Pussy on parade

Rating: NNNNND uring these last, dwindling days of summer, there's not a whole lot that can keep me cooped up.


Rating: NNNNN


D uring these last, dwindling days of summer, there’s not a whole lot that can keep me cooped up inside a sunless building on a weekend. Except maybe cats.

I can control most of my obsessions, but when it comes to cats, I completely lose the plot. (See co-workers rolling eyes knowingly.) An advertisement for a cat show at the CNE — a veritable motherlode of Fluffy love — is as good as a written invitation.

But wait, what’s that other ad for an erotica exhibition the same weekend? Sex is good, though in my experience cats are more reliable than lovers and twice as agreeable a decade into a relationship. And they hardly ever fart.

Still, I sense there’s a primordial link between the two, and no, I don’t mean a preponderance of pussy. Both sex and cats conjure soft touching and satisfied purring. Moreover, both inspire unsettling nuttiness in devotees. Could be interesting. I’ll tan Labour Day. This weekend, I’m people-watching.


Suburban sex

To accommodate the schedules of my chosen accomplices, it’s sex on Saturday and Abyssinians Sunday.

You’d think an event abetting fornication would be held downtown in some chi-chi nightclub and not in a generic hotel by the airport. But it’s clear the X-Tasy2000 Erotica show is hoping to draw the suburban set who lack easy access to Northbound Leather and Seduction on Yonge.

Good strategy, as couples easily outnumber singles. And funny couples. As two men emerge from one of the main ballrooms and approach their mates waiting in the foyer, one woman cracks, “We knew we’d be gone 15 minutes before you even noticed we were missing.”

While it’s nice to know the betrothed are making the effort to spice up their love lives rather than stumbling into illicit affairs, it’s also kind of sad to acknowledge that inevitably there comes a time in all long-term relationships when inanimate objects become the methadone substitute for the heroin high of glorious new love.

Ah, no sense dwelling on negatives when big, purple dildos and vibrators the conveniently hide-able/insertable size of bullets await. The coolest thing on offer in the marketplace is a fitted bedsheet with numerous velcro restraints that can be plunked down anywhere, depending on the position desired. That the thing is machine washable goes without saying, but at almost $200, there’s a case to be made for home handicraft.

There are lessons to be learned, too, and not just at seminars like How To Drive Your Woman Wild In Bed. (Yeah, like get up and make it once in a while, and maybe grab hold of a Swiffer while you’re at it.)

I confess I was unaware that there’s a Canadian edition of Hustler. Yet the mag’s booth is packed, probably because back issues are shifting for a buck. Upon hearing this, one bug-eyed dude who’s undoubtedly very good pals with his left hand breaks into a sly smile.

Its conceit may be naughtiness, but in truth the sex show is pretty tame and very hetero. It’s hard to froth with abandon when someone who reminds you of your Aunt Dorothy sells you your entrance ticket with a smile and wishes you a pleasant afternoon. And given the kink pervading the Web, see-through frocks and riding crops seem positively quaint.


Real moans

No, the real moans of pleasure and pain are found Sunday at the Ex, where the doting stewards of assorted caged Persians, Himalayans, Foreign Burmese and Cornish Rexes sit tentatively beside their charges. Some of their little structures are outfitted with teensy-weensy grandfather clocks, coffee tables, four-poster beds and, in one truly mystifying case, a cellphone.

Compulsively, they fuss with their critters, using a chamois to smooth the coat of one, baby power to lighten the fur of another, as they wait for their number to be called.

Then to various examining tables, where judges hoist peeved-looking felines into the air with testimonial fervour, praising muscle tone, markings and clear, “lucid” eyes.

The level of animosity between the competitors — make that the owners, since the competitors, being cats and all, don’t really look like they give a shit about the outcome — can be gauged by how brusquely little Snowball is whisked back to its cage after being judged.


Contest hijinks

Sneering looks are actually exchanged, looks that seem to say, “You may think you fooled the judge into believing that’s a self-maintaining coat like some kind of Maine Coon, but I saw that brush after you used it and it was full of hair.” Or something like that.

In cat world, there’s no such thing as friendly competition. Either you’re a winner with a bright future as a stud or just another narcoleptic lump with an attitude.

I can’t help but feel guilty cooing over these strange, exotic beasts when my own two cats are at home alone, without me. Is this how guys feel when they claim to be heading to a sports bar and really they’re shooting straight for a peeler joint?

Anyway, in my heart of hearts, I know my cats will forgive my voyeuristic transgression because they know it stems from a genuine fondness for all felines. And because I have the opposable digit needed to pry the lid off the Tupperware container holding their coveted kibble.

As for my attendance at the sex show, well, god bless ’em, my cats couldn’t care less.

mattg@nowtoronto.com

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