Sex is not a prop act: A Canadian comic embarks on sexual journey. She returns alone.

When it comes to the ‘act of sex’ itself, I’ve always been a fan of the adage ‘hey man – whatever gets you off.’ As long as nobody gets hurt that doesn’t want to get hurt what you do to get some pleasure in your life is your business. Everyone has their story. I’ve done my own dabbling on the fuzzy edges of pain and pleasure, male and female, elation and degradation – but there are plenty of things I haven’t done. As a matter of fact, I’m quite sure there is a world of sexual fantasies and realties out there that my little brain couldn’t even fathom.

In the category of ‘things I haven’t done’ (far less interesting I know) – I have never wielded a strap-on dildo. Sure, it’s crossed my mind that it might be fun – given the right situation, right person, right mixture of ‘we’ll-never-speak-of-this-again’ and ‘we’ll-laugh-about-this later’, but I haven’t found myself there yet. I also know there are some avenues in life I just won’t let myself walk down. I’m too scared to let myself know what that’s like. It’s the reason I haven’t tried a strap-on, shot heroin or disowned my family. I might just really like it. I mean really – if you haven’t tried it and you’re a girl, imagine realizing that having a plastic penis strapped to your abdomen unlocks that door in your soul that has been housing a 700 piece orchestra playing harmonies that carry you on a path of pleasure you’ve never known before. You can’t go back to hearing just a C Major chord after that. I really don’t know if I could live with that knowledge. Even if there is only a 0.0001% probability of that happening – it’s too chancey for me. Then again – never say never. I’ve already come a long long way.

I was 23 when I met Mickey. Mickey is a spark in my relationship history because he challenged me. He listened to cooler music than me, read cooler books, knew of cooler movies. He was also into kinky sex. At the time, a ‘69’ sounded pretty racy to me, but I was open and willing to try almost anything. Mickey and I were young and in love and all I wanted to do was make him happy.

Mickey took me on a vacation to San Francisco. After enjoying the audio tour of Alcatraz, he suggested we go to the city’s famous sex store Good Vibrations. I had some reservations. I had never been to a sex store before and certainly didn’t own any sex toys. I didn’t see the point of going to browse. Plus, I was happy with my sexual history being 100% working with what you’ve got.

It was time to break my perfect record.

I found Good Vibrations to be very comfortable for a sex store. The atmosphere reminded me of a perky spring display at a make-up counter. Even huge plastic veiny dildos look fun and natural to me. Their smiley staff made GAP workers look stiff and unfriendly.

Mickey told me to pick out anything I wanted and he would buy it. Part of me wanted to yell, "but honey – all I want is you!" Instead, with some hesitation and help from the enthusiastic sales girl, we dropped about $300. We walked away with the ‘jewel vibrator’ in tasteful silver, a sparkly butt plug, a purple shiny dildo, some anal beads, and 2 ostrich feathers.

I was petrified.

I put all the toys in a Chinese silk box by our bed and firmly latched the lid. But Mickey wanted to put them into action immediately. I consented. It was time to get over my fear of the unknown. We started with the ostrich feathers and slowly moved our way up the sex toy food chain. Soon every sexual performance involved a prop act. I admit I enjoyed it for the most part, but the other part of me yearned for good ol’ basic sex. I don’t care what anyone says, it’s hard to "make love" with anal beads up your ass.

My fantasies turned from naughty job interviews that involved kinky sex to gentle kissing and climaxing in the missionary position. It’s true - you always want what you can’t have.

Mickey had it in his head that he wanted a ‘golden shower’. Now if you are into this – good for you – again, I support you and anything you want to do in the name of getting off. For me personally, I just can’t get my head around how peeing on someone, or being the pee-recipient could possibly be sexy or sensual. My bank statements provide all the humiliation and degradation I need. Needless to say, regardless of my love for Mickey and his numerous requests, I just couldn’t work myself up to a ‘golden shower.’

For all the wacky sex we did have, the most memorable moment I had with those sex toys was when Mickey and I broke up. I had moved to Toronto from Vancouver and Mickey came to visit me. We were still hanging on to our relationship by a fraying thread. I think we both knew that his visit was going to have an inevitable outcome. The second he arrived and we were together it started falling apart. Mickey read my journal that exposed some feelings I had for someone else and he used that as the main reason we should end it. Fair enough – there was no trust left now.


It was an epic break-up. We yelled at each other. We sweared at each other. We insulted each other. We cried. And then we yelled and sweared and insulted again. It was horrible. It all climaxed with an I-believe-this-is-yours throwing session. I threw a necklace he gave me at him, he replied with a shirt I gave him. I threw the camera that he gave me as a going away gift (I still think about that camera); he threw a bottle of expensive wine I optimistically picked up in the Napa Valley for our 1-year anniversary (it smashed on the floor). Finally, when I felt the butt plug ricochet off my forehead, I knew that it was definitely O-V-E-R.

He finally left my apartment with his things, swearing at me the whole way out until the door slammed. I looked at the wreckage around me of torn photos, destroyed love notes, broken glass and the sex toys. I’d like to say I planted myself in middle and cried, but I was beyond crying.

I was hysterical.

I finally put myself together, grabbed a garbage bag and started to gather all the ruins of my challenging relationship gone wrong. I looked at those beads and plugs on the floor and wondered what to do with them. I mean they were expensive and looked practically brand new. Could I bring them to my next relationship? Would I have a next relationship? Would I have to boil them? Would someone else be cool with second hand sex toys? Is it something I could donate to The Salvation Army? I’d have to hide them in a bag of clothes. Is there a sex toy recycling program? There should be.

I decided they would just go in the trash. I was done with kinky sex. I wanted a normal life again. It all went in the bag as fast as I could get it in there along with every, and I mean every, item that even reminded me slightly of the relationship. I refused to think about it too much while I was doing it and walked that bag out to the dumpster behind my apartment building as fast as I could.

After I hoisted it into the trash, I started to head back. Something came over me and I felt the need to turn around and look at the remains of my love lost. There, sticking out of the bag proudly and gleaming in the moonlight, was the ‘jewel vibrator in tasteful silver’.

I wanted to break into song as part of the twisted musical that was my life that night. I wanted to sing about the metal dick in the trash that was all I have left to remind me of the dick who left me. I went back to my apartment, noticed that he forgot to take the bottle of Glen Livet, threw on my Alanis Morrisette CD (Canadian), and sat on my balcony staring at the night. I stayed there until dawn watching the summer sky cloud over, darken and turn to rain. Seeing rain when you’re in a state of melancholy is so calming. It’s like the weather understands.

Much like the last scene in many movies, I stood on the balcony with my face
up to the sky, feeling raindrops on my face. It was my first golden shower.