As you may know, I took a trip to Toronto the first week of this month. The shoot I had originally booked the trip for did not happen, but fortunately I did have other shoots there. The trip was a kind of a mess, but Toronto is a cool city.

July 1st is a holiday in Canada (Canada Day, which is a lot like 4th of July) but my flight ended up getting so delayed that I missed all of the fireworks. I was in town for Toronto Pride, though, which is the biggest pride parade I've ever seen.  There were 1.5 million people there, and a whole bunch of partying in the streets that went on all night.

My roommate (Elle...she can be found at PSK with me) is working on a documentary about professional Laser Quest players (yes, they exist) so she had me shoot some interviews with the Toronto Laser Quest team and film one of their practices. I also stayed with a member of the team, who was an amazing host and took me on a tour of Toronto's bar scene.

The first day I was there, I went to the Dyke march and my phone died. I didn't know how to get in touch with my host, or anyone else, and I didn't know his address. I tried to find someone to let me make a long distance call (to my wife, one of the few numbers I have memorized) but when I finally got someone to let me do so, she wasn't answering her phone. I took the subway back to what I thought was his station and tried to find his house by feel. I actually walked right up to his door, but knocked on the house next door instead (he lives in one half of a duplex). My feet were ripped to shreds from way too much walking in boots with heels, so I took them off and walked barefoot, looking for a store that sold phone chargers. I didn't find one, but I did find an Internet cafe (they still have those) where I paid a bored teenage butch in a gray wifebeater 50 Canadian cents to use an ancient PC for 30 minutes. I was able to contact my roommate, and she was able to contact my host.

July 4th rolled around, and I hopped a Greyhound bus to Buffalo for a photoshoot. The bus ride seemed even longer than it actually was thanks to the guy sitting across the aisle from me who wouldn't stop complaining at me about his troubles (involving getting on the wrong bus and so forth). The bus got into customs around the time it was supposed to arrive at the station. The customs agents checked my bag and passport, and I was allowed to get back on the bus.

It did not go so smoothly for some my fellow passengers. First, there was the guy with the hats. He had about 300 baseball caps in his suitcase. The agents asked him why he had so many, and the best response he could come up with was "I don't know." They told him that he had three options: throw out the hats, go back to Canada, or call a broker to negotiate bringing them into the states. He wanted a broker, but it was July 4th and he'd never done imports before, and it just wasn't going to happen. He finally had to toss the hats. At least he got to get on the bus. Four other people weren't so lucky. One person actually tried to run away, which led to about a dozen cops pushing him to the ground. This whole circus took about an hour.

The photographer was waiting for me at the station. He drove me out to his house somewhere outside of the city. I had to take off my shoes, and the whole house was covered in plastic wrap. I texted my wife about it. "If I don't come home, you know where I died." It was mostly a joke. He sat me down to watch the Ellen show while he got his equipment ready. He then proceeded to take photos almost exclusively of my crotch while asking me bizarre questions like "do lesbians get wet?" (yes, we're just like other women) and "which one is the man - you or your wife?" (neither of us, that's the point) and "are queefs real or did South Park make them up?" (they are real). I also had to keep telling him that I wasn't from Canada because he kept forgetting. We finished ahead of schedule and he took me back to the bus. As we approached the station he asked me what I thought of the plastic wrap.

"I thought you were a neat freak," I said, which I did. He also disinfected the part of the couch my socks had touched.

"The last girl thought I was going to murder her," he said. I laughed, nervously. "Why do you go to stranger's houses, anyway?" He continued. "You ought to be more careful."

I got back on the bus, went back through customs, and finally arrived back in Toronto at 11pm. Once again, I didn't get to see any fireworks.

The next day, I finally got to shoot some sex. My costar was Asian hottie Siren Thorn.

The setup for the scene was that I was a bartender who Siren had a crush on. While ordering, she fantasized about me (cut to: sex scene) and then gave me a huge tip. The sex was hot (and the first sex I'd had in days, which is rare for me). We went down on each other, then hooked Siren up to a fucking machine and finished with me fucking Siren with my strap on. The couch we were working on was really slippery, so it took a lot of effort on my part but it was totally worth it. When we finished the scene and were cleaning up, Siren told me she'd never had a woman fuck her like that before. That made my day.

Siren and I had so much fun that we decided to go back to her place for some more action. We had a camera, but no camera person, so we just put it on a tripod and went at it. That footage will be an update on my site, coming soon.

I spent the last night in Toronto drinking Canadian "red wine" (that's what it's called, just red wine. It tastes like Communion wine, is the cheapest thing in the Province run liquor store, and still costs like twelve bucks) with my host and some of his friends that we ran into on the street. I then tried to conduct an interview about Laser Quest while totally blasted. Somehow, the camera is level.

In the morning, I discovered that I couldn't find my passport. I learned that getting a new one would take ten days, which I couldn't afford because I was supposed to shoot the final scene from Hardworking Girls the day after I got back. I searched the house, panicking, and eventually found it lodged between the couch cushions. I took my stuff and headed for the airport. Although I'd had no problem going into Canada, going out I got my bag searched. The TSA lady took out my bag of dildos.

"Those are sex toys," I volunteered.

"This whole bag," she asked, incredulous.

"Yes," I said matter-of-factly.

She peaked into the bag and put it back. She looked at the rest of my stuff - sluttly clothes, makeup in a big plastic ziploc, a bag of wigs that a photographer (who canceled on me) requested I bring - put it all back and let me get on my way. This time, my flight was right on time and non stop.

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