Birthday Musings (Again)

My straps coach, best friend, and mentor entrusted me with his apartment for the next two months. He lives in the gay village, and I am a total slut. His bedroom has now become a nunnery, so I have turned it into a porn studio. I’m writing this on the last day of January as it snows heavily outside in this godforsaken Gotham-wannabe city. A city so cold and unforgiving, yet so full of life and adventure that sex is only a five-minute walk away. It’s been a month since I moved in, and here are some misadventures.

I moved into Toronto’s Gay Village like a war correspondent embedding himself with the locals, as if I told myself it was for “research.” Cultural immersion. Anthropology. A deep dive into the mating rituals of men who moisturize.

In reality? Single, horny, and living above a Pizza Pizza.

The Village is a strange ecosystem. By day, it smells faintly of espresso and ambition. By night, it smells like tequila, poppers, and bad decisions marinated in glitter. I arrived with two suitcases and the naive belief that I would spend my evenings journaling thoughtfully about queer community.

Instead, I conducted what can only be described as a rotating residency of men. They don’t call me the Village Bicycle for nothing. Everyone gets a ride.

First up: the foreign exchange student. Fresh off the plane. Nervous. Polite. He kept apologizing before and after everything like I was customer service. It was his first same-sex experience. There’s something almost holy about that kind of discovery. The wide-eyed wonder. The quiet shock of realizing your body can do that. It wasn’t pornographic. It was tender. Like watching someone taste mango for the first time and realize fruit can be that sweet. I felt oddly protective of him, like a tour guide through the back alleys of desire.

Then there was the “straight” guy. You know the type. Baseball cap. Gym selfies. The olfactory assault of Axe body spray so thick I could taste it. He kept reminding me he was straight, as if saying it enough times would make my apartment a heterosexual space. “I don’t usually do this,” he’d say, while doing exactly this. He treated the whole thing like a covert ops mission. No kissing. Lights low. Pants off, feelings off. It was less sex and more identity crisis with background music. I half expected him to salute the flag afterwards.

Next: the femme-presenting guy with waist-length hair and acrylic nails sharp enough to fillet a trout. I made assumptions. We all do. He walked in like a backup dancer for a Cher farewell tour. And then in the bedroom? Absolute command. Calm, deliberate, devastating. The kind of dominant energy that doesn’t shout. It simply exists. I was confused. I was aroused. I was briefly questioning every stereotype I’d ever absorbed. It was a masterclass in why presentation means absolutely nothing when the door closes.

One night I ended up with an older German man who had the stamina of a retired Bavarian warhorse and the liver of a pub. Mid-encounter, he started singing German folk songs. Loudly. Passionately. I don’t speak German, but I’m fairly certain one verse was about goats. There’s something surreal about lying there while a naked man belts out what sounds like Oktoberfest karaoke. It was less erotic, more operatic fever dream. Needless to say I couldn’t keep a straight face, so I chewed on a pillow to stifle my laughter.

Then came the retired elementary school teacher. Gentle. Patient. The kind of man who probably used to laminate worksheets for fun. There was something profoundly comforting about him. Like being seduced by a cardigan. He corrected my grammar mid-sentence once. I didn’t hate it.

The drug dealer was exactly what you’d expect. Charismatic. Slightly chaotic. A man who answered texts in code and kept glancing at his phone like it owed him money. He treated sex like a quick transaction between pickups. Efficient. Intense. Gone before the sheets cooled.

One guy had a full-blown panic attack halfway through and bolted. No dramatic exit. Just sheer, naked fight-or-flight. One minute we were mid-moment, the next he was pulling on his jeans like the apartment was on fire. I hope he’s okay. I also hope he found his other sock.

For my birthday. a man decided the appropriate gift was endurance. Four hours. Four. I aged visibly. There’s a point where pleasure transcends into athletic event. I considered carb-loading beforehand. By hour three, I was bargaining with God and hydrating like a marathon runner. It was impressive. It was excessive. It was… memorable.

There was a former model—cheekbones still doing the heavy lifting of a once-glorious jawline. He’d gained weight, and you could tell it bothered him. But let me tell you something: confidence in bed is not measured by waist size. He moved like he still had a runway beneath him. Yes, he finished early. Happens. Bodies aren’t machines; they’re fireworks. Sometimes they go off before the finale. We laughed. We reset. The world did not end.

One guy had a hernia in his pelvis. I learned this mid-hookup. There are moments in life when you pause and reassess your decisions. This was one of them. We adjusted. Carefully. Sex becomes less porn and more engineering when anatomy throws you a curveball.

Then there was the deaf man with a wicked sense of humour. Communication shifted. Eye contact mattered more. Touch meant more. He laughed silently, shoulders shaking, when I tried to sign something and absolutely butchered it. There’s an intimacy in having to look at someone (really look at them) without relying on the usual soundtrack of breath and moans. It was unexpectedly beautiful.

The massage therapist treated my body like a side project. Clinical. Attentive. He stretched muscles I didn’t know I had. It felt less like sex and more like I’d booked the most inappropriate spa package in history.

There was the kinkster whom I met at a party. The leather daddy with beautiful brown skin and the most hypnotising Indian accent. We had instant chemistry; we ate, we danced, then I took him back to my place, where he fucked me for two hours and left his marks on my skin, not knowing I had a job interview the next day. I didn’t get the job, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t because of the baseball-sized hickey I covered up with makeup two hours prior. I got the real reward.

The HR rep from the CBC surprised me. I was aware that Chinese-Jamaicans existed, but to hear a Patois accent out of a mouth that should be Mandarin really threw me a curveball. Speaking of curve, his dick wasn’t too bad. It hit me just right.

The flight attendant lived up to his name. He clocked in, did the job, and clocked out. Did you know that flight attendants are only paid when the plane takes off?

And then there’s the construction worker.

Rough hands. Steel-toed boots. The kind of guy who looks like he could lift drywall with one arm and feelings with the other—except he doesn’t advertise the second part. He came in all gruff edges and calloused palms. But underneath? Soft. Thoughtful. The way he’d check in without making a show of it. The way he’d linger after, not rushing out like the apartment might contaminate him. Of all the men that have come through the revolving doors of this apartment, he’s the only one I’ve been seeing multiple times. We’re going out on a date this Valentine’s Day. Who am I???

Somewhere between the noise of the Village, the drag queens, the tequila shots, the men who only text after midnight, I caught feelings for the guy who builds things for a living.

Which is ironic. Because I moved here thinking I’d be the one constructing something. A memoir. A version of myself. Instead, I became a temporary inn for a parade of men, each one carrying their own history, insecurity, hunger, and confusion.

Living in the Village for a month didn’t turn me into a saint or a cautionary tale. It just made me acutely aware of how absurd and human we all are. The straight guy desperate not to be seen. The student discovering himself. The femme dom shattering assumptions. The drunk German crooning naked anthems. The panic-stricken runner. The birthday marathoner. The soft-hearted builder.

Sex, stripped of fantasy, is rarely perfect. It’s awkward. It’s sweaty. Sometimes it sings folk songs at you. Sometimes it leaves before it finishes. Sometimes it makes you feel powerful. Sometimes it makes you feel seen.

And sometimes, if you’re unlucky (or lucky enough), you realize you’re not just collecting stories anymore. You’re building one.