O Hot Men, Where Art Thou?

I watched “Love Actually” for the first time this holiday season, and Colin (featured above) the down and out bachelor who heads to America with hopes of finding love had the best storyline, and was maybe a little too relatable for myself.

My dating life as a whole might very well be comparable to the tremendous 24 book length saga that is Homer’s Odyssey. My dating life this time last year however...may have been better summed up in the form of haiku.

My vibrator died
Remember to recharge it
Mommy is horny

I’d taken a deliberate step back from the incredibly taxing hobby that is metropolitan dating to reconnect with myself, attend to my health, and focus on work. By the time I’d finished every available episode of Bachelor In Paradise, and decided I was finally ready to get back in the game—I realized that I had no idea where to start. I was done with dating apps, tired of Diplo’s constant attempts on Raya, I wanted to meet people face-to-face which was difficult for a newly converted homebody. I considered loitering outside of hockey rinks and pool halls, calling up that one third cousin I’d always thought was kind of cute. It seemed to me that every semi-decent man in Toronto was some combination of taken, gay, or working in finance (while the first two have some wiggle room, the third was utterly unacceptable).

The solution seemed obvious—if you can’t bring the hotties to Mohammed, take Mohammed to the hotties (I wonder if Mohammed is single…). My home city wasn’t giving me what I needed, so I needed to look elsewhere. Like Odysseus’ 10 year voyage home to Ithaca, I set out on an extended trip through Europe to reconnect with family, gain creative inspiration, and maybe even find love (or at least some passable dick). I encountered many men on my perilous journey through the Schengen region, but did I find my one and only? Well that’s none of your business nosy, but I can tell you about some of the hot blokes who didn’t make the cut—let’s break it down.

Ash With The Stash:

At 5am Jules and I boarded a ferry to shuttle us from one heartbreakingly stunning Greek island to another. We were barely a week into our trip and I already hadn’t slept in 48 hours, or properly eaten in 24, as at the time beach sex seemed more important (note: sand in crevices that sand should never be, but still kind of epic). It was while sitting on the top deck, in the full blast zone of the sun we’d just watched come up, that I realized how prone to seasickness I was.

Soon three guys around our age were climbing up to our deck, and I was trying to signal to Jules how we should make friends with them. They looked like the type who rode fixed-gear bikes, and likely owned an entire wardrobe of Arc’Teryx apparel. I’d mentally called dibs on the one covered in tattoos, and rocking a 70’s pornstar-esque moustache. Now convinced I was going to hurl, I ran down to the lower level where moustache boy was already exiting the sole bathroom.

“Hey I like your ink!” I don’t think I’d ever uttered the term ink in my life, but the words just spilt out of me like my digestive tract was about to.

“Oh thanks,” he said rotating his shirtless torso so I could have a better look, “I can show you the artist if you like?”

“Yeah that’d be great! I’ll be right up,” I said before crouching over the prison style toilet and shoving my fingers down my throat to no avail, as my stomach lacked any contents to upchuck. I climbed back up the stairs, passing right by Jules, and plopped myself down next to the boys, “So show me this artist!”

Moustache boy’s name was Ash. Him and his friends were from Australia. He handed me his phone with the tattoo artist’s Instagram profile open, “Feel free to follow yourself too.” Not too bad for a girl running on empty, huh?

We exhausted conversation topics quickly (they kind of seemed like dicks honestly), and I had very little energy to give, so went back to Jules to whom I could openly describe my nausea. We got off a stop earlier than the Aussies, and received an unenthusiastic goodbye from them. Ash unfollowed me a week later on social media, but it was probably by accident and seems irrelevant to the story.

Hot Priest:

While in Rome, at some grand museum housing a plethora of ancient sculpted peen, I saw a hot priest wandering with some of his priest friends. They were in full garb, it was straight out of a “Fleabag” season 2 fantasy! We had no interaction, though our connection probably would’ve been doomed anyhow, so it’s all for the best.

Hot Priest played by Andrew Scott in Season 2 of “Fleabag”

Sexy Cab Driver:

Our last night in Rome Jules and I attended THE celeb hotspot, that I’d learned about from one of those interviews on YouTube where they play with puppies. The club was terribly chic, completely outdoors—and entirely empty when we arrived at 8pm. For hours we sat helping ourselves to the many refills of complementary charcuterie and water poured for us from glass bottles. Eventually guests began trickling in after midnight and the music got going. We were dancing harder than anyone else, attempting to make the most of our night, when a sudden storm struck and all of the guests scattered.

We ran in our best packed outfits for the nearest bus stop while rain pelted us. The lights of an approaching cab were now visible through the haze, and Jules flagged it down. The driver spoke no English and communicated with us through Google Translate on his phone. He explained that he had another customer to pick up in the complete opposite direction to where we were going, but felt like he couldn’t just leave us in the rain.

As we drove on, completely drenching his back seats, I realized this guy was kind of a babe. I texted this to Jules next to me who pointed out that he was wearing a ring. When we were finally dropped off I thanked the driver and told him he was very attractive. 30 seconds later while climbing our rental’s steps we heard a Google Translate response.

“Thank you, you are very kind.”

TJ With The K:

While at a massive electronic music festival in Berlin, that I’d stumbled upon, I had lost track of all of my new friends. Now in a dark basement awkwardly bopping along to a bassy DJ set, trying to have fun and look vaguely cool, an English guy came up behind me.

“Excuse me, but why is everything you do so disgustingly sexy?”

“Haha...I dunno...” I was unsure whether I was being complimented or insulted.

“Do you want some Ketamine?”

“That’s okay, thanks!”

“You sure? I’ve got loads!”

“I’m good. I’ve just lost some friends who are from Manchester, is that where you’re from?”

“Manchester?! Are you trying to insult me—I’m from London.”

“Oh...excuse me,” trying to pretend like all of their funny voices didn’t sound exactly the same to me.

“Listen, do you want to go to a rave in the woods?”

I know that when a strange man, high off his rocker, asks you to go to the middle of the forest with him your answer should usually be no—but I was in Berlin!

“Is it close?...” I inquired tentatively.

“Not at all.”

In the end I stayed at the festival, but I still wonder what it would have been like if I’d gone, and what ever happened to TJ. Probably dead in the middle of the woods somewhere.

Michael B. Jordan’s Acquaintances

TJ had emerged from a group of English guys standing behind me. Besides the appealing accent these guys were all pretty cute, and I decided to cling on to them. There was Oli who was very tall, very good looking, and very boring. There was Liam, this sweetie who did sound production in London, who had mentioned a film he was currently working on with Michael B. Jordan. It was this that made me stop in my tracks. I knew I’d be in London in a few weeks time, and it would be really nice to have some friends to show me around…Plus, in the moment, it really felt like if I played my cards right I could very well be part of an orgy with Michael B. Jordan.

Soon I was double riding on the back of a Lime scooter, headed towards the Brits rental.

“I don’t have any condoms but do you do anal?” Things between Liam and I didn’t end up working out in the end.

(*For legal reasons I can not disclose further details of the night I may or may not have spent with Michael B.)

Awooogah! Boing-oing-oing-oing! Honk Honk! ^_^

Zaddy Cole

In four hours time it would be my birthday, and I was eating a grocery store salad on a street curb alone. Technically it wasn’t my birthday yet, and I was still in Edinburgh surrounded by beautiful architecture—oh fuck it, this was bloody depressing. I saw a group of guys, one of them particularly handsome, across the road and thought if I couldn’t put myself out there while abroad on the eve of my birthday, I’d never be able to.

“Hey boys, where can a girl go for a good time around here?” Friends have since told me that my approach may have given the wrong idea, but I got no complaints.

“Well we’re all going to the pub, but you’re welcome to join.”

The pub seemed to be the last stop on their run club’s route, as I was suddenly surrounded by a couple dozen Scots in spandex. The group had quite naturally divided up in to guys and girls, but I mainly stuck with Mr. Hottie. His name was Cole (famously my least favourite male name—I never understood why parents would name their child after something you get in your stocking when you’re naughty), but he was cute so it didn’t matter. He was a true Scot, I could barely understand a word he said so instead just gazed in to his striking blue eyes and imagined our life together.

It came up that the next day was my birthday, and he told me that he’d have to make me a birthday haggis to celebrate. After hanging out with his friends for awhile he asked if he could walk me home. We finally got to the front door of my Airbnb where I just hugged him and told him it was nice to meet him. He was wonderful, but I’d made the decision that I wanted to be on my own when the clock struck midnight on my next year.

I ended up finding him on social media. Turned out he had a five-year-old son he’d forgotten to mention, and as I’m not quite in the place to be a step mum yet, it’s probably best it didn’t go any further.

Like Odysseus’ encounters with Cyclops’ and Sirens, I faced ketamine addicts, priests, and single dads on my hunt for sexual compatibility. The verdict on hot men is in—and they definitely still exist, even if they are at times difficult to pin down. A whirlwind of guys, it feels now like I may have dreamt them all up. Did I die on that first Greek island, and been dead this whole time? Orgies with Michael B. does sound like heaven to me...

By the time I left Europe my love life haiku had evolved to something more akin to:

Need STI test
Yeast infection is still here
Thank god not the clap