My Boys

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I’ve been in Vienna, Austria for ten days, visiting good friends. It’s been super relaxing, and has put a hold on the sexual adventures. It’s nice to have the mental space to just reflect on everything that’s been happening since I moved to Europe, but even more so, to reflect on my life prior to this year abroad.

Living in the #metoo era, we are continuously bombarded with the horrific assault stories of women, and rightfully so. These things need to be spoken about. It’s 2018 and the patriarchy has yet to crumble back to baseline: equal ground.

But that isn’t what this post is about. I’ve covered my feelings on this topic in the RAF Series: Rape vs. Education, and although it is a topic that should be revisited regularly, I wanted to take a different approach this week.

It is both Men’s Health Month and Pride Month. It is a time to celebrate the men in our life, whether they be cis men, non-binary individuals that are/were possessing biologically male components, those who identify as male or masculine, and everyone in between. As well, it is our time to celebrate ourselves, and our diverse sexualities and genders.

I am a cis woman. I can range from hyper-femme to “tom-boy,” depending on the day. I am heteroflexible, sometimes questioning bisexuality; I am in love with a man, and seeking a woman (specifically for him, but am willing to have fun myself!). I am proud. In the celebration of both my sexuality and men’s health, I have decided to do something we rarely see in the media (drum roll please):

Speak about my POSITIVE sexual experiences with men! Whaaaaa!!!??? I’ll speak about four in particular (although I’ve had more). Here we go…

Country Boy Beginnings

From Thor to Jersey Boys, I’ve had my range of gentlemen. The first being a country boy from my hometown.

He was my first boyfriend, my first love. Together we had our “sexual debut.” I’ll never forget the first time. We were in the basement of his parents house. We had been speaking about doing it for a little while, and when his mother came down and said, “your father and I are leaving. We’ll be back soon. Will you two be okay here by yourselves?”, we knew it was the moment.
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I don’t remember being too nervous. He was my best friend at the time. The only detail we hadn’t decided on was…who would be on top!?

I somehow picked the short straw, but that was okay. I trusted him. It was exciting. We used a condom. We went slow. He was very attentive. Like most people’s sexual debuts, I don’t recall an explosion of pleasure, as we were more or less trying to figure out how to navigate through it (I had just turned 15); however, the caring and sensitivity is something a girl doesn’t forget.

After that moment we basically fucked like rabbits, anywhere and as often as possible. We had sex in the snow; on top of the school; we did it in other people’s bedrooms at parties I wasn’t supposed to be attending (my parents were very strict); we even did it in this gross little wooden outhouse at a park near my parents’ house.

We were young, we were careful, and we were in love. During sex one afternoon – again in his parents’ basement, with me on top – I had felt a pressure moments into penetration. It felt like something had popped. It didn’t hurt, so I kept going. Suddenly I felt incredibly wet. My boyfriend and I glanced down at the same time, then shot horrified looks at each other. Something within me had clearly tore, and it suddenly looked like he was wearing red high-waisted shorts.

There was blood everryyywhhheerreee! From his belly-button to his mid-thigh.

I wasn’t sure what to do, I just sat there in this ambivalent state of, “should I be embarrassed, should I get something to clean him – damnit I’m so horny…” and as if he read my mind he asked, “Are you okay?” I nodded. “You feel fine?” I nodded again. “Do you want to stop?” I shook my head. And then we kept going in that wonderful, bloody mess. Shame dissipated, lust deepened, and we carried on.

I spent three years with this guy. To this day, I remember how easily he made me laugh. He was fun, energetic, always seeing the good. We broke up over our differences. We were very young. I don’t regret a thing, and I hope he doesn’t either, for that relationship was the building block for my sexuality and self confidence.

The Returning Thor

Yes, I had sex with a man who looked like Thor. Now, before you go dreaming up Chris Hemsworth, I want you to imagine your teenage bad boy fantasy: the guy who was rebellious, wild, undomesticated, looking for the next rush…

That guy. The one that made your blood boil, your heart pound, your vagina ache with wanting!

That was him. Thor.

The first time I had sex with Thor, I was quite young. I hate to admit it, but I had cheated on the Country Boy with Thor when I was sixteen years old (genuinely sorry for the pain I caused. I said I didn’t regret anything, but I regret having hurt you!).

There’d always been a spark – some sort of pull to each other.
During a brief moment of single life (serial monogamist here), my best girlfriend at the time (we’ll call her Chrissy) and I were partying with Thor and a few other friends. We all lived in walking distance from each other. Thor and I had been flirting all night from across the bonfire. Our eyes would meet, our hearts would pound, and then our gaze would slip off, as we were coaxed into some separate conversation. Something about him always excited me, and it was quite overwhelming on this particular night. The problem was …he was leaving the following day.

Moving out west. With no intention of coming back.

As drinks were poured, and music played, I had learned Chrissy’s father was out of town for the night. I couldn’t help myself. If anything were to happen between us again, that was the moment.

I don’t quite remember the vivid details: just two bodies, floating through the darkness of that quiet street, giggling and touching one another. When we entered Chrissy’s house, we wasted no time. I lead him to her bedroom. Our clothes were off in seconds.

I recall our heavy breathing, moaning, kissing…us tangled up in blankets and each other. That spark I had always felt came to life, then erupted into an inferno. Our bodies discovering fire for the first time.

When it was over, we’d collapsed onto one another, spent. And he played with my hair, as I laid on his chest in silence. There was nothing to say. He would leave, and I would carry on. And that was okay. Because we had that moment.

As we reached the early hours of the morning, he hesitantly got dressed. He had to go home and finish packing. He asked if I wanted to walk back to the party with him. I told him no, I would stay in bed. The details are vague; perhaps I’m exaggerating some points, and not giving enough credit to others …but I remember this for sure:

As I sat up to watch his body leave the room, he turned to look at me one last time. He paused before returning to my side. I could feel he didn’t want to go. Not then at least. But he kissed my forehead and said, “god, you’re beautiful,” then walked out. My heart fluttered, and I fell asleep that night smiling and dreaming of a blonde haired boy I may never see again.

But I didn’t title this The Returning Thor for nothing. Years passed, and after the messiest breakup I’d ever had with another partner, Thor and I reconnected for two intense weeks.

From the moment the first message was sent, I felt that initial pull I’d had all those years ago. When we finally met in person, again, there were no expectations, but just as much heat. Although, I was surprised to find that I was sad to watch him go the second time around.

We’re still in touch today, talking on occasion (if you’re reading this, hello!); and I know if I ever return to my hometown, he’d be the type of guy I could call up to have a beer with, and everything would be normal and peaceful and friendly.

I think I’ll always be grateful for that aspect. We never took anything from each other. We simply gave ourselves, and that’s it. No one asked for more. Those moments were beautiful, wild, and enough. He taught me to be free, to enjoy the moment for what it was, and to understand that sex isn’t the destruction of friendship.

The Celtic in the City

I met him at a bar in New York City.

I had been traveling with one of my best friends, and we found this club called Circus. It was exactly what it sounded like: drag queens, people on stilts, acrobats, a dubstep rock show, and a tattoo parlour…four floors of beautiful chaos.

He was working in the calmer part of the club – an area that was laid out more like a sports bar.. Once we spotted him (and he spotted us), we were all hooked on each other. I remember free drinks, putting money in his pants, and exchanging numbers. I hadn’t thought much of it until the next evening when he invited Kat and I out. He and his roommate knew of a quiet little bar that’d be perfect for the four of us to get more acquainted.

The night started with Kat selecting the song “I’m Gonna Be” by The Proclaimers from the juke box in the corner, and performing it to the rest of us; belting out the lyrics in her pitchy, drunken voice; all of us laughing so hard we could barely breathe – she’s always been a good ice breaker. And before leaving that night, he kissed me; opening the door to some crazy, short lived adventure.

After Kat and I returned to Canada, the Celtic (TC) and I continued talking. I was, again, going through a breakup (a common theme of mine), and my ex at the time was overwhelming me with messages, letters and emails. I knew he was hurting, but I also knew I couldn’t be there for him. It was painful for me, too. After a few weeks of dealing with that drama, I decided to leave the count

ry.

My sister had been living in NYC, and I told work I wouldn’t be back for two weeks. I didn’t know what would happen. I wasn’t holding onto anything. There was no agenda. I simply wanted to see my sister, and clear my head. If I saw TC, fine. If not, that was fine, too.

I went out with a very diverse and artistic group of my sister’s friends (actors, musicians, models, the works). I was feeling refreshed. My sister knew about TC and once her friends learned of his whereabouts, as naturally dramatic individuals, started were swooning over the idea of me just showing up at his work. After some convincing, we all headed to Circus.

Through conversation I knew he was working that evening, although he wasn’t on the floor Kat and I had found him the first time. He was on the top level, in the ballroom.

I wore a masquerade mask to disguise myself. It wasn’t abnormal for this place. My sister and her friends watched me, full of encouragement and giggles. When I leaned against the bar, he glanced over, and I took off my mask. He froze in place for one beat…then took my face in his hands and kissed me. I could hear my sister and her friends squealing somewhere off in the distance.

From there, I spent the two weeks between his place and my sister’s. He played the piano as I sang along, we listened to music, watched Always Sunny in Philadelphia, smoked weed, and had sex…in his bed, in the living room, in the shower, on the bathroom floor. Everywhere. He whispered things to me, “you taste good,” “I’m really enjoying getting to know you,” “I want to make you come…” (over and over again).

Our conversations were hot, deep, and the time was flying. He took me to this beautiful Brazilian restaurant, where I learned about his family, and he listened to my dream of being a well known author. The air between us was electric.

He would come and visit me in Canada, specifically Niagara Falls. And he would get sick. At the end of our extended weekend together, whereby he was mainly bedridden, I’d hug him goodbye, and worry about him all the way home. I would find out later that he almost went into a diabetic coma, and was unable to communicate for some time. And slowly by slowly we lost touch. It was his decision.

I hear he is better now. Healthy again. And even though it was a short story, it was a powerful one. I learned very quickly the kind of passion I needed in a long term partner, whenever I would be ready for one again. He was fun, sexy, smart, artistic, humble, and caring. He enjoyed taking care of my pleasure, and exploring each other both mentally and physically. He was a dream come true during those moments. We would speak once more about two years later, but only briefly through social media. He seemed happy, and he had pictures of a beautiful blonde woman on his arm. It made me smile.

There are colourful people everywhere. I like to believe that the majority of us humans have good hearts. When you have wonderful moments with wonderful people, it makes life worthwhile, even if those moments don’t last. Sometimes they aren’t meant to…

The Frenchman

Just for a moment I won’t call J my Master…

Because he’s so much more than that. He is my rock. He is patient, compassionate, and fair. He sees me for me, nothing less, nothing more. That is a gift. We have our own world between the sheets – a world my readers are very familiar with. It’s violent, it’s raw, it’s accepting…but most of all, it’s built on love, trust, and of course, consent.

J, my fiance, my best friend, is a man who I can rely on; a man who was honest from the moment I met him, and has remained so ever since. Our relationship is untoxic, it’s transparent, it’s respectful. Yes, even in the bedroom. BDSM gets a bad rap, because from the outside it looks abusive, when on the inside, the basic structure is the exact opposite. There is communication – it is the key to this lifestyle; there are check-ins; focus on body language, breath, words (when the mouth is unobstructed, of course), and there is aftercare.

The discussion never ends with J. The adventure never ends with J. The love never ends with J. The space to express ourselves is never closed. There is no judgement because we are our own human. We allow each other to want things, to explore our own minds and being, without the feeling of betraying the other. Does that mean we always fulfill the fantasies in our heads? Of course not, because even if we can express things to each other, we respect the boundaries of our relationship. We know what is harmful and what isn’t, and we understand our relationship is worth more than some momentary gratification – whatever it may be. We have boundaries that are specific to us, to our needs, to our love and to our sexuality.

J is balance.

With him, my confidence is not challenged; expectations are realistic; we bask in the moments together, and plan for the future; no topic is off limits; and the passion between us is unprecedented.

The universe has gifted me with some amazing experiences; with some amazing men. Some who remain friends, some who will remain a piece of my past, and another whom I’ll spend the rest of my life with.

We all have our own stories, our own experiences (both good and bad), our own desires, dreams, identities…

And this week, I hope you can look at yourself and all of these elements with appreciation, compassion and self love (and add some forgiveness in there, if it’s required). We are all just living the way we know how, the best we can. So here’s to all of you, to all of the men that have come in and out of my life and yours; to all of those who fight for the rights of others; for all of those standing up for their freedom; for all of those who love unconditionally, regardless of shape, size, colour, and orientation…

Pride = Unity.

Pride = Understanding and celebrating your differences, while simultaneously understanding and celebrating the human next to you, with all of theirs.

Happy Pride, Happy Health…


What’s one of your most memorable, positive experiences with a past lover?

Until next time,

Fuck-well, friends!

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