THE SEX ISSUE
photograph by norman wong
DOING IT,
TORONTO STYLE
After two centuries of uptight Scottish respectability, Toronto has found its libido.
Ours is now a sultry city of burlesque revues, erotic book clubs, bespoke fetish
tailors and suppliers of artisanal pleasure toys. It’s the kind of place where a
tourist-bait swingers’ club thrives between trendy galleries, boutique hotels offer
dirty weekend packages and polyamorists have sex with as many people as they
choose, thank-you-very-much. This newfound lust might have something to do
with a liberalized generation that came of age watching Moses Znaimer’s latenight blue movies. Or it could be the halo effect from the legalization of gay
marriage. Or it could be simply that we’re taking pleasure seriously. Here, for
your stimulation, is Toronto Life’s exploration of all things sexual in 2013.
February 2013 toronto life 35
THE SEX ISSUE
Sex Without Borders
Stephane and Samantha’s open marriage includes
shared girlfriends, bacchanalian house parties and always
asking permission before taking on a new lover.
A portrait of Toronto’s new generation of
pleasure-seeking polyamorists
BY COURTNEY SHEA
P H O T O G R A P H Y B Y D AV E G I L L E S P I E
S
A M A N T H A F R A S E R A N D S T E P H A N E G O U L E T are the kind of married
couple who have always talked openly about people
they find attractive. She’d comment on the hot waiter
at a restaurant, he’d admit that he was turned on by a
woman on the street. When sex clubs were legalized
in Toronto, they fantasized about going to one; they
didn’t actually go, but talking about what the experience might be like became a regular part of their sex
36 toronto life February 2013
life. One night, a year into their marriage, they hosted a raucous
house party. While Samantha flirted with other men, Stephane
made out with another woman during a game of spin the bottle.
“I remember thinking, this is fun,” Stephane says.
Samantha was working at a Starbucks at the time and knew
many of her regular customers by their beverage of choice.
Grande Red Eye Bold was a shy, 40-something York professor
she found attractive. One afternoon, he handed her a note that
Stephane Goulet (middle) and Samantha
Fraser (right) at home with one of their
girlfriends, Gayle
February 2013 toronto life 37
THE SEX ISSUE
read: “I know that you’re married and I respect that, but if you’re
interested in exploring, let me know.” Most husbands would
feel threatened or at least irked if a guy propositioned their wife,
but Stephane says he was flattered.
The next day, Stephane and Samantha rented The Cabin Movie
(a Canadian cult classic about three couples getting it on in the
woods) and proceeded to have sex all weekend. A few days later,
with her husband’s blessing, Samantha was naked on Grande
Red Eye Bold’s couch. “Before I got there, I hadn’t known for sure
that we would have sex,” she says. But, of course, they did. Afterward, she worried about how her husband would react to the
reality of the situation—it’s one thing to talk dirty about other
lovers, quite another to act out the fantasy. “I called Steph from
the car right away just to see how he was feeling,” she says. He
was feeling fine.
S
E V E N Y E A R S L AT E R , S T E P H A N E A N D S A M A N T H A are Toronto’s bestknown advocates for polyamory, the term preferred by
people who have turned their open relationships into a
lifestyle. Samantha, who is 32, writes a blog about her
sex life, offers polyamory life coaching and runs an annual
sexuality and relationships conference called Playground
(this past fall the three-day event filled a ballroom at the
Holiday Inn on Carlton Street). Stephane is 36 and an art
director at a video game studio. He is less actively involved with
other polyamorists than his wife, though he doesn’t mind her
rendering the personal aspects of his sex life (how many lovers
they share, their preferred sex toys and so on) into teachable
moments for her blog. Stephane and Samantha, in the poly vernacular, are known as a primary couple—a committed partnership
in which both parties engage in sexual relationships with additional,
lower-ranking lovers. This is the most common set-up, though
some polyamorists live family-style in groups of
three or more in the same house. Poly individuals
are often bisexual (like Samantha), but not always
(Stephane is hetero). Some relationships employ
the “one penis per party” rule.
Polyamorists are often lumped in with swingers, though there is one key difference: the former
believe in maintaining multiple emotional relationships along with all the sex. What distinguishes the modern poly movement from the
free love ethos and orgies of the ’60s and ’70s is
the absence of politics. Hippies rejected monogamy in the same way they rejected haircuts—as
symbols of patriarchal society. Today’s polyamorists are more concerned with the pursuit
of self-actualization through satisfying relationships and the honest exploration of sexuality. They don’t want
to “drop out” any more than they want to grow hemp on a commune. Besides, their busy work lives and regular-person obligations probably wouldn’t allow it.
Toronto, it turns out, is one of the most poly-friendly places in
North America. Poly people in other cities speak enviously of
our city’s sexual progressiveness and live-and-let-live kind of
liberalism. In this city, gay marriage is old hat, sex clubs like
Oasis Aqualounge and Wicked operate legally, and rub ’n’ tugs
set up shop in between yoga studios and shawarma shops. In
addition to Samantha’s annual conference, a 350-member group
called Polyamory Toronto meets monthly at a midtown pub to
discuss such issues as coming out as poly to your family, coping
with jealousy and explaining polyamory to your kids. Another
group called Ethical Lovers convenes monthly at the U of T
Centre for Women and Trans People, and monthly #CrushTO
dance parties are a melting pot for the various, and often intermingling, “sex-positive” communities, a blanket term describing
the open embrace of sex for its own sake without any of the morality hang-ups.
Polyamorists like Stephane and Samantha want to be accepted
by mainstream society in the way that gays and lesbians have
been accepted—and they’re making progress on that front. There
have been some notable watershed moments. The Oxford English Dictionary first recognized the term in 2006, and last year
The Movie Network broadcast a poly reality TV series. Polyamory:
Married and Dating tracks two Californian households: one a
threesome of 20-something grad students (two bisexual women
and a hetero man), the other consisting of two couples living as
one big sexy family. But there’s no better barometer of the
mainstream than a Jennifer Aniston movie. In last year’s middling rom-com Wanderlust, Aniston and Paul Rudd play a
monogamous couple who lose their Manhattan jobs and move
into a poly commune.
S T E P H A N E A N D S A M A N T H A M E T through the website Quest Personals in
January of 2001. They had dinner, went back to her place and had
sex. Three months later, they moved in together. They decided
to get married three years after that, when her dad was diagnosed
with ALS (Samantha wanted him to be able to walk her down
the aisle). The ceremony was at the Toronto Botanical Garden.
Samantha, with her black bangs and red pout, reminds me of
a live-action Betty Boop. Her features are cherubic, which makes
it even funnier when she describes X-rated sex
scenes as though she were talking about the
weather. Stephane is comparatively reserved,
and admits he has a penchant for “fiery women.”
He looks like the quintessential dude-who-worksin-a-modern-artistic-discipline—rock T-shirts,
funky glasses. Neither self-identifies as a hipster
(does anyone?), though they do enjoy shopping
in Kensington, visiting tattoo parlours and playing video games.
One night last November, they invited me
over to their Junction semi. The main floor looks
a lot like a Modern Museum of Treasures Found
at Garage Sales: a pink Jesus statue, two horse
portraits, a Mexican wrestling mask and a
vintage typewriter. We were joined by Gayle,
one of their current girlfriends. Stephane and Samantha poured
us some wine, and we listened to Pink Floyd. Aside from the fact
that I was there to ask questions about their polyamorous practices, nothing about the gathering was even remotely sexy.
Gayle, who has the wholesome, friendly vibe of a girl you met
at camp, told me the story of how she became involved with
Stephane and Samantha. When she was in her early 20s, she
came out to her parents as a lesbian. She later discovered she
liked having sex with men, too, and wanted to give poly a try
after getting involved with a non-monogamous partner. She met
Samantha last April through a mutual lover, a 34-year-old named
POLYAMORY
REQUIRES A
DELICATE DANCE OF
SEEKING CONSENT
AND MANAGING
FEELINGS
38 toronto life February 2013
Robert with a shaved head and a job at city hall. Robert and Gayle
had invited Samantha and a third woman to join them in a foursome. Samantha slept over, and Gayle met Stephane the next day,
when he came to pick up Samantha. She thought Stephane was
cute, but didn’t make the assumption that Samantha would share
her husband. A few months later, after several drinks, Gayle
approached Stephane at one of the couple’s bacchanalian house
parties, and they ended up having sex. On that particular night,
Samantha was preoccupied with Robert. Later,
Samantha and Gayle swapped men.
These days, Gayle sees Stephane and Samantha together or separately about once a week.
Sometimes things get sexy (a recent night ended
in a five-person orgy on the main floor futon),
while other times the trio behaves more like best
friends. On the night of my visit they were headed
out to karaoke. “I might be really horny, but
maybe Sam has a headache or Steph has indigestion,” says Gayle. When they do get it on as a
group, she says there’s no hierarchy. (“It’s nice
that they don’t make me feel left out,” she says.)
Stephane and Samantha aren’t Gayle’s only
relationship: she’s involved with several others.
Eventually, she hopes to settle into a primary
relationship similar to Stephane and Samantha’s. “I look at them
as being the ultimate poly couple.”
Twice they have dated another couple together. One of those
times the relationship lasted for two years—they did holidays,
met parents—but it eventually fell apart because the other
couple was having problems. They say they’ve never considered
becoming an official triad or quad (the terms poly people use
to describe threesomes and foursomes who live together). Bringing another couple or person into their relationship in an official
capacity is not off the table, though they both say it’s hard to
imagine a new addition on equal footing given
their shared history and bond. And, of course,
there are the infinitely complicated logistics:
who owns the home, do they all sleep together
or have a schedule of couplings, and what happens if someone changes his or her mind?
At times, Stephane and Samantha have each
experienced “new relationship energy,” a
poly term that describes the sometimes allconsuming honeymoon period with a new love
interest. An established, long-standing union
can’t compete with the fresh passion and
exhilaration of a new romance, a fact that successful polyamorists don’t try to deny. Instead,
a couple like Stephane and Samantha expect
the heat will subside and their primary relationship will remain. Polyamorists (who should probably just
go ahead and start their own dictionary) believe in “compersion,” which refers to the vicarious joy they feel when the
person they love experiences emotional fulfillment. This is the
part of the poly lifestyle that I can’t get past. Yes, it makes a
certain amount of intellectual sense, but isn’t an integral part
of a romantic relationship the fact that the other person chose
you and only you?
Today, as Stephane and Samantha have become more confident
in the solidity of their main relationship, there are fewer explicit
rules—most are just understood. Samantha still insists that
Stephane not bring women she doesn’t know into their bedroom,
which she views as her space, though he is fine with her bringing other people into their bed with or without him. Other situations are handled on a case-by-case basis, and, as with any
relationship, there are miscommunications—like a recent night
when Stephane ended up having sex with two other women during a house party. “I was like, you didn’t ask me about that,”
Samantha says. “And he said that we had exchanged a look of
approval. What look?”
They have some non-poly friends, people they jokingly refer
to as “norms.” “We get together, talk about babies and that sort
of thing,” says Samantha. They want to have children in a couple
of years, which may force them to take a break from their sexual
experimentation. They already go through the same sexual dry
spells as any couple. “We were in Mexico for 11 days recently,
and we only had sex twice,” Samantha admits. They always say
“I love you” before they go to sleep, even if that’s all they do.
Part of the reason for that trip was to attend Stephane’s
cousin’s wedding. During the beach ceremony, the officiant
quoted Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, author of The Little Prince,
who wrote that “love does not consist in gazing at each other
but in looking outward together in the same direction.” Stephane
and Samantha, sitting in the audience, agreed that they couldn’t
have put it better.
b
ONE GROUP
MEETS TO DISCUSS
ISSUES LIKE
COMING OUT AS
POLY AND HOW TO
TELL YOUR KIDS
F O R A L L T H E TA L K O F S E X U A L F R E E D O M and liberal attitudes, polyamorous
people are exceedingly preoccupied with maintaining rules and
boundaries. It’s a delicate dance of seeking consent, managing
feelings and not crossing certain lines. Stephane says that being
poly has forced him to communicate more. Samantha says their
relationship wouldn’t have remained healthy if they hadn’t decided
to open up. She describes their pre-poly lives as caring, but boring (“A big weekend used to be a trip to IKEA”). Becoming nonmonogamous forced them to look at what they had built together—
where the partnership was strong and also where it was lacking.
Compared with most monogamous couples I know, there’s a
refreshing degree of honesty between Stephane and Samantha.
During the early days of their poly life, they followed a lot of
rules—rules about sheet washing, always checking in by text
when with a lover, and continuing to have sex with each other
regularly. Initially, Samantha forbade Stephane from having
anal sex with other women because that was something she
couldn’t do with him (she finds it too painful). “Eventually, I
realized that I was being ridiculous,” she says. Having different
experiences with other partners, after all, is one of the main
advantages of the polyamorous lifestyle. You can get from a
lover what you’re not getting from your spouse. Samantha has
two regular partners she goes to when she wants to be dominated. “That’s something that I realized I need, but Stephane’s
not into it,” she says.
For Stephane, the benefits are less about filling any one
specific void than the overall appeal of multiple sexual options.
Soon after making the switch, he started a one-on-one secondary relationship with another woman, whom he dated for almost
a year. He broke it off because both he and Samantha felt that
the other woman was making too many demands and wanted
a more serious commitment.
February 2013 toronto life 39
THE SEX ISSUE
QUANTITY VS. QUALITY
HOW MANY SEXUAL PARTNERS WE’VE HAD
0-5
MEN 32%
WOMEN 28%
6-10
MEN 20%
WOMEN 23%
11-20
MEN 20%
WOMEN 27%
21-50
MEN 18%
WOMEN 16%
50+
THE
TORONTO
SEX POLL
We were curious about a few things. How often
Torontonians are having sex, with whom they’re
having it, and how satisfied they are, for starters.
Are downtowners getting it more than 905ers?
Women more than men? LGBTs more than heteros?
Do we cheat? Do we lie? Do we fake it? (Yes, yes,
and…YES! YES! YES!) We wanted to know, so we
asked. And you told us—1,305 of you, to be precise,
across the 416 and 905. Here, an R-rated glimpse
into the bedrooms (and kitchens, and bathrooms,
and bushes) of your friends and neighbours
ILLUSTRATIONS BY JACK DYLAN
M E T H O D O L O G Y: From November 12 to November 25, 2012, the Toronto Life research
team conducted an online survey with 1,305 GTA residents. The margin of error is plus or
minus 2.7 per cent, 19 times out of 20. The results were statistically weighted to ensure
an accurate representation of the GTA by age and gender.
40 toronto life February 2013
LGBT
Torontonians
have the most
partners:
26% say
they’ve had
too many
to count
MEN 10%
WOMEN 6%
25% of us
have had
more than
20 partners
WHO’S DOING IT DAILY
HOW WE RATE OUR SEX LIVES
WHO’S DOING IT
WEEKLY—AND LOVING IT
1
EXTREMELY
LACKING
Downtowners have the best
sex, east-enders the worst
2
59%
MEN 4%
WOMEN 4%
of men
think about
3
4
MEN 7%
5
MEN 9%
WOMEN 9%
of women
6
MEN 14%
think about
WOMEN 9%
it once a
7
MEN 19%
8
MEN 20%
9
MEN 7%
10
MEN 6%
of downtowners
have satisfying sex
every day or a few
times a week
DEEPLY
SATISFYING
MEN 7%
WOMEN 15%
MEN 7%
39%
west-enders: 36%
midtowners: 32%
north torontonians: 30%
905ers: 30%
east-enders: 27%
WHO THINKS ABOUT
SEX THE MOST
it “through-
WOMEN 6%
out the day,
every day”
WOMEN 6%
41%
day
WOMEN 16%
WOMEN 21%
WOMEN 8%
WOMEN 8%
SO HOW GOOD IS IT?
23% of Torontonians want to have sex every day
19% of married people want to have sex every day
4% of Torontonians do have sex every day
14% of people in open relationships do it daily
Men are slightly more satisfied than women. On a scale of 1 to 10,
men give their sex lives a 6, and women give it a 5.8. But more
women than men describe their sex lives as “deeply satisfying”
5% of Toronto men do it daily
3% of Toronto women do it daily
2% of Torontonians have satisfying sex every day
WHO’S DOING IT WEEKLY WHO’S NOT DOING IT
Downtowners have the
most sex, 905ers the least
MY PARTNER WOULD TURN ME ON MORE IF ONLY HE/SHE…
women haven’t
had sex in more
than a year
have sex every day
or a few times a week
5% of men
west-enders 42%
midtowners 42%
north torontonians 40%
east-enders 38%
905ers 36%
9% of
Toronto women say:
Toronto men say:
“Were circumcised
and more hirsute”
13% of
50% of downtowners
YOU’RE MORE LIKELY TO FIND A SEX-OBSESSED PERSON DOWNTOWN OR IN THE 905 THAN ANYWHERE ELSE IN THE GTA
“Would be more
experimental”
“BROUGHT ANOTHER WOMAN INTO BED”
“Would
use a
strapon”
“Lost 30
pounds and
dyed her
hair blond”
“Had
larger
breasts”
haven’t had sex in
more than a year
midtowners
haven’t had sex in
more than a year
“MADE
MORE
NOISE”
“SHOWED SOME
INTEREST”
“Stopped wearing
undergarments”
“Would spank me more often”
“Would move out of
his parents’ house”
“Would return
my calls”
“Was a touch louder. I don’t
want a chest-beating
monkey, but I’d like to hear
if he’s enjoying himself”
“Would
wax his
back”
“Would drop the married floozy he’s screwing at work,
who should go home to her husband and twin toddlers”
“Would stop farting in bed”
“Didn’t believe that ‘Hey, I’m naked, wanna
make out?’ was an adequate form of foreplay”
“WEREN’T
PLAYING
VIDEO
GAMES”
February 2013 toronto life 41
THE SEX ISSUE
46% BAWDY POLITICS
A FEW OF OUR
FAVOURITE POSITIONS
WHO INITIATES?
57% of men
MEN SAY:
“I do 80% of the time”
chose doggy style
53% of
WOMEN SAY:
“More like he does
68% of the time”
women chose
missionary
HOW WE LIKE IT
ACROSS THE GTA
MEN:
1st choice DOGGY STYLE
2nd choice COWGIRL
3rd choice MISSIONARY
downtowners DOGGY STYLE
midtowners MISSIONARY
north toronto MISSIONARY
west-enders DOGGY STYLE
east-enders DOGGY STYLE
905ers DOGGY STYLE
WOMEN:
1st choice MISSIONARY
2nd choice COWGIRL
3rd choice DOGGY STYLE
WHO’S EXPERIMENTING
OUTSIDE THEIR SEXUAL
ORIENTATION
of us have
had sex with
a co-worker
WOMEN: 28%
MEN: 17%
28%
did it in the office
77%
91% of us say
foreplay is a must
79% like to cuddle
afterward
63% say kissing is
“very important”
of women and
68%
of men have
tried toys or use
them occasionally or routinely
HOW LONG IT LASTS
WE LIKE OUR
PORN, MEN
MORE THAN
WOMEN
PREFERRED
MEDIUM ACROSS
THE GTA
(BY A LANDSLIDE):
INTERNET PORN
66% of men
occasionally or routinely
Downtowners
like porn the most:
50% occasionally or
routinely indulge
consume porn
25% of women
WOULD YOU ANSWER THE PHONE DURING SEX?
The older we are,
the longer it lasts
54%
of us are
having sex for
15 to 30 minutes
at a time
28% of men over 50 and
38% women over 50 go for
more than 30 minutes per session
65% OF TORONTONIANS
HAVE HAD SEX IN PUBLIC
NO WAY:
1%
LGBTs are
most likely
to answer
“Depends”
—12%
“CN TOWER SKYPOD”
“Up against
the gates
of Osgoode
Hall”
“Riverdale
Park. We were
the only straight
couple”
“PONTIFICAL INSTITUTE OF MEDIAEVAL
STUDIES AT U OF T”
42 toronto life February 2013
“USE POP ROCKS WHILE
GIVING MY PARTNER
ORAL SEX”
“Sex with a shemale”
west-enders: 28%
downtowners: 26%
midtowners: 23%
905ers: 17%
north torontonians: 15%
downtowners: 32%
west-enders: 28%
midtowners: 26%
905ers: 22%
north torontonians: 16%
of east-enders have slept
with more than one
person at a time
WHO’S FLYING SOLO
“Act out that
scene from
9½ Weeks”
“A MORMON”
“A TROMBONE”
“69–I’m so pathetic”
“Have sex with a multiple amputee who had a spandex fetish”
13%
of 905ers jingle their
jewellery every day
west-enders: 12%
downtowners: 11%
east-enders: 11%
midtowners: 10%
north torontonians: 9%
“HOCKEY
HALL OF
FAME”
“THE POLICE
STABLES AT
THE CNE”
“Bat cave at the ROM”
“ON THE
GARDINER,
BUT AT
LEAST I
WASN’T
DRIVING”
Midtowners are
the biggest
cheaters
of married
Torontonians have
cheated on their spouse
at least once
THE WEIRDEST PLACE I’VE EVER HAD SEX IN TORONTO WAS…
“About 12 feet up a
tree on a popular
bicycle path. I was
53, he was 64—I still
can’t believe we didn’t
fall or kill ourselves,
or that someone
didn’t see or hear us”
“Have sex on a plastic
sheet covered in lube. It
was like a Slip ’n Slide!”
“Have sex in front of a
window while watching a
couple across the street
doing the same thing in
another condo”
24%
YES WAY:
9%
33%
LIARS, CHEATERS, FAKERS
90%
DEPENDS
WHO’S
CALLING:
29%
THE KINKIEST THING I’VE EVER DONE IS…
occasionally or routinely
consume it
East-enders
are also most
likely to have
had group sex
of east-enders have
experimented outside
their sexual orientation
81% OF US SAY ORAL SEX (GIVING AND GETTING) IS A REGULAR AND ESSENTIAL PART OF OUR SEX LIVES
WE LIKE SEX TOYS,
WE LIKE OUR PRE- AND
WOMEN MORE THAN MEN POST-COITAL PETTING
East-enders
are the biggest
switch-hitters
“ON A BED IN
THE BEDDING
DEPARTMENT OF
THE EATON
CENTRE SEARS”
“THE KEG MANSION LIBRARY”
North
Torontonians
are the last
to know
27%
27% of men have cheated on their current partner
16% of women know their partner has cheated on them
21% of women have cheated on their current partner
9% of men know their partner has cheated on them
16%
of midtowners have
screwed around on their
current partner
of north Torontonians
believe their partners
have strayed
905ers: 22%
west-enders: 22%
north torontonians: 21%
downtowners: 20%
east-enders: 19%
midtowners: 17%
east-enders: 17%
905ers: 17%
downtowners: 20%
west-enders: 20%
CYBERSEXUAL TENSION
MEN AND THE LITTLE BLUE PILL
YES! YES! YES!
29% of us have had cybersex
47% of men say that’s not cheating
75% of women say it is so
15% of men are occasional or
regular users; 86% of women
say their partners have never
popped enhancement pills
62% of women fake the big O
56% of men say their women
never fake it—and they’d know
February 2013 toronto life 43
THE SEX ISSUE
photo credit contributor name tk
The Erotic Education of Anna Silk
44 toronto life February 2013
How the star of Lost Girl, the hit show about a bisexual succubus,
has become an expert at supernatural orgasms
BY E M I LY L A N DAU
P H O T O G R A P H Y B Y J E S S I C A H AY E A N D C L A R K H S I A O
February 2013 toronto life 45
THE SEX ISSUE
A
W O M A N IN A L E AT HE R MINI S K IR T and stilettos staggers down
a darkened corridor and rings the buzzer beside a
bolted door. The man inside interrupts his barechested boxing workout to let her in. “I’m busy,” he
grumbles. “Please,” she pants through gritted teeth.
Then she jumps him. They square off in a round of
violent yet balletic sex. He hoists her off the ground
and onto a counter; she retaliates by slamming him
into a wall. He paws at her breasts while she claws
at the tattoos on his back. Off comes her shirt, and
he stealthily peels off her underwear. Soon they’re naked on the
bed and she’s straddling him. They growl, groan and grunt like
the Williams sisters at Wimbledon. As they arch together in one
final thrust, the whites of her eyes turn solid black.
The woman is Anna Silk, star of the Toronto-produced Showcase fantasy series Lost Girl, and her scene partner is the absurdly
chiselled Kris Holden-Ried, who plays her wolf-man lover Dyson.
Silk’s character, Bo, is a succubus—a supernatural entity that
feeds on sexual energy. In this sex scene—the kind of encounter
that occurs in almost every episode—an injured Bo visits Dyson
for some sexual healing (literally). Before the
hour is out, Bo will also have knocked boots with
her other love interest, the doctor Lauren (played
by Zoie Palmer).
Since it premiered two years ago, Lost Girl has
become an international hit. Its debut on Showcase was the most-watched Canadian drama in
the channel’s history. It’s now broadcast in the
U.K. and Australia, and has fan clubs in Brazil
and Russia. Early last year, the NBC-owned Syfy
network picked up the series in the U.S., where
it dominated its 10 p.m. time slot, netting an
audience of 1.5 million viewers—an impressive
haul for basic cable. The show has ranked as one
of the 10 most pirated TV series in the world, and
when TiVo released a list of the programs people watch before
bed, Lost Girl was the only scripted drama to crack the top 10.
These aren’t just casual viewers: Lost Girl is the kind of show
that inspires obsessive, all-consuming fandom. Devotees have
been known to live-tweet episodes scene by scene, then spend
hours on message boards and fan fiction sites analyzing what
they just saw. They swarm Silk and the rest of the cast at conventions like Comic-Con in San Diego and Fan Expo in Toronto,
lining up for hours to get autographs from the cast—some 2,000
fans showed up to the Fan Expo panel discussion and signing
last August. The show’s central love triangle—Bo, Dyson and
Lauren—has sparked a divisive civil war within the fan community; competing factions rip each other apart online and post
hundreds of videos on YouTube, cut together from various scenes
that highlight their chosen pairing (often set to songs by Adele).
Lost Girl capitalizes on the contemporary sci-fi/fantasy formula
established by Buffy the Vampire Slayer—hardcore heroine,
elaborate mythology, monster of the week. Like Buffy, Bo solves
mysteries, offs villains and throws out quippy rejoinders, all
while doing high-kicks in skintight pants. Although the setting
is never established, the show often uses Toronto streets—Queen
West, Yorkville, Church Street—for its location shots. It takes
place among the Fae, a secret supernatural society, equipped
with its own rules and prickly political trappings. Like many
cult hits, the series taps into the sweet spots of drama, fantasy,
comedy, action and procedural, making for a crowd-pleasing
genre mash-up.
Where Lost Girl sets itself apart is the sex, and not just the
sheer quantity of it, though Silk fakes more onscreen copulation
than any other TV actor not contractually bound to HBO. Rather,
it’s the series’ overarching erotic ethos that makes it stand out, a
general attitude toward sex that saturates every scene. There are
plenty of graphic shows on TV right now—filled with writhing
and moaning and creamy nudity—but they all tend to shame
their female characters for having sex and condemn them for
liking it. On Lena Dunham’s HBO show Girls, sex is an awkward,
humiliating sacrifice the main character endures for the sake of
having a boyfriend. When True Blood’s clean-scrubbed Sookie
Stackhouse submits to the carnal advances of the vampires Bill
or Eric, it signifies a loss of self-control and self-respect. Game of
Thrones is in a whole other league of misogynistic degradation,
in which almost every woman having sex is being violently raped,
paid for her services, or both (in one scene, the teenage King
Joffrey forces a prostitute to violate another with a sceptre). In
2013, television is a deceptively puritanical landscape—shored
up by an equally judgmental cultural climate in
which Rush Limbaugh calls contraception advocates “prostitutes” and U.S. congressmen tout
the notion of “legitimate rape.”
Though Bo is the first bisexual lead character
on mainstream television, her orientation is never
mentioned on the show. She sleeps with whomever she wants, unrestricted by the shackles of
monogamy. Moreover, she likes it (a lot, judging
from her vociferous orgasms) and suffers no
censure or slut shaming. The show lingers lecherously on the supple, sweaty bodies of its comely
cast, but never attaches any moral value to the
act itself. Lost Girl seamlessly unifies sex and
sexual politics, delighting in the pleasure of the
former and taking a stand on the latter. Somehow, a humble,
medium-budget fantasy show from Toronto has become the most
sexually progressive thing on TV.
Silk, who serves as an ambassador for the show’s sexual philosophy, has been catapulted into stardom. At 38, she’s older than
most ingénue characters (“I got in just under the wire,” she says),
but her age only makes her sexual confidence feel earned. She
luxuriates in how much fun sex can be, exploring the character’s
kinks and fetishes. On the Internet, she’s become a supreme lust
object: YouTube videos of her sex scenes attract millions of hits,
and the popular lesbian-centric website AfterEllen gives each
episode a “boobs o’clock” rating based on the amount of cleavage
Silk exposes.
Silk and Kris Holden-Ried, who plays a wolfman, have acrobatic sex scenes
that manage to evade TV censors
THIS HUMBLE
TORONTO SHOW
HAS BECOME THE
MOST SEXUALLY
PROGRESSIVE
THING ON TV
46 toronto life February 2013
T HE T R E ND T O WA R D S E L F - M Y T H O L O G I Z IN G on television has produced a spate
of TV actors indistinguishable from their characters: Lena Dunham is a doppelganger of the neurotic Hannah on Girls, Zooey
Deschanel is as dreamily dopey as Jess, her manic pixie dream
girl counterpart on New Girl, and Mindy Kaling didn’t even bother
changing her character’s name on The Mindy Project. It’s jarring,
then, to be introduced to Anna Silk and discover that she’s the
total opposite of her barracuda persona. When we first meet, in
early November at a drafty studio in Etobicoke where the cast is
shooting a pre-show to promote the upcoming third season, she’s
disarmingly sweet. We’ve only had a couple of Skype dates at
Websites rate episodes of Lost Girl by the amount of cleavage Silk reveals
this point—Silk lives in L.A. when she’s not filming—but she
sweeps me into a hug at first sight. Later, over dinner at Senses
Bar in the Soho Metropolitan, she nestles conspiratorially close
on the couch like we’re two teenagers at a sleepover.
Silk’s infectious personality could be attributed in part to a
childhood spent in Fredericton, a town known for its Pleasantvillestyle friendliness. Her parents, Ilkay, a Turkish-Cyprian-English
expat, and Peter, a British academic, met in London in 1966; they
moved to Fredericton four years later so he could do post-doctoral
work. “When they got there they said, ‘This is such a nice suburb.
Let’s take the train into the city,’ ” Silk says. “But they were actually standing in the heart of downtown Fredericton. It was a total
culture shock.”
Her parents split when she was six, and Silk was raised by her
mother, a drama teacher and town character. “My mom was
always inviting people over,” she remembers. Her co-star Kris
Holden-Ried told me Silk’s motto on the Lost Girl set is “Strangers
are just friends you haven’t met yet.” When I repeat it back to her,
she giggles. “Absolutely,” she says. “I put it on a little to bug
Kris—he’s always calling me Pollyanna—but it’s totally the
Fredericton way of thinking.”
Silk stayed in New Brunswick for university, majoring in
psychology at St. Thomas. After graduating in 1997, she moved
to Toronto to pursue acting and spent the next eight years navigating the local film and TV circuit while waiting tables at the
Butler’s Pantry on Roncesvalles. She landed bit parts and
February 2013 toronto life 47
THE SEX ISSUE
commercials. If you knew of her at all before Lost Girl, it was
probably from her performance in a much-looped NicoDerm
commercial as a flight attendant named Deb whose nicotine
withdrawal transforms her into a shrieking harpy.
She filmed her first sex scene in a trashy 2003 TV movie called
Deception. They shot two versions: one for American audiences
(bra on) and one for European audiences (bra off). “I did love
scenes back then that felt gratuitous, scenes I wouldn’t do again,”
she admits. “I was nervous, but I was just so happy to have a job
that I didn’t complain. I wouldn’t be so cavalier about it now.
Showing your body is a big deal.” (That said, Silk is more embarrassed by the movie than the sex. “It’s terrible, and I was so bad
in it,” she adds with a groan.)
She moved to Los Angeles in 2007 for better acting opportunities. She was 33—Methuselah in actor years. “I never lied about
my age,” she tells me. “Well, okay, I did once. I had just signed
with a manager and had told him I was 27. But I came in the next
day and confessed that I was actually 33.” She was forgiven, and
sent to audition for pilots and meet casting directors. Her most
successful pre-succubus part was, ironically, back in
Canada on the CBC time-travelling series Being Erica,
as a love interest for the show’s main character.
Unlike Lost Girl’s Bo, Silk is a devout monogamist
and has been since her high school boyfriend, Ryan.
When I ask her if he was her first sexual partner (he
was) she turns scarlet. “Oh my god, are you going to put
that in? My parents are going to read this!” she squeals—
proof that even actors who simulate floor-shaking sex
for an audience of millions still worry about shocking
their parents. “I was probably too young,” she says.
She met her future husband, a New York actor and writer
named Seth Cooperman, in an L.A. acting workshop in 2007.
“She walked in and I was blown away. I always told her that when
I first saw her, I said, ‘That’s the girl I’m going to marry,’ ” he says,
though he later admitted to her that he actually thought, “That
girl, I want to fuck her.”
Over the next year and a half, they became close friends. “One
night, a bunch of us were out at dinner,” Cooperman recalls, “and
one of my married friends was teasing me, saying I could get into
any girl’s pants. Then Anna turns to me and says, ‘Oh, do you
think you can get in mine?’ I asked myself, did that just happen?”
For the next month, Silk gave chase while Cooperman resisted
her advances, afraid to ruin their friendship. “It was like an
alternate universe, because Anna’s the most beautiful thing in
the world and she was pursuing me,” he says. “People never believe
that she was going after me.” Eventually, she wore him down.
They started dating, and now they’re married.
I
N L AT E 2 0 0 8 , Silk’s Canadian agent gave her the script for
Lost Girl. “When I first heard the plot—about a supernatural seductress who needs sex to survive—I was like,
‘Oh, god, come on,’ ” Silk remembers. “But then I read the
script and thought, ‘Wow, it’s actually kind of kickass.’ ”
The series was created by Jay Firestone, the Toronto
producer responsible for Relic Hunter and the TV version
of La Femme Nikita. He hired Michelle Lovretta, a former
Mutant X writer, to write a pilot about a strong female
succubus. Showcase gave them development money, and
the team started looking for the right actor to play Bo; they almost
shut down production when, after three months, they couldn’t
48 toronto life February 2013
find her. The part had been written as a steely, hardened femme
fatale, but as soon as they saw Silk’s tape, they re-evaluated the
character. Silk tapped into Bo’s difficult past—normal teenage
stuff, like running away from home after sex-sucking her boyfriend
to death—and played the part as confident and self-reliant yet
also socially naïve about love and friendship. “I spent so much
of my early career wanting people to like me,” Silk says. “As I
grew older, I became more comfortable with interpreting characters my own way, rather than trying to satisfy expectations.”
They brought her to Toronto for a screen test opposite HoldenRied, who was auditioning for the part of the taciturn shapeshifting police detective Dyson. “We were supposed to kiss in
the audition, and he literally picked me up and smashed me into
the wall, leaving a big crack in the drywall,” she says. “The
chemistry was there between us. There was a spark of a challenge,
of secrets, of attraction. Like, in an actor way,” she adds quickly.
The team hired the pair and ended up rewriting Bo’s character
to fit Silk’s interpretation.
Because Lost Girl doesn’t show nipples or genitals, it can air in
prime time—a huge boon in terms of advertising
potential. Still, Firestone wishes it were racier. “We’ve
had a couple of disagreements about what we show—
sex positions, how much nudity, what kind of nudity,”
he remarks. “It would be more fun if we didn’t have
the restrictions, but we might not reach the same
audience as we do.”
Silk gropes and grinds her way through every episode of Lost Girl
Silk signs nudity riders for each scene, authorizing all body
shots—the angle from which they shoot the side of her breast, or
a camera panning down her back, or a stipulation of how much
butt crack they can expose. During the nude scenes, she wears
nipple adhesives for some pretense of modesty (“I can’t keep them
on too long or I’ll get a rash,” she says), while male actors must
stuff their genitals into a sock. The sex is masterfully choreographed, executed with such deft blocking that you’d swear you
were seeing everything. Silk raves about the respectfulness of the
crew and the sensitivity of the writers—she says the sex on the
show always feels character-motivated and never exploitative. “I
could probably write a book on sex scenes at this point,” she says.
Her husband isn’t quite so blasé—he squirms when I ask about
his wife’s sex scenes. “It’s…all right,” he hedges. “If I think about
it too much, it starts to bother me.” One time, for example, he had
to leave the room while watching a scene between
Silk and Holden-Ried. “Anna was excited, because
it meant the chemistry seemed real,” he says. “I
was like, that’s not the point. Right now, I just see
my wife making out with some dude.”
Or, as is often the case, with some woman.
In the first season of the show, Silk’s scenes with
Zoie Palmer were more feminized and tender, full
of satiny bedsheets and soft light. They were the
total opposite of her barn-burning, animalistic
encounters with Holden-Ried; while Bo and Lauren made love, Bo and Dyson screwed. Since then,
though, the show has strived to dismantle those
stereotypes—the two women are having increasingly aggressive sex. A scene in the upcoming
third season is one of their most blatantly carnal yet, a series of
extreme close-ups as the two women desperately tongue, grope
and grind each other, dripping with enough sweat to fill a bathtub.
It’s giving the audience what it wants: on YouTube, one compilation of exchanges between Bo and Lauren (a pairing known to
fans as Doccubus) has attracted 18 million hits. “Fans just watch
them on a loop,” Silk says.
women, settled around the long communal
tables, expounding on the show’s mythology
and speculating about the upcoming season.
One of the first arrivals was Raven, a bisexual
fan from Niagara Falls whose dark brown bob,
iridescent amulet necklace and horn-rimmed
glasses embody the goth-new-age-geek look
endemic to the Internet age. “I’m really thrilled
to have a canonical bisexual character on mainstream television. It’s huge,” she says. “Plus, I
got my wife to watch the show for Dyson. We
call him ‘Hip Bones.’ ” (Holden-Ried is up there
with Channing Tatum in terms of ab definition
and supremely sculpted pelvis.)
It’s not enough for Silk and Palmer’s fans
to watch them on the show—in fan fiction, favourite characters
act out elaborate erotic fantasies. On Doccubus.com, the message
forum lists over 16,000 posts, including an Anna Silk appreciation thread and a section devoted to “Fan Creations”—fan
fiction, anime drawings of the characters, photo collages. The
fan fiction is especially intense: there are over 450 submissions
on FanFiction.net, one clocking in at 150,000 words (that would
translate to about 600 pages in small-format paperback). Many
pieces are X-rated, filled with pornographic interactions between
the characters. One such story reimagines Bo and Lauren’s first
sexual encounter: “[Bo] reached down with her hand, between
Lauren’s legs, until she reached her wetness, the touch of which
forced Bo to moan softly as she continued to kiss Lauren’s mouth.
Bo couldn’t believe how excited Lauren was. She rubbed her
gently with her fingers, and slowly glided them inside.”
Silk responds to her followers on Twitter and even arranges
for international superfans to visit the set when they’re in Toronto.
Most of the time they’re respectful, she says. “I’ve had a few letters from fans who think they know me and that we could be
together,” she admits. “It’s a little alarming. I’m available to them
as Bo, and to a degree as Anna, but they don’t know me. They
can’t presume to know what I like and what I don’t like and that
one day we’ll meet.”
S I L K I S U N FA Z E D by her fans’ obsession with her sexuality—it comes
with the gig. I experienced the diehard fandom first-hand one
November evening when I drove to Hamilton for a Lost Girl event,
organized by Curt Bennett (Twitter handle Faenonymous), a
34-year-old software developer from Burlington. It was ostensibly in honour of La Shoshain, a Fae holiday mentioned on the
show, and took place at Sláinte, an Irish pub where scenes from
the pilot episode were shot. I found Bennett upstairs at the bar:
a bald, stocky guy with gentle eyes and a goatee, he wore a selfmade Lost Girl T-shirt screened with a photo of Vex, one of the
show’s main villains. Bennett has established himself as Lost
Girl’s ultimate fan, acquiring thousands of Twitter followers,
organizing events and even camping out at the set to catch a
glimpse of the actors. When I ask him whether he wants Silk’s
character to end up with Dyson or Lauren, he says he’s Switzerland. Not everyone is so level-headed. “At its worst, I’ve seen a
Team Lauren fan wish that Kris Holden-Ried were unable to
continue on the show. They wished ill on the actor, not the character,” he said. “That crossed a line as far as I’m concerned.”
Fans filed in for the event, introducing themselves first by
Twitter handle, then by their real names. The crowd, mostly
AT T H E B E G I N N I N G O F L O S T G I R L’ S third season, which recently began
airing on Showcase, Bo takes a detour to the dark side—the result
of a hex. She goes on a crime spree, her eyes narrowed into steely
slits. She grabs a random stranger by the collar, sucks him dry
and leaves him for dead. Then she walks away, her mouth upturned
into the kind of pernicious grin that, in the universal language
of television, signifies a good girl gone bad.
It’s a new challenge for Silk, who has become an expert at
adapting. While she still signs her emails with smiley faces and
xox’s, she isn’t the same person she was three years ago. She’s
gone from struggling actor in no-name bit parts to TV headliner
whose face stares down from billboards, and it’s changed her
accordingly. She knows how to gird herself against media
potshots—the TV critics who say she’s “more stolid than steamy,”
the Internet commenters who say she’s too old to be a “girl.”
Such criticism might have destroyed her a few years ago. But
embodying the sexually lubricious Bo has brought out the selfassured succubus within. Sometimes Silk will catch an old episode
playing late at night and be shocked by how often she’s naked
and writhing in bed with Bo’s many conquests. And she’ll say to
herself: Damn, I’m hot.
b
FOR SOME
PRETENSE OF
MODESTY, SHE
WEARS NIPPLE
ADHESIVES DURING
NUDE SCENES
February 2013 toronto life 49
THE SEX ISSUE
The Parlour Game
Over the last decade, spas
have proliferated across the
GTA faster than Starbucks
A behind-the-scenes tour of the city’s thriving
spa industry, where $40 buys a hand job
and the customer always leaves happy
BY ALEXANDRA KIMBALL
photo credit contributors name tk
P H O T O G R A P H Y BY DA N I E L N E U H AUS
50 toronto life February 2013
I
V Y G L O W S L IK E A 19 3 0 S S TA R L E T. She’s 27, with high, round cheekbones, rosebud lips and luminescent skin. She has worked
at three erotic massage parlours, or so-called rub ’n’ tugs,
in the GTA, where female attendants offer men “sensual
release,” code for a session ending in a hand job. She agreed
to tell me her story on the condition that I not reveal her
true identity. For her customers, Ivy puts on a breathy
Marilyn Monroe voice and wears retro baby doll nighties
and stilettos. She mimics her high-pitched greeting for
me: “How are you? I can’t wait to get started.” Her act
appeals to her clients—typically white professionals who came
of age when women like Ivy appeared in every car and scotch ad.
Walk-ins can choose from the half-dozen women on shift, though
many men pre-book Ivy based on her photo on the spa’s website.
Inside one of the spa’s five private rooms, Ivy and her client
get more intimate. The space is cozy in a utilitarian way, with a
shower stall in the corner and a padded massage table in the
centre. But for a few boom-chicka-wah-wah details—mirrors on
the ceiling, candles, lights turned down loooow—it could be an
ordinary massage clinic. The client disrobes, showers (a city
bylaw requirement) and lies facedown on the massage table.
Ivy spreads oil on his back and engages in small talk. “You having a good weekend?” “Have you been here before?” Nothing too
heavy or revealing—she learned years ago that guys don’t want
to hear about her master’s degree or an argument she’s had with
her sister. They like her to be attentive, sweet, a little helpless.
As she moves her hands further down his back she pays careful attention to his body language. If he spreads his thighs, Ivy
knows she can start reciting “the menu”—the unlisted special
services. The $40 door fee, which goes to the spa owners, gets
him a standard half-hour massage; anything extra goes to Ivy.
For $40 more, he can have a “nude”: Ivy gets naked, then gives
him a basic massage ending in “hand release” (that is, his climax).
For $60, he can get a “nude reverse,” which means he can massage
and fondle Ivy in return. Sometimes the client might request
something off-menu: to be tied up and whipped with a wet towel,
for example. Or he might ask about “extras”: oral sex or intercourse. Fetish stuff isn’t Ivy’s favourite, but she’ll do it. Extras
are a firm no.
The premium service is a “body slide,” for $80, which is something like a full-contact horizontal lap dance that requires an
enormous amount of dexterity and stamina. Ivy will slip out of
February 2013 toronto life 51
THE SEX ISSUE
her nightie while the client turns over onto his back (“the flip,” in
industry parlance). Assisted by massage oil, she lays herself face
to face with him, stimulating his penis with her calves or thighs,
or swivels to face his feet, so she can use her hand or breasts. Refined
over hundreds of sessions, Ivy’s vocabulary of techniques and
positions provide the visuals and friction of sex without penetration. On Internet message boards, men who frequently use escorts
and visit body-rubs will review spa girls and criticize clumsy body
slides. A good review can bring in dozens of new clients. Ivy’s
reviews praise her talent for moving fluidly through multiple
positions, as well as her movie-star bone structure and style. She
extends the buildup so that orgasm occurs in the last five minutes
of the body slide, with the guy “finishing” between Ivy’s hands,
breasts, legs or feet. After years of doing slides, Ivy can time an
ejaculation down to the second.
When the deed is done, she might spend a few minutes with
him, hugging or chatting idly while he winds down. Some men
want to be left alone, so she makes
her way to the shower. Unless he’s
paid for one of the more expensive
60- or 90-minute sessions, she’ll have
to wrap it up quickly; spas depend
on the speedy turnover of customers
(some even charge attendants for
keeping a client overtime). On the
wall, above a table of massage oils,
there’s a clock. She’s been watching
it the whole time, though discreetly.
The client might tip Ivy (anywhere
from $20 to $60 is the norm), which ups the chances she’ll remember him the next time he comes in. Clients love it when attendants
recall their names and what they like; some spa workers even log
details in journals. With $80 for the body slide plus tip, she could
make $120 in a half-hour session, easy, and, if she works three
eight-hour days, often about $2,000 a week.
Once the client is gone, Ivy collects the towels and hauls
them out to a back room where the women do laundry, gossip
and check their email. Then she waits for the next guy to walk
in the front door.
Issuing spa licences earns the city approximately $800,000
a year. In addition, bylaw officers collect fines, running up to
$500 each, for infractions such as having alcohol on the premises. In 2011, the city laid 554 charges against owners and
workers—the most common infraction is staying open after the
mandated 9 p.m. close for holistic centres. Parlours that habitually allow hand jobs or other sexual contact on their premises
are breaking federal bawdy house laws. But such crime is low
on the Toronto Police Service’s priority list: unless attendants
are believed to be exploited by their employers, the cops generally leave spas alone.
Muse Massage Spa is located in the nondescript Finch-Keele
Plaza, surrounded by auto dealers, low-rise office buildings and
several spa competitors. It’s run by two women who go by the
names Emily and Riley Muse. They bought a holistic spa business
from its previous operator for $140,000 in 2009, and they won a
body-rub licence in 2011, despite city councillor Giorgio Mammoliti’s objections to another massage
parlour setting up in his ward.
Unlike many spas, which keep a
low profile, Muse is trying to build
customer loyalty with a Twitter feed
and a Facebook page. Emily and Riley
sponsor events at the downtown
swingers club Oasis Aqualounge and
run a booth at the annual Everything
to Do With Sex Show. On a good day,
with seven girls on shift, the parlour
caters to 50 customers. During my
tour, the doorbell rang and Riley ushered in a good-looking athletic
type in his early 20s. I spotted another customer in a trench coat
ducking out of a private room and scurrying out the exit with a
briefcase, checking a BlackBerry in his palm. Toward the end of
my visit, two elderly men appeared. A typical midday crowd, Emily
explained, is made up of York students, businessmen on lunch
breaks and retirees.
Emily and Riley are proud of their business. “Our girls make
good money,” Emily said. “I encourage them to be smart with
it—I have brokers, accountants and real estate agents they can
work with. Get in, save, and get out—that’s my motto.” She
prefers to hire university students or recent grads—they’re
responsible, without the hardened edge of lifelong pros. “I like
the fresh faces,” she said. As if to provide evidence, a pretty
young black woman arrived for her shift, dressed in slouchy
campus wear and carrying a backpack. “I just had the craziest
test,” she told Emily.
Muse, like every other spa in Finch Alley, draws customers
with the promise of quick, commitment-free encounters. Emily
trains her staff in the importance of empathy: the best spa workers, she says, imagine what their clients go through every day.
These men have wives who ignore them, jobs that are killing
them. A visit to a body-rub can make them happy again, if only
for 30 minutes.
school, and she heard that spas were an easy way to make a lot of
money. She took her first job at a holistic centre in a Hamilton
suburb in 2009, and her first client was a factory worker named
Mike. He ordered a nude reverse: after massaging Mike for 15
minutes, she climbed on the table and let him touch her. To keep
THE PREMIUM SERVICE, FOR
$ 8 0, IS A “BODY SL IDE,”
WHICH IS L IK E A F UL L-C ONTAC T
HORIZONTAL L AP DANCE
O
V E R T H E L A S T D E C A D E , spas have proliferated across the
GTA faster than Starbucks. Many are concentrated
on Finch near Keele (referred to by insiders as Finch
Alley), as well as in the downtown Chinatown and
in the strip malls of East York and Scarborough. The
strip mall locations are ideal for men on the way home
to the suburbs after work (the busiest time for many
spas is around 5:30), and for customers who don’t
want to be spotted.
Approximately 2,500 attendants work in the city’s
448 registered massage parlours. Only 25 of those are officially
allowed to operate as body-rubs. The body-rub licence, which
costs $11,794, permits attendants to be naked while performing
massage. The rest of the parlours are designated as holistic centres (licences cost only $243), where attendants are prohibited
from performing their job in the buff, though many of them do.
And there are hundreds more spas, advertised in the classifieds
of the weekly papers and on Craigslist, that are unlicensed and
operate illegally out of apartments, condos and storefronts all
over the city.
52 toronto life February 2013
O N T H E S E X T R A D E S P E C T R U M , rub ’n’ tug staff are somewhere between
pole dancers and escorts. Most of them lead double lives, keeping
their work a secret even from close friends. Ivy told her family
she was a receptionist at a day spa. She’d planned to work in graphic
design after graduating from university, but couldn’t find a job in
her field. She worked as a stripper to help pay her way through
Many spas set up in strip malls along commuter corridors like Finch and Keele
him from crossing the line, she’d prepared a few stock phrases—
“Just keep everything on the outside and we can still be friends,”
and “There’s a lot more to having fun than blow jobs!”—but Mike
didn’t give her any trouble. “I was nervous,” Ivy recalls. “I wasn’t
used to being an actress delivering a fantasy to someone who paid
for it.” It would take months of work before she developed the
confidence of the four other girls she worked with, women who
knew how to make clients feel desired and pampered while still
working a good hustle.
The thing that surprised Ivy most was the clientele’s strict
physical standards. When her roots weren’t touched up or her
manicure was chipped, they noticed. Most of the attendants were
constantly dieting and working out. In the lounge, in between
loads of laundry, they traded exercise tips and grumbled about
clients who complained online that they weren’t as toned as in
their pictures. “It’s constant upkeep,” Ivy says. “I have to have my
false lashes on, everything shaved, perfect makeup, nails. It can
be exhausting.” She tells me about days she’d arrive for a morning
shift still high from a night of partying. She’d vomit, shower, and
then start in on a session with a client.
When the Hamilton spa closed a year after she started, Ivy
took a job at a holistic centre near Yonge and Bloor. In the secretive world of spas, working conditions vary wildly. Her new place
was little better than a sweatshop; she was expected to work 72
hours a week, both in the massage rooms and at reception, and
was charged $10 shift fees for the first three
clients of each day, meaning she had to work
longer just to break even. Several clients tried
to force her to perform oral sex or attempted
to penetrate her. Once, she cut a session short
when the client threatened her. “The owner
fined me $40 for terminating the session,” she
explains. “I was told that if I did it again, the
fine would be doubled.” In the laundry room
between sessions, the other girls talked about
being assaulted and raped by clients. None of
the staff went to the cops because they were
wary of getting busted or putting their bosses
under scrutiny.
Ivy was desperate to get out, but anxious
enough about money that she didn’t make the
jump until another masseuse told her that a
body-rub parlour with friendly and reasonable
owners was hiring. There were no shift fees,
women worked a maximum of 40 hours a week,
and they could terminate sessions if they felt
uncomfortable with a client, no questions asked.
Ivy left her downtown spa without notice. She
requested a criminal background check on
herself and visited her doctor for an STD test—
both bylaw requirements for body-rub attendants. Within days, she was a licensed body
rubber, complete with laminated photo ID.
Working at the new body-rub was a relief
after the nightmare of her previous job. The
atmosphere was relaxed and her weekly paycheque jumped. But Ivy was still determined
to get a legitimate job. Between clients, she
worked on her graphic design portfolio or on
small freelance projects for advertising firms.
She also experienced a type of burnout that’s unique to spa
girls. Men who frequent massage parlours aren’t just there for
the body slide; they like the banter, the feeling of being catered
to and appreciated, and workers invest as much emotional as
physical energy into their sessions. Ivy had an average of five
clients a day, and she dreaded each appointment. The massage
was one thing, but having to repeat the little spiel—How are you?
Let’s try to keep our hands here—was a drain.
Last August, Ivy quit. She had a regular web design gig from
a freelance client, and a boyfriend who worked as a photographer
and had a small income from arts grants and selling pictures.
Money is tight, but she says her life feels more authentic now.
“As a designer, I’m still selling myself,” she told me, “but now it’s
not an act, it’s about me. It doesn’t matter what I look like or if my
pedicure is done.” When I asked her if there was anything she
missed, she admitted that she sometimes feels homesick for the
spa laundry room, where she could confide in her co-workers
without fear of judgment. On the other hand, she said, the past is
past. “Now, when someone asks me what I do for a living, I can
look them in the eye.”
b
February 2013 toronto life 53
THE SEX ISSUE
HOT STUFF
If you know where to look, Toronto
is a very naughty town. Here,
the city’s best sources for upscale
lingerie, high-tech toys, artisanal
gadgets and a sexy night out
BY MATTHEW HAGUE,
R AC H E L H E I N R I C H S A N D E M I LY L A N DAU
STUFF TO WEAR
BUSTIERS
SILK CHEMISE
Très Jolie
Tryst
2457 Yonge St., 416-484-6402
559 Queen St. W., 647-430-0994;
465 Eglinton Ave. W., 416-484-6678
Secrets From Your Sister
560 Bloor St. W., 416-538-1234;
2501 Yonge St., 416-482-8007
The front window of this
midtown shop displays more
flannel nighties than an L. L.
Bean catalogue. Inside, however, you’ll find a collection
of sultry underthings. The
showstopper is a Moulin
Rouge–style basque bustier
from the French label
Passionata, lined with lacy
black bra cups, vampy garters
and waist-cinching tulle panels with criss-crossing up the
sides ($99).
54 toronto life February 2013
As soon as you step into the
change room at Tryst, the
staff smilingly accost your
bust with a measuring tape
to make sure you’re wearing
the right bra size. Once that’s
taken care of, they’ll tempt
you with an impressive range
of colourful thongs, black
bustiers and crotch-grazing
baby dolls for optimal seduction. This is the only place
in the city to find designer
Mary Green’s retro, Mae
West–ish lingerie, including
a silk chemise so alluring and
slinky you’ll need a cigarette
after slipping it on ($99).
The clerks at this bra store
have a no-fuss, hands-on
approach that creates a comfortable mood for indulging
in a little kink. The shop carries Bordelle, a U.K. line of
designer bondage gear luxe
enough to be worn by Lady
Gaga and Bérénice Marlohe,
the latest Bond girl. The Voyeur harness ($325) is made
of satin elastic and spangled
with 18-karat-gold-plated
rings. It can be worn solo for
Gaga-level sauciness, or layered over a bustier, tank or T
for entry-level sauce. $325.
GARTERS
Holt Renfrew
50 Bloor St. W., 416-922-2333
The Holt’s lingerie department brings to mind a French
courtesan’s boudoir, with
blush-pink walls and gilt
mirrors. The selection is just
as feminine, offering all manner of frilly unmentionables
from brands like La Perla
(plunging bras), Cosabella
(leopard-print teddies) and
La Fée Verte (diaphanous
red crepe negligees). Holt’s
is also the exclusive Canadian
retailer for the luxury British
brand Myla, which makes
bombshell bra-thong-garter
combos in forest-green silk
or vampy crimson lace shot
with gold ($95–$200). The
only thing that’s missing is
the feathered mules.
BRIEFS
Priape
501 Church St., 416-586-9914
In the gay village, Priape is
like a general store, carrying
a mix of everyday essentials—
the locally produced, veganfriendly lube Fuck Water, for
example, as well as dildos,
JOCK STRAPS
Northbound Leather
586 Yonge St., 416-972-1037
photographs: clothing by christopher stevenson; secrets from your sister by jen aaron;
bra bar and avec plaisir by erin leydon
HARNESSES
butt plugs and house-made
padded leather handcuffs.
The extensive underwear
selection covers the kinkiness
spectrum, from baggy and
boyish to skintight latex. The
briefs, boxers and jock straps
by Montreal brand Pump! are
hyper-masculine and styled
to look like hockey, baseball
or football jerseys, without
ever verging into costume
territory. The fit, though, is
what really sets them apart
from the likes of Fruit of the
Loom—they’re made with
cotton and nylon and tailored
precisely so that each pair
hugs, hides and embellishes
in all the right spots.
Thanks to Fifty Shades, fetish
wear has never been more of
the moment. All the models
at this venerable boutique
are handcrafted and customizable to fit, including $800
wasp-waisted corsets and
$500 chaps. But if you have
a dream garment in mind—
a slinky black jock strap
encrusted with shimmering
Swarovski crystals, for
example—in-house tailors
will make it happen. For bashful clients, private, off-hours
consultations are available
(as is a discreet back-alley
entrance).
CORSET BRA
Avec Plaisir
136 Cumberland St., 416-922-7702
Vasilia Panagakos, the owner
and expert bra fitter at this
Yorkville boutique, buys
a few items—exquisitely
detailed lace and silk things
destined to be ripped off in
mere minutes—from French
fashion houses every season.
Jean Paul Gaultier, the man
responsible for Madonna’s
iconic cone bra, designed this
va-va-voom La Perla corset
bra. The sheer bottom is hand
embroidered with a cheekembracing sunflower, and
each cup gathers into a gently
pointed rosette, evoking a
softer version of the mid-’90s
material girl. $1,698.
BABY DOLL NIGHTIE
Bra Bar
15 Hazelton Ave., 416-921-4567
Yorkvillian socialites drop
by this discreet Hazelton
boutique for its selection of
exquisite, expensive skivvies.
Our favourite items are the
least substantial, particularly
a Lise Charmel baby doll
nightie with embroidered
boob-sculpting cups that
give way to a gauzy film of
chiffon ($396), and a brazenly
transparent tulle Crescentini
chemise with convenient lacy
windows at the breasts ($312).
Throw on one of those and
you’ll have no trouble sealing
the deal.
February 2013 toronto life 55
THE SEX ISSUE
MAN TOYS
POLE-DANCING LESSONS
The Condom Shack
Flirty Girl Fitness
231 Queen St. W., 416-596-7515
462 Wellington St. W., 416-920-1400
FLOGGER
Come as You Are
493 Queen St. W., 416-504-7934
The 16-year-old co-op is
thoughtfully arranged from
vanilla at the front (how-to
books and tingly lotions) to
extra-spicy at the back (studded harnesses and bondage
paraphernalia). The Maid
of Suede flogger is hand cut
from Ontario cowhide by a
small leather-working operation in Peterborough. The
whip has a half-pound woven
leather handle (the weight
makes for a smooth stroke,
same as a tennis racquet) and
32 supple suede tails that can
56 toronto life February 2013
ironwood—and sealed with
non-toxic, medical-grade glaze
that gives the toy a glassy feel.
They’re designed for G spot
and prostate stimulation,
although the makers prefer to
call them “ergonomic sculptures” and encourage users to
display them as erotic art. $160.
KEGEL BEADS
Linea Intima
2901 Bayview Ave., 416-221-9225
deliver a nasty sting or titillating tickle, depending on
your mood. And if you need
tips on wielding the whip,
CAYA offers adult sex ed
classes, too. $195.
weights so you can increase
the resistance as you squeeze
your baby box back into
shape. They’re also soft and
silent (little rubber rings
make sure they don’t clink
together), so they can be worn
while cleaning, working out
or even at the office, provided
you can keep your autoerotic
enjoyment under wraps. $50.
VIBRATING DILDO
Good for Her
175 Harbord St., 416-588-0900
HAND-CARVED DILDO
ecosex.ca
The Danforth sex store Red
Tent Sisters recently moved
their estro-fest online, where
they now specialize in environmentally friendly gizmos.
The Fling is the nearest thing
to a bespoke dildo. It’s carved
by hand from sustainably
logged wood—available in six
kinds, including wenge and
At Flirty Girl, a team of
preternaturally limber
instructors—including
former gymnasts and circus
acrobats—train neophytes on
how to work the pole. A onehour introductory class ($25)
teaches a come-hither choreography routine to a Top 40 hit
(expect Beyoncé or Rihanna),
featuring at least one pole
trick, like a traditional firefighter spin around
the pole. Two-hour
workshops ($45)
are more advanced,
offering tutorials
in other floor tricks
and at least two
aerial stunts, such
as the sun wheel
(launching off the
ground and spinning down the pole) or a twohanded spread eagle. Sexiness
aside, it’s a terrific workout
for the abs and core—so you’ll
come away with more than
just dollar bills in your
G-string.
Kegel exercises have become
as popular as Pilates classes
among new moms looking to
tone up after giving birth (and
have a little fun at the same
time). The silicon Lelo Luna
Beads fit inside the vagina and
swish around ever so slightly
when you walk, causing the
pelvic muscles to tighten
around them. The set comes
with 28-gram and 37-gram
Browsing this shop, just off
the U of T campus, feels like
auditing a racy women’s
studies seminar. The focus
is mostly on the ladies, with
a few hours on Sunday
reserved for women and trans
only, but men are welcome all
other times, and the first floor
is full of goodies for couples,
like the OhMiBod Freestyle.
The double-pronged (one for
the inside, one for the outside)
dildo contains a chip that
allows it to pulse to the tunes
on your partner’s iPod from
up to 25 feet away. So, if
you’ve ever fantasized about
having your lady business
buzzed from afar—and to
the beat of the latest Flo Rida
single—well, there’s an app
for that. $135.
UNDERWEAR PARTY
No Pants, No Problem
photographs: products by christopher stevenson; stores by erin leydon
Like its name says, this store
specializes in prophylactics—
including cola-flavoured,
glow-in-the-dark, King Kong–
sized and hypoallergenic
options—but the selection
of sex toys is just as well
curated. The Japanese-made
Tenga Eggs have an elastic,
skin-soft rubber sleeve and
look cartoonishly cute, evoking
Pokémon characters rather
than disembodied body parts.
They’re also inconspicuous—
there’s nothing telling about
the egg-shaped package, so
nosy dates rooting around
your night table will just think
it’s an exotic tchotchke. $13.
trivia contests and schmoozy
lounge-goers, cater to couples
in need of a dirty weekend.
Guests can order à la carte
from an erotic room service
menu of condoms and lube,
pleasure feathers, silk blindfolds, bondage tape and suede
whips. Sex toy options
include the Rabbit Pearl (a
girly vibrator with a clitoral
stimulator) and, for the high
rollers, a 24-karat-gold-plated
dildo. (You’ll be happy to
know that all items are purchased for keeps.) If your
loins still need burning,
the hotel offers a selection
of pornographic movies,
ranked on its Raunchometer
from one (candlelight, bubble
baths, Kenny G) to 10 (deeds
so dirty we can’t print them
in this magazine). Next time
someone tells you to get a
room, you’ll know where
to go. Pleasure menu items
$8–$600. Rooms from $189.
FUN AND GAMES
STUFF FOR PLAY
For upcoming dates, contact
[email protected]
The semiannual No Pants,
No Problem night at the Garrison is carefree, casual and
raucously fun. The crowd—
an artsy, under-40 mix of men,
women and everything in
between—not only drop trou
at the door (there’s a complimentary pants check), they
also drop their pretenses,
creating an easy meet-andmingle vibe. Make-out
games—spin the bottle, seven
minutes in heaven—help set
the social mood, as do the $3
mixed drinks, boppy music
STRIPTEASE CLASS
(Mariah, Madonna, Britney—
spun by local DJs such as
Mamma Knows) and wild
stage shows (at a recent party,
artist Morgan Page, plastic
guns blazing, acted out an
angry but entertaining
divorce revenge fantasy).
Free condoms and lube help
extend the fun long after last
call. $5 before 11 p.m., $10
after, $15 for those who don’t
want to show off their stuff.
BURLESQUE
The Underground Peepshow
Projection Booth Metro, 677 Bloor St. W.,
647-907-0171
This semi-regular burlesque
revue blends humour and
horndoggery, with a twist—
each of the two-hour revues
is inspired by a geeky obsession, like Batman, Nintendo
or Marvel comics. During a
typical show, the 16 or so
dancers (mostly women, a
couple of guys, all cute) take
Good for Her
175 Harbord St., 416-588-0900
turns embodying a relevant
character, with custom-made
costumes, cheeky theme songs
and clever choreography. At
one Simpsons-themed night,
for example, performer Meryle
Trouble played a sultry Mrs.
Krabappel, ensconced in nothing but balloons, popping
them one by one as “Fever”
played in the background. It
was everything the crowd of
650 Gen Y nerds came looking
for: irony, in-jokes and titillation. March 8. $22.
DIRTY WEEKEND
The Drake Hotel
1150 Queen St. W., 416-531-5042
The Drake’s 19 guest rooms,
upstairs from the hipster
Onstage, dancer Lorraine
Hewitt (a.k.a. CoCo
LaCrème) is an incomparable
seductress—like Josephine
Baker, but more buxom.
Since starting her popular
series of burlesque seminars
at Good for Her in 2004, the
veteran performer has
imparted her craft to hundreds of ladies—mostly amateurs who want to put on
steamy bedroom shows for
their partners. To a
soundtrack of sultry
jazz and Hewitt’s own selfempowerment mantras,
the class covers burlesque
history, boa handling and
fumble-free bra removal.
But the pinnacle of the twoand-a-half-hour session is
the tassel twirl—a bosombouncing spectacle that
would mesmerize even the
most been-there lover. $33.
February 2013 toronto life 57
THE SEX ISSUE
My Cheating Heart
I was bored with my husband, resented
my kids and yearned to feel sexy again.
Lessons from my year on Ashley Madison
BY ANONYMOUS
ILLUSTRATIONS BY JACK DYLAN
E
V E R Y T H I N G Y O U’R E A B O U T T O R E A D I S T R U E . I’m withholding my
name to protect my marriage, but the people, the
places and the dates are just as I describe. It all began
in the spring of 2011, after several bellinis at a Milestones with my best friend. She giddily whispered in
my ear that she was having an affair with someone
she had met on AshleyMadison.com, the hook-up
website targeted at married people. She pulled out
her iPhone and surreptitiously showed me a picture
of her paramour. He was attractive, with a chiseled
face and a broad smile. He’d ended their first date by kissing
her passionately—something she hadn’t experienced in years.
I felt a pang of envy.
She and I had met years earlier while working for the same
PR firm and had bonded over a shared crush on an extremely
handsome younger colleague. We spent many lunch hours
discussing our interactions with him and laughing over what
we’d do if we ever found ourselves alone with him in the backseat
of his silver SUV, parked in a dark corner of the company’s
underground garage. Sometime after that, we started to share
pulpy erotic novels with titles like Wicked Ties, Fantasy Lover
and Strange Attractions.
I had recently turned 46 and dreaded hitting the half-century
mark. I visited the gym more often, lost some weight and even
underwent some laser cosmetic procedures, all in attempts to
delay the inevitable.
My husband and I had married in our early 20s, fresh out of
university. We live in the suburbs and have two children, ages
58 toronto life February 2013
10 and 12. Our marriage is relatively healthy—we love each other
and we still have sex. But over the years, the frequency had
decreased from three times a week to once a week, and it was
routine and predictable. I also resented how much of my life was
taken up by the kids’ soccer practices, hair appointments and
parent-teacher interviews.
A few months after my friend’s confession, I was working at
home one weekend while my husband and kids were away at
our cottage. I’d recently started a public relations job on Bay
Street, and I had some urgent project deadlines to meet. Once
I’d finished, I found myself sitting on my bed, a glass of red wine
on my night table, my laptop resting on my thighs and my eyes
fixed on the landing page of Ashley Madison, or AM as it’s known
to regular users.
I was ready to have an affair.
T HE S I T E L I S T E D D O Z E N S O F AVA IL A B L E married men in my general vicinity:
NiceGuyOakville, etobicokedude, Fun_in_Mississauga, Burlington1on1. But before I could view their profiles, I had to create one
of my own. “I seek a connection with a smart, funny, mature,
manly, professional man,” I wrote. “You are in your 40s, darkhaired, blue-eyed, tall, fit and attractive.” I posted photos in a
“private showcase” that someone could view only if I sent them
a “key.” In one photo I was wearing a little black dress at a gala
dinner; in another I posed like a ski bunny somewhere in Quebec.
One of the pictures captured my blond, shoulder-length hair
falling over one eye, my lips full and glossy, a tight, low-cut shirt
emphasizing my cleavage. I was careful to crop out name tags
February 2013 toronto life 59
THE SEX ISSUE
I will make you feel good and am sexually open to anything that
doesn’t involve pain. I hope to hear from you.” I briefly contemplated replying, as he was an attractive man. But the fact that we
knew each other ultimately stopped me.
I began to spend at least an hour every day on the AM site.
I would stay up with my iPad after my husband and kids went
to bed, reading and replying to messages late into the night, careful to clear my browsing history after every session.
My first date was with a realtor on a Wednesday afternoon.
I told my boss I had a dentist appointment and ducked out to the
Library Bar at the Royal York hotel, wondering if we’d find each
other attractive or if he’d even show. The man who arrived was
at least a decade older than his profile photo. Over a drink, he
told me he’d fallen in love with me. His intensity frightened
me—he seemed desperate and a little unhinged. I quickly finished
my drink, gently told him I didn’t feel the same way and then left,
scurrying back to my office through the PATH system.
My next date was lunch with an architect at Alice Fazooli’s.
He was more interested in checking his BlackBerry than in me,
and we didn’t bother meeting again. Another day I met an online
journalist at a downtown Starbucks. He was seven years younger
than I, handsome and sweet, and he drove a motorcycle. We
kissed at the end of the date and agreed to meet again, but never
did—he claimed his wife was ill and he had no free evenings.
WE FOUND A DESERTED WALKWAY NEAR
THE U OF T LAW FACULTY, AND HE
POUNCED ON MY LIPS
and anything that could reveal the location in each photo—anything
that could identify me.
My husband had been nothing but supportive of my new job.
He never complained when I got home late, which happened
often. I should have felt guilty embarking on this betrayal. Instead,
I felt turned on.
Over the next week, messages flooded my AM inbox. Most of
them were off-putting, showing close-up photos of men’s erections
or, worse, men with what I suspected were their kids and spouses.
The ages of the men contacting me ranged from 27 up to the mid60s. But quite a few of them were intriguing: I was approached
by a surgeon at the Toronto General Hospital, a finance director
with a branch of the Ontario government and a detective with
the Toronto Police Service.
I was startled when I opened one AM email and discovered it
was from someone I knew. “I’m the CEO of a big company,” his
message to me read. “I can only meet during the day because I don’t
want to risk hurting anyone at home. I will pay for everything.
60 toronto life February 2013
H
A L F A D O Z E N D I S H E A R T E N I N G F I R S T D AT E S later, I heard from a
doctor with a practice in East York. The photos
attached to his message showed a man who looked
much younger than his stated age of 54. He was tall,
with dark hair, a square jaw and broad shoulders.
He smiled easily in the pictures, some of which had
been taken on a boat, others in various parts of
Europe. I was smitten.
We agreed to meet for dinner at Sassafraz in
Yorkville. It was mid-summer and hot, and I agonized
over what to wear, settling on a fitted skirt and jacket, with the
top buttons of my blouse undone. I made an extra effort to primp,
refreshing my hair colour, polishing my nails and fake-tanning
my legs. As I made my way down Cumberland Street, I felt giddy
but apprehensive. I spotted him right away, sitting at the back of
the restaurant on one of its white banquettes. He stood to kiss me
on the cheek.
For the next three hours we talked nonstop over glasses of
white wine and plates of oysters, then walked around Yorkville,
en route to the University of Toronto campus in search of a more
private place to end the evening. Near the law faculty, we found
a deserted walkway, and he backed me against a brick wall. He
leaned into me with an arm on each side of my head and pounced
on my lips. I responded with equal enthusiasm, and unbuttoned
his dress shirt while his hands lifted my skirt and tugged on my
panties. But we heard two joggers approaching on the path and
quickly pulled apart. He walked me back to my car, and we made
plans to reconnect after his upcoming two-week Caribbean vacation with his wife.
We stayed in touch all through his vacation, exchanging
information about our lives and describing in great detail the
many ways in which we wanted each other. We scheduled our
second date for a few days after he returned, a muggy August
afternoon. We met for lunch in Mississauga followed by some
time at a nearby secluded park, where we lay down on a blanket
I had brought along. After some kissing
and heavy petting, I unzipped his jeans
and discovered his penis was completely
flaccid. He said something about feeling
shy and quickly zipped himself back up.
We left the park, and, after an awkward
goodbye, I drove home, feeling confused
and uneasy. The next day, he emailed me
saying he was embarrassed and blamed
our surroundings. Next time, he said, we
needed a bed. About a week and a half
later, he booked us a room at the Best
Western Primrose Hotel on Carlton. Since
we were meeting around dinnertime, my
task was to pick up some snacks and a
bottle of wine. As I made my way over, I
received a text: “I’m here. Hurry!”
I had imagined I would experience my
first fling in a fancier hotel—the Four
Seasons or the Ritz—not at a Best Western,
but I was excited nonetheless. As I rode
up the elevator, I thought about my husband, who at that moment was probably
cooking something for our kids in our
kitchen. As far as they knew, I had run
into a former colleague in the city and we’d agreed to meet for
drinks and possibly dinner. I had about four hours before I had
to make my way to my car and start the drive back home.
Pushing all those thoughts out of my mind, I knocked on the
door. The doctor greeted me by putting both hands around my
waist and pulling me into a kiss. I wish I could say that auspicious beginning ended in amazing and satisfying sex for both
of us. Once again, he couldn’t sustain an erection. After a
couple of hours of trying, we found ourselves lying on the kingsize bed, my head resting on his chest, his fingers caressing one
of my arms. We liked each other but perhaps lacked sexual
chemistry, he suggested. Adopting a doctor’s clinical tone, he
explained how we’re all at the mercy of our pheromones. I asked
if there was anything else getting in the way. He admitted he
felt guilty—his wife trusted him completely. “Or maybe it’s an
age thing,” he added. I considered asking him why he hadn’t
brought some pharmaceuticals to help things along, but decided
he felt bad enough as it was.
We got dressed, in the now familiar awkward silence that had
become our end-of-date routine. As I replayed the evening on my
drive home, I started to feel guilty, too. What was I doing, getting
naked in a hotel room with a man I had met online and hardly
knew? What would my husband think if he ever found out about
the other men I had met in bars and darkened restaurants? Would
he ask for a divorce? I knew I could lose everything: my marriage,
my family, our home, our cottage.
When I arrived home, my husband was luckily out walking
our dog, and I was able to take a long shower and clear my head
before he returned.
Two days later, the doctor contacted me again. “If we could
have our minds calm, and focused on each other only, without
other distractions, guilt or misgivings, we might just have amazing sex,” he wrote. “I don’t want this to end.” I didn’t want it to
end, either. Even after our awkward encounters, I was still
attracted to him and had begun to feel emotionally attached.
WHAT WAS I DOING GE T TING NAK ED IN A HOTEL
ROOM WITH A MAN I HARDLY K NE W ?
I agreed to meet him once again, this time at the Marriott Bloor
Yorkville, on a Saturday afternoon in early September. But that
encounter ended the same as the last. Saying goodbye once again,
we both knew it was finally over.
We had one last email exchange in which he apologized again
for his inability to perform and urged me to try again with someone new. “It took me the better part of a year to find you,” I wrote
back, “and I won’t put myself through that again. Too much
disappointment and heartbreak that, honestly, I don’t need. I’ve
decided to be content with what I have.”
A week later I shut down my AM account. But first I took one
last look at the page of currently available men and spotted the
doctor. It only confirmed my decision.
L AT E L A S T FA L L , I M E T M Y B E S T F R I E N D at a Second Cup. We had become
each other’s AM affair confidantes, and I had gone to her after
every failed date and every unsatisfying meeting with the doctor.
Her own affair had ended after three months of countless cancelled
dates and broken promises.
We postulated that half of the men on AM are players and the
other half are just damaged in some way. As we sipped our coffees, she theorized that the doctor likely had performance problems before meeting me and was trying to “cure” himself.
We laughed at the absurdity of it all: after more than 23 years
with the same man, I had finally been ready to have a new lover
and had ended up right where I’d started. Yes, most of my days
were still mundane and I was still getting older. But the experience had given me a chance to evaluate what I did have. Despite
the shortcomings of my marriage, it was much better than the
alternative—being with a man who couldn’t get it up.
Always one step ahead of me, my friend had been looking into
sex workshops for individuals and couples at a Toronto sex store,
with titles like Joystick Secrets and The Art of Feminine Dominance. “I’m thinking of signing up for Stripping for Klutzes,” she
said, as we stood up to leave the coffee shop. “Wanna come?” b
February 2013 toronto life 61