydrothérapie Lucie Courchesne,

N.D., H.C.,T.R.P.

4055 Ste Catherine W. , #113,

935-7500