To the Men of Ottawa

Being a sex educator and a (semi-retired) sex worker, one would think that I’ve seen them all or that I’m tired of having sex. Sex has presented itself in different ways in my life; I’m under the impression that I still have not had all the sex that’s possible. Is there even such a thing as a definite number of ways to have sex? Is it truly infinite?

Sex rears its ugly head when there’s a power imbalance, and that power is abused. Sex can be beautiful when people co-create that space for themselves in real time with no plan or agenda. Sex can be administrative, where you just need to bang one out to get through the day, making that meeting with Carol from HR a little more tolerable. Sex can be raw spontaneity, surrendering to carnal passions, locking into that primitive instinct of wanting to ravage each other until you’re left a cum-soaked husk, put on display for an imaginary audience applauding your doggy style, which can only be described as Shakespearean.

Whether sex has been my vocation or for my personal pleasure, there’s always an element of work. It’s the emotional work and the preparation that, for me, distinguishes the different kinds of sex I have. That difference could not have been made more clear to me than when I’m in Ottawa. That’s right. Ottawa. The capital of Canada. Beige. Polite. The municipal equivalent of an oatmeal cookie. A government town full of members of Parliament, where dry and itchy suits reign supreme, the gay scene is barely hanging on by the skin of its teeth, and public transit seems to be a new concept Ottawans are just now discovering. Suffice it to say, it’s a city teeming with sexual tension just waiting for an opportunity to burst.

I’ve taken different kinds of lovers in my time in Ottawa, and I hold each of those lovers close to my heart. They all give me a different side of sex that I enjoy, much like my favourite dishes from various fast food chains. Each Ottawan man is different from the last, but in no way are they hierarchical in my heart, as I treasure each dick like a collector’s item.

Adam

Adam and I connected through Facebook dating. I know, who woulda thunk it? We connected one spring, and it wasn’t until the winter of the same year that we finally met in person. Adam is a sweet boy. Make no mistake; he is a man, but I use the word "boy” to describe his child-like approach to the world. Tall, trimmed and hairy chest, father of two kids, and also an aerialist. My dream man.

I called him over to my hotel, where it took us a second to warm up to seeing each other in person for the first time. When you’ve been chatting with a guy for months without ever actually seeing each other, you start to have doubts about whether or not he’s real. But on the other hand, when you build up a scenario in your head for that long, and the chemistry just feels right, you have to give in.

I took off my clothes, and he, being rattled with OCD, took his off and folded them neatly on the nightstand. We started making out, and his dick started to get hard in my hand. My lips slowly made their way down to his pelvis, but on the way down, even as I kept the TV on in the background so it’s not awkwardly quiet, Adam kept talking. Nothing in particular. Just random observations about the room. He was talking so much that it made me lose my train of thought mid-fellatio. I had his entire shaft in my mouth, and his yapping made me pull it out and ask him why he was talking so much. He said that he doesn’t do well with silence and needs to fill the air with conversation.

Really? Can’t he just enjoy the silence of a man choking on his (surprisingly huge) cock? I guess some people are just wired that way.

In the hopes that I can get him to focus on something else, he wanted to try fucking me. As my legs were propped up over my head, he started to apply lube on my hole and his cock. It was at that point that he started to lose his erection. We were both unsure as to why it happened. Chalk it up to nerves, but as his boner went down, we lay down on the bed together. I asked if he wanted to do anything else, and he said he was just happy to be in bed and make out. So we did. My tongue in his throat, his deep in mine, and our cocks in the other’s hand. We kissed harder, jerked each other off firmly, legs tightening, anticipating our eventual climax. And simultaneously, we stiffened up, cocks pulsing, cum ejaculating and pouring out and down our legs, and we lay there basking in the post-orgasmic glow, gleaming at how wonderful this non-penetrative sex has been.

I can’t wait to see him again when he makes his way to me.

Mike

I met Mike through Sniffies. If you’re not familiar with Sniffies, it’s as if Grindr went to church to become a pastor, got excommunicated because he was hiding drugs in his cassock, then took said cassock and fashioned it into a harness doubling as a jizz catcher at a back alley orgy. I opened the app to find a cute redheaded, nerdy, slim man who was mere feet away from my location. I needed to have him.

It didn’t take long for us to determine there was sexual chemistry there. I was still wary, considering the nature of the app and how men can be gross and flaky. The thing about apps is that you can’t read tone. His messages sounded, in my head, like a high school bully leading me on. Was I about to get my lunch money taken from me? Despite this, I pressed on and invited him to my room. Turns out, he was so close to me because we were staying in the same hotel nine floors above me. He mentioned how he’ll be coming over later in the night because he already has “prior obligations”, which, in gay speak, meant that he was on his way to a glory hole. I was worried if he would still have enough energy and loads to dump in me by the time he got to my place, or even if he would still be interested. Much to my surprise, I hear a knock on the door.

He came into my room looking exactly like he did in his photos. Cute, charming, healthy head of lush red hair, glasses slightly off balance because the nose pad needed adjusting. As soon as I opened the door in just my underwear, we exchanged maybe seven words in total before he grabbed my head and buried his tongue in my throat. That forceful kiss got my dick to shoot up faster than a meth head on his last hit. What a fantastic kisser! He quickly took his clothes off and lightly shoved me on the bed. This man knows how to take control, and that’s just how I like them.

Legs over my head, poppers coursing through my system, his tongue digging its way through my rectum like a rodent preparing for hibernation. To say I was pleasantly surprised is an understatement. This man can fuuuck. His cock is perfect. Boyfriend dick, as the kids call it. Not too long, not too short. The perfect length to hit my prostate at just the right spot. Uncircumcised with a thick head, girthy enough to stretch me out but not hurt me. I wanted that dick in me for as long as possible.

And that’s exactly what happened.

After the first night of us having amazing sex, so amazing that it gave him a full-body convulsing orgasm, he wanted more. So I gave him more. For a whole day. I checked out of my room, moved my stuff to his, and we spent the entire day fucking on the pull-out. Because we’re ladies. We keep the play bed and the sleeping bed separate. What felt like minutes were literally hours. We used the whole day to explore each other’s bodies, experimenting with touch, positions, and sensations. I even found his erogenous zone on his ears, which sent him full-body shivers. He was cheeky enough to fake an illness over a work call to have sex with me all day, with almost no breaks in between. The only break we had was to recharge with food and play board games. I spent the night, we had more sex in the morning until no cum was left un-ejaculated, and we parted ways.

I hope that he left that hotel room happier than when he entered. And I hope he thinks of me every time he has sex.

Jean-Philippe

JP was, or rather, is, a client of mine from when I was a full-time escort. Sex for work is… well, it’s work. It’s been about a decade since I’ve walked into that version of myself. A version that negotiates a scene, sets boundaries, calculates risk, does the emotional math of Is this worth it? And usually, I’m good at that math. I’m Asian.

As I stepped off the train in Ottawa, I opened Scruff. For the uninitiated, Scruff shows a little airplane symbol beside your name to show that you’re from out of town, which is basically the equivalent of a dinner bell at the gay feeding trough. The second I opened it, message after message came pouring in with the heys and the sups and the unsolicited dick pics. But amidst all that was a message that stood out to me.

“Long time no see. I’ve missed you.”

JP and I had a good rapport and excellent working relationship from what I can remember. Was he my favourite client? Not really. I always had to force chemistry because it was like pulling teeth with this guy just to have a conversation. Was the sex great? Even more not really. However, in his defence, he is an excellent customer and very respectful. So for shits and gigs, I replied back.

The conversation was brief and to the point, just like I remembered him. A man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to ask for it. He asked what I was doing in Ottawa, and I told him that I’m in town for the weekend for a conference. Seeing this as an in, he jumped at the chance and said, “Well, if you’re gonna be here for just the weekend, can we have a reunion? Even just for one day?”

I haven’t done an overnight in quite some time. Overnights are exhausting and extremely mentally taxing as I have to be on the clock even while in my sleep. As far as price goes, my overnight rate was $1500, not adjusting for inflation. I told him that if we were to successfully connect, I would honour the original price. (I’m essentially losing money if I don’t adjust.) But even if we connected, and that’s a big if, it’s too last-minute. I had just gotten into the city, and I’m still trying to figure out my work schedule.

“Would $2000 change your mind?”

When he asked if I’d be willing to stay, if I’d be open to “a little more,” something in me flickered. Maybe hunger. Maybe old habits. Maybe the exhaustion of living in a society where everything, including your own body, feels like a bill that needs paying.

Five hundred dollars. Not life-changing. Not insignificant either.

And so I said yes.

The sex was fine. Very standard, very predictable. A job completed. A task checked off. But afterward, after the door closed, after the shower ran cold, I felt something I didn’t expect: grief. Something I hadn’t felt in years.

I felt like I’d violated some boundary inside myself. Not the sexual kind, but the emotional one. The one where you promise yourself you won’t go back to the version of you that survives by compartmentalising everything. And for what? Five hundred fucking dollars.

There’s a moment when you’re looking at yourself in a mirror in a half-lit bathroom, still smelling like someone else’s cologne, and you think: Was this worth it? Then the second thought comes: Why do I even have to ask?

Under capitalism, questioning the morality of how we survive is a luxury. The ethics of sex work are easy to debate when your rent is paid, and your fridge is full. But when you’re hustling, whether it’s content creation, emotional labour, or literal sex, “morality” becomes a word rich people use to describe the choices you don’t get to have.

As a self-employed person who does not have a reliable source of income, where I depend on freelance work and finding that work for myself, questioning morals and ethics and self-actualisation is a luxury I can rarely afford when I’m trying to find ways to pay the bills. When you’re in survival mode for a long period of time, you do what you need to do to survive another day, and that includes making questionable choices that shake you to your core.

Yeah, I didn’t kill anyone or help cover a crime. In the grand scheme of things, self-abandoning my own boundaries isn’t going to have much of an impact on the world. But this impacted me and my worldview. I whored myself out for an extra $500. I’m not proud of it. But I’m not going to be embarrassed by it. I had an opportunity to provide for myself, so I did what I had to do. If you think that makes me a bad person, go fuck yourself.

I don’t feel ashamed of being a sex worker, but I did feel shaken. Like I’d stepped back into a room I promised myself I was done with, and the dust hadn’t settled the way I remembered.

I’ll think about my morals when my stomach isn’t eating itself.

Steve

I don’t like to go out even in the best of times. Party Tim is dead, so you’ll rarely ever find him out and about on a Saturday night. During the Climax Conference, I was already pretty exhausted after speaking on two panels, improvising an aerial performance, and leading a lapdance workshop. Part of the event was a kink afterparty from 10 pm to 2 am. Already I’m in a bitchy mood since I want to be showered, teeth brushed, and pajama’d up in bed by 9:30 pm. But considering that this event doesn’t happen often and I’m not usually in Ottawa, I might as well.

We get there quite early, so the festivities are incipient. Picture a huge dancefloor with electronic music and laser lights with a shibari stage in the centre. This is a sexually charged environment, a vibe which I am too sober for. So I down a couple of drinks until I’m comfortable enough to let loose and drop it like it’s hot. People are making out, I see someone getting their ass whipped to a pulp, there is heavy grinding on the dancefloor, the aforementioned Adam whom I invited, couldn’t even make it due to sickness, and a friend tried setting me up with this cute and tall Irish lad who made out with me but left me with blue balls. Needless to say that I was having a pretty rotten time.

My friend Luna sensed my energy and used that to motivate my drinking and really bust a move. I had enough alcohol in my system to let my guard down, but not enough that I was white girl wasted, but also just enough to move and dance like a white girl wasted. It’s about 1:45 am with the party about to wrap, and I’m dancing with my head bobbing to and fro with my arms up and wrists limp. In my peripheral I see this cute and tall guy wearing the hottest black fishnet paired with leather chaps. In the middle of my head bobs, I take brief glances at him, hoping he would come my way. I turn my head away to look at the stage to continue dancing. Out of curiosity, I wanted to see if this mysterious androgynous hottie was still there. I look back only to see him walking towards me, closing the gap between us.

My heart starts racing. When was the last time I picked up a guy without the aid of an app? You mean to tell me that people just come up to people out in the wild? This is news to me!

“Hey, I’m Steve. I saw you speaking on the panel about men’s sexuality, and I thought you were really cute. Can I kiss you?”

Honestly, I blacked out from there because I couldn’t believe what was happening. Everything happened so fast. His muscular arms were embracing me, my hands were around his waist, his soft lips kissed mine as if I had never been kissed in my life. This hot, Adonis-like statue, made his way to me, bowing down so he could kiss me, and I craned my neck to kiss him back… I swear my foot did that thing where it goes up like in The Princess Diaries.

In my state of bliss and disbelief while liplocked, he pulled away to give me a chance to breathe. I found my opening. Just ask him, Tim. Just do it. YOLO.

“Would you like to come back to my place?”, I asked.

“I’ve never been with a guy before, but yeah, I’m down”, he replied as he gave me his number.

Oh, my god. Am I about to take his virginity? This hasn’t happened in quite some time. This ridiculously hot guy just agreed to come sleep with me. If I’m dreaming, please, nobody wake me up. I was already so nervous that this wasn’t actually happening. I tried to convince myself that this is some straight guy who just wants to use me as his experiment and be ashamed of being with me when he’s done using me. I was scared that I was being tricked. But as I kept looking at the texts saying that he’s on his way, it started to feel more and more real. I even missed a text by a few minutes because I was in the shower, and I thought he had left. I ran so fast down the lobby to pick him up that I woke up a neighbour’s dog with my clomping.

I breathed a sigh of relief, walked him to my bedroom, stripped down, and there he was in all his naked glory. Again, this beautiful, six-foot-tall, gorgeous hunk, with a voice so deep it made my ovaries quake, is lying down in my bed naked.

“I’ve never been with a guy before, so you’ll have to walk me through.”

And walk him through I did. We passionately made out for a couple of hours and gave each other head like dehydrated leeches thirsting for blood. I had never wanted a man close to me more than I did in that moment. He’s not technically a virgin since he’s had sex with women. (And before you come for me with your “virginity is not a real thing” morality, I am just using today’s parlance for brevity.) Having sex with a virgin when I haven’t had sex with one in a while reignited something in me..There was something electric about it. Not power-driven. Not predatory. Just tender. Full of curiosity and passion. Like watching someone taste fruit for the first time. There’s a particular magic when you’re the first person someone sleeps with in a new direction of their life. It’s not about ego (okay, maybe a little ego), but mostly it’s about witnessing discovery in real time. Every breath, every sound, every shiver feels like you’re rewriting the map of their body with them.

There was this moment, midway through the night, when he looked at me like he’d just unlocked a door inside himself. Wide-eyed. Grinning. Disbelieving. It was when our bodies connected as one. His penis is in my hole. Normally, I need chemical aids to accommodate someone of his size, but this was different. It fit inside me so comfortably that it felt like it was almost meant to be in there. As his cock got harder in me, my hole squeezed tighter around his shaft. I held him close as he kissed me hard and thrusted deeper into me.

“How do you want me to fuck you?” he asked.

“However you want.”

He started slowly, savouring each thrust as I pulsed my hole around every inch of his cock. He picked up momentum as we both found our rhythm, our energies perfectly in sync, eyes locked intently like nobody else existed in the world. In that moment, in those few hours, in the space and energy we co-created with curiosity and passion and carnal pleasure, time didn’t exist. People didn’t exist. It was just Steve and me. Two bodies connected as one, bound by surrendering ourselves to each other’s bodies, giving in to sexual freedom and liberation. Faster, deeper, each thrust more powerful than the last.

“Oh, fuck. I’m going to cum!”

“So am I!”

Our bodies shook almost violently, fully seized by the release of endorphins and ejaculate. He kept coming as our orgasm passed through our bodies in waves. We gave in, giving each other everything we got. And for a second, I remembered what it felt like to be new at something. To be unjaded. To approach pleasure with wonder instead of technique.

He collapsed in the space next to me, nestled in my bicep, as I cuddled him and held onto him as if not wanting to let him go. We were in such disbelief and full of joy that we were speechless and just lay in bed in complete silence, staring into each other’s eyes, tucking his long curly hair behind his ear, and kissing each other as if it were our first kiss. Not long, our bodies surrendered to fatigue, and we slept as the sunrise was just starting.

I had a hard time parting ways, asking him to put his clothes on slowly so I could take a mental note of every little detail to remember it. It’s not every day you meet a kind and ridiculously sweet man who approaches sex with the same curiosity and fun-seeking joie de vivre as you. It’s rare, so when you find it, you want to luxuriate in the intricacies of it all.

Steve, if you ever read this, know that what we did was unforgettable, and I will be thinking about it for a very long time. I will be masturbating to this delicious memory until we meet one day again.

So that’s Ottawa.

I met a man whose sex was a little chaotic, a man whose sex was enduring, a man whose sex reminded me of who I used to be, and a man whose sex reminded me of who I still want to be. Somewhere between those encounters, I realised I’m still trying to figure out my relationship with intimacy, survival, pleasure, and worth. I’m still learning how to carry the weight of my past without letting it dictate the future.

And maybe that’s the point. Maybe Ottawa wasn’t about sex at all. Maybe it was about confronting the versions of myself I keep tucked away:
the hustler, the caretaker, the wanderer, the one who craves touch, the one who resents needing it, the one who still believes in connection even after everything.

Ottawa wasn’t supposed to change me. But it did. And maybe that’s what cities are for. Not the architecture, not the landmarks, not the overpriced coffee. But the people you meet and the parts of yourself they wake up.