from the archives - my date with a webcam

Hello lovers! These last few months at the restaurant have been so insane in the membrane, my writing career has taken a serious blow. Although, I haven't had time to update you properly about the trouble I am getting myself in to - I promise I soon will! In the meantime I can no longer handle reading such a devastating post. Seriously! Below is a column I wrote for a local magazine a few years back, I figured I'd share it with you folks until I get some fresh material! Lot's of love and inappropriate thoughts, Rugged Fox.

my date with a webcam
published: lov, issue #6, april-june 2010

My bank account ravaged by the Olympics, I decided it best to stay home last Saturday night with a cheap bottle of red wine. Except left alone to my internet connection, it was not long before I was digging out my credit card number and signing-up for hot web-cam sex with a Russian.

Refilling my wine glass before entering into a private chat with him, I screamed when he sent me the first message that said “hello.” Aged 24, he had short brown hair, thick black-rimmed glasses and cost $2.49 a minute. Checking to see if anyone was behind me (my natural reaction whenever a shirtless man acknowledges my existence) I took another sip of wine and typed the only word I could think of at the time: hi.

Switching him to full screen, I watched as he flexed his biceps before and feeling my face turn red, thought to myself, what have I just done?

Typing “I am new at this,” I watched a smile stream immediately across his face. Not used to taking the driver’s seat on such occasions, I then questioned him “what do men usually ask you to do?”

Returning his keyboard to his lap, he answered without any hesitation, “dance. touch.or just to talk.” It was clear that what he lacked in basic sentence structure, he made for in upper body muscle. Questioning me right afterwards as to whether I just wanted to shoot the breeze with him, I replied “most definitely not.” After all, I might be shy, but not when my credit card is being charged.

“Then how about we play a game,” he suggested.

“What kind of game?” I asked, slightly blushing and totally intrigued.

“Role-playing … I will be Harry Potter.”

Stopping myself short from spitting my wine across the screen, it struck me at that moment that, minus a lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead, he looked exactly the infamous wizard except much older and substantially more legal. Sitting with his jeans unbuckled, he was like an X-rated version of Harry Potter, who puts himself through school by taking off his robes online.

“I am a redhead,” I typed assertively into the keyboard. “I will be Ron.” To my complete surprise, I was more than willing to play along in his wild Hogwarts fantasy. Wasting no time getting into character, I got right to the heart of my motivation and asked him, “What if Ron wants to see Harry without his trousers on?”

Gliding off his mattress with perfection precision and technique, he stood up and began to remove his pants one inch at a time. My face as red as my hair, I never realized undressing so slowly could be so hot. Covering my eyes with both hands, I peeked through the space in between my fingers and vowed never to take off my pants so fast again. Returning to his pillow moments later with nothing but a pair of baby-blue briefs on, he asked me if I wanted to see what he could do with his magic wand.

Nodding my head at the same time as saying the word “yes,” I completely forgot that he couldn’t see or hear me. Scrambling my fingers back to home row, I started typing the first two letters of my affirmation when the most horrific sound started blaring out from my speakers. At first I thought it was a police siren, but then I realized it was something much, much worse: a warning that I was running out of time.

Beginning to panic, I finished the third letter of my message and hit send as fast as I could. Fearing I might not get the chance to see his magic stick in time, I tried to impress upon him the urgency of my situation. But alas it was too late, and just as all my dorm-room fantasies were about to come true, the screen switched off and left me with nothing but a tempestuous link to buy more minutes. Deciding I had enough addictions as it is, I opened another bottle of red wine and started to think about what had just - unfortunately for me - went down.

Reflecting on my somewhat-debatable innocence, it occurred to me that in my twenty-four years on this planet I had not been to a strip club once; but in the span of seventeen minutes I had managed to officially become a John laying my money out on the table. Under any other circumstances, like for instance actual ones, I’m not sure I could have done it: paid another person to touch themselves in front of me. Of course with enough gin I find anything is possible, but then again, did I just do exactly that?

If it’s true that the world-wide-web has become the wild-wild-west of our time, where anything and everything goes, then can any of us truly be held accountable for our actions online?

Surfing through the 1,200 cam-models that were online earlier that night, at no point did I feel like what I was doing, could be in anyway considered as ‘wrong.’ To my surprise, it turned out that a large number of the models listed their sexual orientation as straight: a profile descriptor that dissuaded me from entering their private chat. Sean Cody may be one thing, but paying a heterosexual to privately strip for me just seemed like an automatic loss on my investment. Of course to each their own, but at the very least I expect to be given the financial freedom to suspend my disbelief on the matter. I you want to be a straight, unavailable hockey player, then I will make that call, not you.

When it comes to paying for sex in real life, at least we still have a choice in who we hand our money to. Whether it is the under-age teenager on the side of the street, or the professional escort with the unheard of hourly rate, we are conscious of what we are getting ourselves into. However, when it comes to buying sex online, the truth is, we haven’t the slightest clue. Because when it comes right down to it, I don’t know whether that 21-year old Caucasian with the terrible spelling is legal or not, or if that 25-year-old straight Latin American will “do it all in private” because he wants to, or because he has no other choice.

Personal, private and professional prostitution has been around as long as people have had some means to pay for it. Virtual escort agencies have only started to establish themselves on the internet, and already there are thousands online and millions more men racing to sign-up. The question then begins, where do we go from here? Will we end up policing the internet like we do our city streets? And if so, how do we overcome the fact that the internet is boundless – and that North American law on sex-trafficking might be different than European, Chinese or Latin American legislation? Time will only tell.

Returning to meet up with my Russian Harry Potter in his free chat later that night, I advised him that I would save up my pennies at the coffee shop for the next time we got together. Of course now I know in the future just to cut straight to the magic wand and screw the whole exposition part.

Don't Cry for Me British Colombia

Netflix, Netflix and more Netflix.

Do you ever have a moment when you step outside yourself, take a sip from an existential glass of wine and say, “how did I get here?” I did last Friday night when it occurred to me that my relationship was over.

This summer got off to such a fabulous start! I met a man for the first time in five years. He was sweet, kind and gentle. I met him for drinks after he left his number for me at the restaurant and the two of us hit it off right away. He lived two blocks away from me, worked full-time at a health foods store, and looked like a Calvin Klein model without any clothes on.

The beginning of our relationship marked the start of a new life for me. The day after our first date, I clocked in as a manager for the first time at the restaurant. In the space of 24 hours, my entire existence changed. My work week doubled from 25 hours to 50. My best friendships with servers, built up over several glasses of wine and maintained over a thousand games of cards, took a fatal blow.

By the end of June I had moved in to a brand new apartment downtown. Packing all my belongings in the back of a Uhaul truck I changed my address to Vancouver’s prized West End. 400 Square Feet at a bargain $3.50 per foot, I moved on to the 12^th floor of a brand new apartment building, with a granite marble top counter and a bachelor view of the ocean and mountains.

In August, I barely recognized myself. I had a new-found confidence that I hadn’t experienced since I came out. Working nine day stretches averaging eleven hours a day, I convinced myself that I was Michael Ross in Suits. I walked to work everyday with a dress shirt, tie and my laptop strung around my left shoulder. I prided myself in working hard, and crossed my fingers every night that I’d one day see the results of my labour.

In September, I had a revelation. It was my first day off in ages and it was approximately 10:05am when it occurred to me I had absolutely nothing to do with myself. I hadn’t seen the Polish Prince in weeks because our schedules could never quite match (we went eight straight weeks without sharing one mutual day off). My social life did not fare much better. Whatever friends I did have remaining I managed to see less than the Prince. I walked to the water with a tall cup of Starbucks and said to myself, “I have the fabulous job, boyfriend and apartment and I have never been so lonely in my life.”

At the beginning of October, the daytime manager at the restaurant quit and with one phone call, like the season, my entire life changed yet again. I set my alarm for 6:00am the following morning, and began my new position working Monday to Friday. “I barely saw you before, but now I am never going to see you,” said the Polish Prince over the phone when I told him the news. “I know,” was all I could reply.

Careers are funny that way. The faster you advance in one direction of your life, the faster you fall behind in every other.

The rain was pouring when I took the elevator down to let him in the front door on Friday night. Usually the ride back up was filled with a gigantic hug and a kiss to match. This time I stood on one side of the box and he stood on the other. Inside my apartment he walked straight to look outside my windows. From the tiny specks of flashing lights in West Vancouver to the full bay windows of the skyscraper next door, he loved the urban view.

I took a seat on one side of the couch and he took a seat on the other. I sipped a glass of Australian shiraz like it was a pint of apple cider vinegar. I told him that I rented Sarah Polley’s film “Take this Waltz” and asked him if he wanted to watch it. Ten minutes in to the film I edged closer to him. I knew it was over but I didn’t want it to be. Thirty minutes and I had managed to wrap myself in his arms. Starring Michelle Williams and Seth Rogen, the Canadian film told the story of a relationship that had run its course, and I was living it.

By the end of the film, I had finished half my glass of red wine and was in as much denial as a redhead can be. I crawled in to bed with a simple intention, “let’s forget about talking, let’s just go to sleep like we always do.” When he didn’t follow, I knew it was time to face the music. I turned on my iPod which was a major mistake. Set to Shuffle Mode, every song magically turned in to Adele. For Fuck’s Sake, I thought, I couldn’t have scored this scene better.

 “What do you think?” he kept asking me. “I think I want to fight to save this relationship,” I kept replying. When it was clear he was ready to raise the white flag I had no choice but to do the same. Our love was still alive but our relationship had flat-lined. D-N-R. You can’t shock a person back to life if they don’t want to wake up.  “Well if that’s it,” I said out loud, “then I guess that’s it. If you’re not coming to bed with me then you might as well go.” It was 2:00am. I watched him put on his shoes and exit through the door. No kiss, no hug, no goodbye.

Standing inside my empty apartment, I stepped outside myself, took an existential sip of wine, and asked, “how did I get here?”

I turned the light on in the washroom. I looked at myself in the mirror, again no recognition. When it was clear he was not coming back I threw his toothbrush out in the garbage. After my first major relationship ended, I spent so many days of my life heartbroken I vowed I would never do it again. This time I am taking a page from Eckhart Tolle instead of Bridget Jones. No more cigarettes, just deep breaths.

I am grateful for the time the Polish Prince and I spent together: every smile, every laugh, every argument. Now it is my job to pick myself up, dust myself off, and start all over again. No one said this year was going to be easy. I am stronger for it.