What a difference a day makes. On Friday, Toronto was a ghost town. Yesterday, it was a total zoo. People everywhere. Young people. Old people. Couples. Singles. Parents. Kids. Men. Women. Boys. Girls. With dogs and without. City dwellers. Suburbanites. Tourists.
There wasn’t a square inch of space without someone sitting on it. Standing on it. Driving by. Walking past. Or waiting in line for it. Sure, stores being open again probably accounted for some of it. This being a long weekend also probably accounted for some of it.
But mostly, it was the weather. It had to be.
Yes, indeed folks. You heard it here first. I am here to report winter is over. Pack up the shovels and the skates.
The skis and the de-icer. The snow tires, the hot water bottle and the hot chocolate.
How do I know? Why am I so sure? What’s got me convinced?
Cars. A-quarter-of-a-million-plus-dollars-worth of chrome, steel, leather, mufflers and the hi-est-test performance available.
Let me explain.
You see, Yorkville is a fancy-schmancy area of Toronto.
Designer boutiques. Five-star hotels. Celebrity chefs. Pricey condos. Personal trainers. Arm candy. Blondes. Bimbos. Babes. Botox. Breast implants. Buff bodies. Bling. Billionaires. Bowing. Scraping. Grovelling. Schmoozing. Bull-shitting. Tipping. Gossiping. Bespoke tailoring. Black American Express cards. Weaves. Toupees. Extensions. Lots of teeth. Lots of tans, real and sprayed. Lots of leering. Patting. Pinching. Groping. Squeezing. Truffles. Foie Gras (gag). Champagne. Air kisses. The latest gadgets. And gizmos. Geezers. Lots and lots of geezers.
Got the picture? Yeah, it is sort of repulsive.
So, there’s a tradition in Yorkville. A ritual. Happens every year. More than that, actually. It happens every weekend all summer long, weather permitting. The parade of rich boys’ toys. You know, expensive cars. Well, beyond expensive, really. A porsche is expensive. What I’m talking about is probably equivalent to a down payment on a mansion in the Hollywood Hills.
What I’m talking about are Lamborghinis. Maseratis. Ferraris. And Bentleys.
We have lots of ’em in Toronto. And they all know the way to Yorkville. I sometimes think it’s been pre-programmed into their GPS thingies. And as soon as Spring arrives, out they come. The automobiles. That is, as soon as a SUNNY Spring day arrives.
Polished, buffed, oiled, rubbed and Armoralled to within an inch of their lives (and that’s just the cars). Until they gleam. And glisten. Until the sun reflecting off their shiny surfaces blinds you.
Indeedly so. The parade of rich boys’ toys. Rich OLD boys. Come on, you know these machines never belong to guys you want to date. All right, all right, maybe it happens once in a while. Once in a blue moon. Like in Cinderella. But for the most part, it’s the guys who are even too far gone for Viagra, who buy these cars.
The guys who’d give their left arm for “an erection that lasts more than four hours”.
Or is that Cialis?
Trust me, the doctor’s the last person they’d call.
Regardless, the parade was out in full force yesterday. That’s how I know winter’s behind us. That’s why I’m so sure.
This was THE moment the dudes have been waiting for. For months. And months. The opportunity to cruise, very slowly, engines purring, engines humming, engines rumbling, testosterone rushing, blood pounding, up one street and down the other. Pausing just long enough to give all the by-standers a good look. One after another. Just like fashion models strutting on a runway. One after another. In a steady stream. A constant procession. One after another.
Best sex these guys have had in a very long time. Maybe ever.
Of course it would be unfair, if I didn’t tell you they usually do end up with the good-looking girls. The young good-looking girls. So they don’t parade in vain. But life being what it is, in the end it’s the girls who take the guys for a ride!