Written by Juztin Bello, Copy Editor
It’s a little after midnight. I’ve lost count of how many drinks I’ve had at this club, and I keep making too-intimate eye contact with semi-coherent, sweaty guys on the dance floor who can’t dance.
There’s one guy in particular who’s been on me the entire night. The guy in question, who has not-so-subtly been trying to pipe, grabs my waist from behind and sways me to a song I swear hasn’t changed in hours — and, you know, maybe I’m feeling something here . . . particularly against my lower back.
We dance together for a while, until he finally says something of actual interest that catches me off guard. I should have seen this coming, but when he sloppily screams over the music into my ear, “let’s go back to your place,” the thoughts start running:
- I kind of have to pee
- I think I just saw my friend pass me with a guy wearing an eyepatch . . . but this is my confessional, not hers
- I low-key want to get my back blown out by this guy, and I have maybe an hour’s window before I realize that this club-lighting nine is a bedroom-lighting three — so we’re sort of on a time crunch
- Going back to my place means a 30-minute trip to my suburban childhood home, where my parents, older brother, and pets are all most likely asleep
Yeah, that last thought is probably the most important, because it means this operation is certainly a bust. The only thing tonight that’s going to bust, apparently.
And this is the problem I’ve discovered since blooming into (I assume) my peak attractiveness: I want to bring guys home, but I risk my entire family hearing me get absolutely suplexed in the bedroom.
You know what, I’m about to say it: the housing crisis in Vancouver is RUINING my sex life.
This economy’s been dicking me down for long enough. I need something more.
Look: I’m a 7/10 in a 3/10 economy ready to, at this point, hook up with 5/10s any way I can. But unfortunately, my current living situation has been railing me pretty hard — and it’s the only thing that’s been railing me as of late.
For the privileged reader who is not vexed with the harsh cruelty of being too broke to bang, I offer this sentiment: imagine having a one-night-stand. The morning after Daddy pushed your lungs into your throat, you hear him run into Dad in the kitchen. As you lay in your own sweat, all you can hear is the two men sharing awkward small-talk. Anxiety grips your balls, the raw tenseness of calling out for your father and both men responding.
Then, picture explaining things to your dad in G-rated — and appropriately, completely fictional — terms. Elucidate for him how this ‘friend’ who ‘slept over’ is ‘someone from class,’ not some headless torso you’ve barely talked to and frankly can’t name.
Yeah . . . I’m at a point now where I refuse to let the economy continue to be the dom to my currently sub sex life. This economy’s been dicking me down for long enough. I need something more.
I’ve started experimenting with alternatives, like promiscuous late-night hook-ups in the woods — the wood is ALWAYS cold and the splinters are inevitable. I would just hook up with guys in cars, but sadly, gays don’t drive. Trust me, it’s a thing.
At this rate, I might have to make enough money to move out by following in the footsteps of the entrepeneurial gay pioneers before me: of course, I’m referring to creating an OnlyFans account.
Despite my alternatives and future business schemes, though, Vancouver is still basically one big cockblock city. This city really needs to do something about this housing crisis, because clearly it’s at fault for my flopping sex life. It’s not my flakiness with guys I agree to meet up with, the stale conversations I make no effort to fix on dating apps, my distrust with letting strangers into my family home, my shallowness, my insecurities, or my inability to be emotionally vulnerable.
Nope. Definitely the housing thing.