Beaver Hunt, or How I Put The “O” in “O Canada”


Me and my beaver…

I’ve run into many Canadians during my travels. They are nice folks and are usually branded as visibly as a steer from the Rope-‘Em Ranch: There’s always a convenient maple leaf flag patch on their knapsack, which allows one to sneak up from behind and engage in one of the following pre-approved topics of conversation:

  • Coffee at Tim Horton’s.
  • The musical sublimity of Gordon Lightfoot and the Crash Test Dummies.
  • Platinum nuggets of Great White North Realpolitik: “Michael J. Fox was born in Edmonton. The United States cannot make a similar claim.”
  • Discomfited ties to British royalty in a country where pap smears are free.
  • Count Floyd from SCTV.

But alas, they never speak readily of the delights of dripping hot wet sexual congress. Which has made me intensely curious about what it would be like to frick a Canadian. Would one find a little maple leaf on the glans? Does Canadian spunk taste like Québécois ham?

What better place to boink a Canadian than on their home turf? I was up in Thunder Bay, Ontario, in 2008, driving up the north shore of Lake Superior when, in a little art gallery, I met Dave, a local jewelry maker. We chatted a bit about Robertson Davies and then Margaret Atwood. When the discussion turned to Malcolm Lowry (no relation), I strongly defied Dave’s claim that the legendary British expat was a “Canadian” writer.

I put my hands on my hips. “Whoa, Davey. He just lived in Canada…That’s like saying that Thomas Mann was American because he retired to Pacific Palisades.”

“But…He is Canadian.” Dave asserted the idea with iron certainty. “C’mon, Syl!!”

I gave up. “Screw it, baby. I’ll buy you a Labatt’s.” He took me up on the offer, but the hotel bar was closed. We took a six-pack up to my room and we quaffed the strong northern brew on empty stomachs.  My head spun a little; this innocuous local boy was starting to look like William Shatner in “Incubus.”

He was also getting a little buzzed and looked up petulantly. “Is it true?”

I took another sip. “Is what true, Davey-Wavey?”

“That Malcolm Lowry isn’t…one of us…that’s he’s not…Canadian?”

I sighed. “Alas…where do any of us belong…”

I’m not sure what the hell I meant by this existential murmur, but it allowed me to give him a peck on the cheek, which devolved into a semi-chaste hug. I sat my American head on his shoulder and there was a tense pause, before I launched into my most awkward solicitation in a sordid history of maladroit pick-up lines: Removing a square, three-dollar coin emblazoned with a beaver from my pocket, I squeezed the native currency into Dave’s palm.

I moved his finger across the engraved animal. “How does it feel to stroke my beaver, Davey?”

He nodded frantically, in rapture to the Canadian coinage. “Good, eh.”

I purred like a bobcat. “Then you’ve earned a gold pass to Sylvia’s pelt.” I thrust his palm into my trousers and into the woolly heavens of my honey pot. He kept up the digital friction and my little beast was getting as sodden as the Horseshoe Falls, inspiring me to take off my sweatshirt and show the lucky Northerner some more torrid American flesh.

The rest is a transcontinental blur. At one point, I recalled an evocative Nina Hartley pointer from one of her frick-flicks and relayed the same info to Dave: Put your thumb in the love-cave, push down, and “keep eating.” Like a good democratic-socialist, he followed orders well: He devoured my poor kitty like a Danish at Timmy Horton’s and I reached a nice quivering climax as I grunted like a lynx; actually, the emission sounded something like Michael J. Fox howling at the moon in “Teen Wolf.”

Time for some Canadian c**k, eh.

I thought it would be fun to fellate his totem pole, now rising like an Ottawa monument and harder than an Inunshuk. Taking a brief look at this Matterhorn of Manhood, I couldn’t help but think of the lyrics to “O Canada” [“With glowing hearts we see thee rise/The true north, strong and free”]. And after about a minute of good American tight-gripped hand-action, a lovely cascade of spunk erupted in a colossal, celestial arc wider than New Brunswick and whiter than the peaks of the Hermit Range.

I love it when the male orgasmic fusillade is bigger than expected. It suggested a powerful underlying tension, the brief suggestion that a virile Canadian passion lurked behind the otherworldly calm of a Tom Thomson watercolor or the intensely twee lyrics of Moxy Früvous.

Perhaps there was something placidly Canadian about the post-coital calm itself. The Labatt’s had made me sleepy, and I drowsed off, humming “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.”

Ah, the true north, strong and free.



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