life – Page 2

Summer Loving: M.’s Story

27 September, 2025Leave a comment

I’ve always been a hopeless romantic.
And I don’t mean that metaphorically, I literally used to choose Hopeless Romantic as my personality trait on The Sims. Back when I still thought that picking it would somehow make my characters have sex faster. Not in real life.
At the time, I didn’t fully get what it meant.
Hopeless? Romantic? Isn’t that a contradiction?
But over the years and one too many impulsive heart flings, I think I’ve finally started to understand.

Let me take you back to the summer of 2014.
I had just graduated from school and freshly 18. Queer. Closeted and Horny.
And freshly added to a friend group headed to Ayia Napa, a beach town in Cyprus best known for two things: foam parties and straight British tourists throwing up in alleys. I unfortunately witnessed both.
It was my first time traveling without my parents.
Which basically meant: I could finally go fool around without anyone up my ass… except the man who was gonna be up my ass.

The night before the trip, I opened Growlr, it’s like Grindr, but for bears… and with a UI that looks like it was designed in 2003 and never updated (it probably was).
I changed my location to Ayia Napa, and within minutes, I found THE guy. Early 30s. Local. Cute smile. Med student.
We chatted. We vibed. We made plans to meet the day I landed. I didn’t know much, but I knew this trip was already a success.
I told my best friend, the only one in the group who knew I was gay. I expected a lecture. Maybe a “Don’t get murdered.” But instead, she saw his photo, read the texts, and said: “OMG, go get it, girl.”
It was the first time I’d ever told someone, in real time that I was about to meet a guy. And just having someone know made me feel more confident. More excited. More me.

On the flight over, I couldn’t think about anything else. This wasn’t just a hookup, it was a movie: A summer escape. A foreign local who’d show me around, give me great dick, and maybe, just maybe, become my European boyfriend with whom I’d live a Mediterranean gay fantasy. Hopeless Romantic mode activated.
When I arrived, he picked me up in a retro car, looking hotter than expected. And as fate would have it, we ran into two people from my group crossing the street.
They stared. I waved. Later, I told them he was a “family friend.”
And they shockingly believed it.
He drove me to this beach bar that looked like a queer fever dream. It had a giant stone mermaid mosaic with the words “Once In a Lifetime Experience.” Which… felt dramatic for a beer on the beach.
But okay, Mama Mermaid, let me dream.
We got drinks, sat at a table by the water, barefoot on the sand, and talked for hours. We laughed. He told me about med school in Romania, coming home every summer, how he loved the sea. I was enchanted.
We couldn’t really flirt openly, it wasn’t the safest place. But at one point, our bare feet were near each other, and he reached out… and gently tangled his big toe with mine. Yes. Toe holding. Hand-holding, but gayer.
Now listen… I don’t have a foot fetish. But my dick… begged to differ.
Later, we made out behind a dumpster. (Summer loving, baby).

I went back to the hotel with the biggest grin on my face. I couldn’t stop smiling. I couldn’t stop imagining us. How we met by chance. How perfect the date was.
He’s in med school? Great, my parents will love him… only after they kill me when they find out im gay.
Gay marriage is legal in Europe? Done. We’re getting married.
The gay delusion was DELUSIONING.
But then the next day… we argued. Over text.
I was being clingy. He was pulling back. It wasn’t dramatic, it was just deflating.
I’d gone from mermaid mosaics to “I guess I’ll die alone” in under 24 hours.
That night, my friends decided to get tattoos. I, fresh off heartbreak, told my best friend I wanted to get his name tattooed on my thigh.
To which, she said: “Only if I get to tattoo my hand slap on your face.”
She’s an Icon.

Still… we met again. We talked. We laughed. We shared a joint, my first. (I had no idea how to smoke it, so it didn’t really do much.)
He invited me to his family’s beach house. We made out on the kitchen counter. We had sex on a squeaky metal bed that sounded like it was cheering us on. We took selfies.
Then, he dropped me off. And that was the last time I saw him.

My phone died shortly after the trip, all the pictures, his number, everything: gone. And for a while, I felt this weird sense of grief. Not because I’d lost him.
But because it was one of those rare moments that felt good, and I wasn’t ready to let it go just yet.
That was my first real taste of gay romance. Before that, most of my experiences were secretive. Sexual. Transactional.
This one was different. Even if it was short-lived. Even if it ended in toe-holding and a missed connection.
Because over time, I’ve realized: Being a hopeless romantic isn’t about getting your fairytale ending. It’s about choosing to feel deeply, even when it’s messy. It’s about believing, even if only for one night, that love is possible, and that you are worthy of it. And with every little story like this one… I evolve.
Not into someone less romantic, but someone more grounded. I still believe in soulmates… I just don’t expect them to show up in beach towns with retro cars and squeaky beds.

So NO, this wasn’t a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I’ve had a few more summers like this since. And if I’m lucky… I’ll have many more.
Because being a hopeless romantic doesn’t mean you’re doomed. It just means you keep showing up for the magic. Even if it only lasts a night, or a week, or a beer on the beach.
Maybe the real once-in-a-lifetime experience is simply being someone who still believes in those moments.
And I still do.

Summer Loving: Sergio’s Story

24 September, 2025Leave a comment

Tuesday, May 13th, 2024. 5:45pm.
I was at the gym, pretending I was the fittest guy alive… Well, actually, I had already finished exercising and was just lying down, getting a massage. (Fake it till you make it, right?)
Then the thought hit me: text Virgo. Yeah, that’s what I call him. Why? Because he’s a Virgo… original, I know.
“Hey, I’m going to be at Sunset Beach tonight. It’d be nice if you came,” I texted.
I waited for his reply, checking every two minutes — No response.
So… maybe not. Maybe he doesn’t like me, or maybe he has a boyfriend, or he is not interested, or I’m not his type… Sh*t, why did I invite him?
(I was raised watching Mexican telenovelas… of course I gotta be dramatic).

But let’s rewind. Where did Virgo even come from?
LGBTQ+ soccer league, summer season in Vancouver. I’m a goalkeeper — which is basically a full-time job of trying not to get distracted by hot, sweaty guys. And then he appeared. He had missed the first two games, but when he finally showed up, I swear I thought: “All my life, I’ve been good, but now… wow.”
Virgo: cliché perfection. White, blonde, blue eyes, toned, 5’5, killer smile. He was like a rom-com character who accidentally got dropped into my real life.

But back to the story: still no reply from him.
I tell myself, “Relax, he’s busy. Don’t be dramatic…” (too late).
Finally, after an hour and a half, when I had already given up all hope, a text from him: “Hey, sorry, I just saw this. It would have been nice, I guess it’s too late now. But I see you’ve got a beer and chips.”
With revived hope, I tried again: “I’ll be here until sunset if you want to come.”
And he says: “Ok then. See you in a bit.” (*Cue me pulling out a bridal veil*).

Ten minutes later, there he was — short shorts, tote bag, hat, the full “West End summer chic” look. He hugged me, we talked, and then… he took off his shirt, and asked me to rub sunscreen on his back. Sunscreen. On. His. Back.
(That’s when my brain said nothing, because my heart was screaming too loud.)
We talked for hours. About life. About love. About what makes us happy. And then watched the sun say goodbye to us, lighting up the ocean, painting the sky orange, red, and pink.
I looked at Virgo and saw the sun lighting his face. He was smiling, and I was just happy… I was very happy.
It was my first sunset of summer 2024… but in my mind, it was our first sunset.

Photoshoots and Minions:
We both love acting, and I had just started doing background work, so I offered to take some shots for his profile. On our second date, we wandered the West End, doing a photoshoot: changing outfits, laughing, joking… He told me about his family, where he is from in Canada. I told him about my hometown and its traditions, my friends, my family.
Have you ever felt that connection when someone looks at you and smiles? You know that look, right? The one that says more than words ever could? Yeah, that one. He was looking at me like that the whole time.

On our third date, we watched Despicable Me. Not exactly the most romantic choice, but trust me, the way we laughed together and looked at each other was romantic.
After the theatre, we walked the seawall, talking about our lives, and I realized that we were very similar in how we viewed things: commitment, friendships, relationships, work, the future. I discovered Virgo has a beautiful heart and cares about others. That he cares about his own mental health and is working towards his future. I was slowly falling in love with him. He was the guy I had been waiting for, for a long time.

The Ocean and the River :
Days later, we found ourselves back at Sunset Beach.
No kisses. No hug. But music, songs, secrets, glances… We told each other some personal stories that have changed our lives, that have made us cry, grow, smile, laugh. And me, lying there thinking: This is something I haven’t felt in years.
He was playing Avril Lavigne songs: “That’s whyyy I smile, it’s been a while… Suddenly, you’re the reason I-I-I-I smile. I smile.”

But here’s the catch: When we were together, it was magical. When we weren’t? Silence. No texts. Being left on read. It made me feel confused, frustrated, and sad. I didn’t want what had happened before in my life to happen again. Not with him. I was hoping this would be different.

So I kept planning the next move, the next excuse to see him. Still clinging to the idea that this was real.
“Let’s go for a swim on Friday,” I texted.
He responded: “Yeah! Let’s bike Stanley Park, and end at Third Beach.”
I told myself: this time, HE has to text first. Friday comes. Noon. Nothing. So I give up, shower, and decide to go solo… when my phone lights up:
“Hey, a friend from Australia is in town, we’re going to Lynn Canyon for a swim. Wanna come?”
Of course I went. And again — with him, everything felt amazing. His friends were late, and Virgo and I had a great time. There were many people around us, but it was only Virgo and me that mattered, sitting on a rock, under the sun, having a beer. When my Converse fell in the water and got soaked, we joked about it, and laughed. We laughed a lot together.
We swam to the falls in freezing river, and he lent me his goggles so I could see what was under the water. Lots of fishes, lots of nature.
But just the two of us… No one else.

Truth:
The following Wednesday, a soccer game. I got injured — bad. I tore my ACL, and limped off the field, helped by teammates. Other soccer guys came up to me to ask how I was, what happened, if I was ok. But Virgo: he kept watching the game, and never came to check on me.
And right there, I knew. Maybe it was never real for him. Maybe it was only real in my head. So I stopped. No more texts. No more plans. I decided to move on, and start healing. It was the very first time I cried for him. It was my breakup.

We reconnected in December, because life literally put him on my way — twice. First, he started going to the same gym as me. Then, we both started working on the same film… We were together the whole day. So I thought life telling me: ”try again.”
I asked him out again. We went to the movies, and we went to see the Christmas lights at Stanley Park. How romantic. But then, the same story… No texts. Being left on read. One sided.

Four months later, I received a text from him. Not “hi.” Not “how are you.”
A favour. He wanted me to be his reference for a job. And you know what? I said yes. He got the job, and to thank me, he invited me to dinner. But this time, I was done lying to myself.
“Thanks for the invite,” I wrote back, “but I’m gonna be honest. I have feelings for you. Every time we hung out, I felt like there was something more… and I don’t want to confuse myself again.”
To be honest, I felt such a relief to say what I was feeling. To finally put myself first. End of story. Fin del cuento.

Summer gave me sunsets, laughter, and a boy named Virgo. But it also taught me: sometimes, what feels like a love story, is just a beautiful illusion.
After all, I’m happy because after years of being afraid, of running away from guys, I finally decided to give myself another chance to love. To put my heart out there and try.
Maybe it didn’t end as I wished, but I’m glad it happened, because I will always have that first sunset as one of the most beautiful memories of Vancouver.

Pride!: Evan’s Story

10 August, 202510 August, 2025Leave a comment

When I came out almost 10 years ago, I could never have anticipated the journey that would lead me to my life partner. Let alone expect to be someone’s husband, for the past 30 days. As I stand here today, I am grateful for every minute of it, even the hard parts. I’m thrilled to say that the most wonderful man, to quote Beyonce, put a ring on it. Technically, we both did… Happy endings aren’t just for bathhouses. I’d like to take a few minutes to tell you about our recent wedding and elopement.
Our relationship, while, of course not perfect, has been relatively smooth when it comes to planning things: since I like doing all general planning things and Parm is extremely detail-orientated. I ride the hot-mess ADHD express and lose my dopamine rush when it comes to the more precise points. It’s truly a great match to have planning a vacation, moving apartments, redecorating, but when planning a wedding it can be a blessing and a curse.

Parm and I got engaged December 2023 and since we’re both planners we wanted to have a long engagement to make sure we had adequate time to plan things out. A quick backstory on how we got engaged. I decided to surprise him on our anniversary, since Parm hates surprises. It was the one way I could ensure he wouldn’t be suspicious I was planning something. I had tried, and failed, to surprise Parm a few times. I thought It would be a good idea to take him to high tea, after he was at the gym in street clothes, and was underfed from a leg day. For the proposal, I tried to keep the destination a secret. But who would have thought he would’ve figured out I was taking him to Circle Wellness on Granville Island of all places. On the walk to where I had arranged his friends to meet us, Parm launched into a diatribe about why I shouldn’t try and surprise him anymore. Mainly since he wanted to know the plan to be mentally prepared and be properly dressed for the occasion. All I could think of in the back of my mind was, oh boy, you’re in for one major surprise in 5 minutes…

Going back to wedding planning, one of the greatest strengths I’ve learned since coming out is that there isn’t a “right” or “normal” way to be queer. So many social norms and expectations are shed when we come out and start living as our queer, authentic selves; especially when you enter a relationship. In gay relationships, nothing is assumed. You must clearly and openly communicate your roles, your responsibilities, and expectations. When Parm and I moved in together, we had to discuss how laundry, cooking, cleaning worked.
When we were planning our formal wedding, we had to figure out how walking down the aisle would work. If we wanted to include gendered cultural wedding traditions, how that would work. Being able to define all these things on our terms was (and is) a powerful thing, and I hope the same intentionality and partnership starts to show up more in hetero relationships. Be open and communicate what works for you as an individual and as a couple, and don’t just assume your role based on gender. We initially had a the “big white wedding” planned. Well, maybe not big, since we had capped it at 80 people. And maybe not all that white, since Parm has a big Indian family.

We were excited for our formal wedding here in Vancouver and placed the deposit for our dream venue, but as the time started coming closer to actually need to put pen to paper, we just weren’t excited at the idea. It just seemed like work and didn’t really feel like us. We toyed with the idea of eloping, at first here in BC, by doing a helicopter wedding to ensure none of our family could sneak in. But we had already planned on doing a honeymoon… before our wedding I may add, in the Faroe Islands and Mallorca. Why were we going to the Faroe Islands? Parm had seen it and wanted to explore it for it’s beauty. I wanted to go because there was a sweater shop I wanted to go to. Parm had an excellent idea to have our elopement in the Faroe Islands since the nature is beautiful and dramatic.

We cancelled our Vancouver wedding and instead carried out our plan to do our wedding there. And it was the best decision that we could’ve made. But first we had to make it legal and literally got married in slippers and bathrobes here in the West End. We forgot to give our officiant a heads-up, so she was a little surprised. It was unapologetically us. We love to travel, we love going to random places, we love hiking and nature, and we love doing things differently. We spent the whole day exploring the country with a local photographer, who proclaimed that five tourists at a site was “busy”. We think he would have an aneurysm seeing the steam clock crowds in summer…
We did everything that we loved. We explored a small picturesque town with colourful houses. Went to a waterfall and scaled the rocks in dress shoes. Did our vows in the rain. Got, possibly a top-10 burger, at a gas station. And ended the day doing a hike in our tuxes to see one of the most beautiful parts of the Faroe Islands, Traepania, Where there is a lake above the ocean, backdropped by sheer cliffs. We were tired, muddy, and had our wedding night back at the hotel, lying in bed with pizza. In short, we wouldn’t have done things any different, and it was a perfect wedding day.

I’m just so happy that Parm is the person I got to marry. The full story of how we came together is a story for a different day, but I initially tried to push him away. I had come out of quite a toxic relationship and wasn’t ready to date. He actually went on a few dates with my ex and pieced it together by the missing furniture in our respective apartments. Needless to say, he learned that I wasn’t the crazy ex.
In spite of all of the emotional push and pull (and the occasional self sabotage, of course) Parm stuck by my side. He gave me endless patience, a safe space to be irrational if I was spiralling while trying to process my trauma, and showed me that not everyone is out to get me. That I could feel safe enough to trust someone again.
I’m looking forward to building a life together and this next chapter is just the beginning. I’m just excited to be writing this one together as husband and husband.

Around the World: Ryan’s Story

10 June, 2025Leave a comment

I used to think identity was something I had to wear like a badge.
Queer.
Person of Colour.
Canadian.
A neatly folded résumé of who I was supposed to be before anyone even knew my favourite food or how I take my coffee.

In Vancouver, I could feel the labels arriving before I did.
Like I walked into the room after my own footnotes.

But then I left.
Packed two suitcases and a nervous heart, and landed in Berlin —
a city colder than I expected, stranger than I imagined,
and somehow, freer than I’d ever known.

No one knew me there.
Not the barista who handed me my first Latte Macchiato with a crooked smile, not the cashier at Rewe who tossed my groceries with zero small talk, not the friend-of-a-friend at a Kreuzberg Altbau party who didn’t ask “where are you really from?” Or “what do you do for work?”
just asked, “what’s your sign?”

I said Cancer.
They said, “figures.”

And just like that, I wasn’t explaining myself.
I was just existing.

Berlin didn’t care what box I fit in.
It didn’t ask me to choose between my softness and my strength.
It didn’t ask me to be a role model or a symbol or a teachable moment.
It just asked me to be.
To show up.
To dance to pop EDM remixes in Schwuz or twerk at a Latin party in Lido.
To get lost on the winding Straßes.
To survive on Simit, Franzbrötchen and Club Mate.
To fall in and out of routines, and sometimes out of love.

And so I travelled.
Not just through Europe —
though yes, I did float through Stockholm,
sweated under the Barcelona sun,
and blinked at the beauty of Prague’s cobblestones at midnight —
but I also travelled through versions of myself.

The me who stood silently in museums.
The me who laughed too loudly in the S-Bahn.
The me who forgot to be afraid.
The me who wasn’t performing — wasn’t on display —
just living.

See, travel doesn’t just teach you about the world.
It teaches you about who you are when no one’s watching.
When there’s no audience.
No expectations.
No need to explain your history to justify your presence.

In Berlin, I was “the Canadian,” sure.
But that wasn’t code for “outsider.”
It just meant, “you’re not from here, but neither are we.”
I was allowed to take up space.
To make mistakes.
To speak German badly.
To start again.

And maybe that’s what travel gave me most —
the gift of not being anyone’s definition but my own.

In Vancouver, being queer and a person of colour was often the first thing.
Before my name.
Before my jokes.
Before my energy even had a chance to walk in the room.

But in Berlin, in those trains and cafés and moonlit strolls along the Spree —
I got to be just Ryan.

Not reduced.
Not erased.
Not tolerated
But revealed and accepted.

Because I am queer.
I am a person of colour.
And I’m also tender, and smart, and sometimes a little too dramatic.
I wear sheer shirts and glitter nail polish.
I write poems, I’ll never show anyone.
I miss my dog when I’m gone too long.
And I love citrus scents like they’re a personality trait.

And that — all of that — is who I am.
Not a headline.
Not a box.
But a body in motion.
A soul in translation.
A person in process.

Now I’m back.
Different city, same name.
Still me — but expanded.
And when I walk into rooms now, I don’t shrink.
I don’t lead with the résumé of what I am.
I just say, “Hi, I’m Ryan.”
And let the rest unfold.

Because travel didn’t change who I was.
It just reminded me I didn’t need to prove it.

So if you ever feel like you have to explain yourself before you’re allowed to be yourself,
if you ever feel like the world only sees you in fragments — go.
Even if it’s not far.
Even if it’s just to the next town over, or the next friend’s couch.
Find the place where your name is enough.
Where you don’t have to be a statement.
Where you’re not reduced to your resistance.

Find your Berlin.
And then bring it back with you.
Wear it like a soft hoodie.
Speak it in the way you order your coffee.
Live it in the way you look people in the eyes when you say:

“Hi. I’m not here to explain. I’m here to exist.”
Just me.
Just Ryan.