A series written by Sid Marcos of liveoutlandish.com
Welcome to the world of Sid Marcos. My world. I’m at, what you might consider, a climax in life.
At 25, I study cities for a living. I travel, produce detailed analytics on urbanist trends and then create “socially sustainable” tours for groups of young explorers. This summer I am spending one month in each major city along the West Coast.
Wondering how travel professionals find all the coolest shit to do in so many cities around the world? Usually we fuck our way up. Welcome to Fuck This City.
Moza is pointing towards a red domed church shrouded in clouds on the North Shore of Vancouver. “That, I think, makes it look like Switzerland. The rest is nothing special.”
He’s my Airbnb host, telling me about the neighborhood from the rooftop of his apartment building. The way he’s talking makes me think he’s gay. He’s outwardly friendly, laughs constantly in the 10 minutes it takes him to show me his apartment and tells me I’m his first Airbnb guest so he’s not sure what the protocol is. I like him immediately.
Back in the apartment he points to my wheelchair “You brought me Cripple Luck!” I wonder how the fuck he knows what Cripple Luck is. But he’s right, I do. I do bring Cripple Luck.
“As soon as you showed up, this French woman I’ve been after for so long sent me a text like ‘Moza, I just broke up with my boyfriend. Let’s go on a date so I can get married this year :P’”
I’m surprised – because the aforementioned gay part mostly. But he’s got a thick Persian accent and his English is pretty wonky so I assume he meant to say French man.
“Gnar.” I respond, because it’s Vancouver, bro.
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I take a couple hours just to wheel around my new city for this month. Ahh, Vancouver. I’m thinking, using my Sarah-Palin-turned-Canadian accent. So green, dontcha know. And I’m enjoying uninterrupted disconnect – I’m in a city where no one knows me, my phone doesn’t call to me every 5 minutes because my SIM isn’t working and I’m yet to look over my infinite to do list that needs to be completed over the next few weeks I’m here.
As soon as I get back to the Airbnb my phone lights up with wifi and a WhatsApp message from Moza.
“How is everything going?”
“Great! The neighborhood is beautiful!” I respond
“Cool so far I haven’t heard any building burn down in North Van, good so far”
Coincidentally, the fire alarm in the building had gone off as I was coming up the elevator.
“Yeah, the fire alarm was going off though. Does that normally happen for no reason?”
“You’re a big girl, you’ll be fine.”
I read his message and presume he’s trying to be a dick. Until he follows up with,
“If you need company lmk. Or if you need a wine drinking buddy.”
I can’t tell if he’s being hospitable now or tryna hit it. So I ask to clarify,
“What about Sexy French Lady?”
“I don’t think too much into it. I know I am free tonight and I’m a single guy and can still do whatever for now :P”
For some reason I feel like I accidentally opened a dick pic. Embarassed, I close my phone quickly then start smiling like an idiot. Moza does fit perfectly in my Middle Eastern sexual partner preference but I’m gawking at the idea of renting out your apartment only to come back to it that night and sleep with your Airbnbee. I wonder if this is considered prostitution. The idea of prostitution is enticing to me but I turn him down.
“Tonight I can’t offer you any single guy activities. But I am making a travel guide for the city so if you want to be my tour guide, let’s do something tomorrow.”
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Moza shows up at his apartment at 10 am. When I open the door he hugs me like we’ve been friends for years. He immediately starts fluid chatter and I’m laughing and likening myself to getting involved with him during my stay.
“You’re a hipster so I’ll take you where the hipsters like to go.” That’s his first offer as my tour guide. I like it. I’m wearing orange overalls and a neckerchief. I am a fucking hipster.
He takes me to the neighborhood called Railtown. The “Design District”. You’ve seen it before; amongst glimmering new high rises and converted warehouse lofts housing Danish design firms, employees of big, “independent” brands like Aritizia and Herschel Supply Co glide by brooding, unaffected by their environs.
The area is the new hotspot of gentrification, still showing it’s untidy history as the dumpy part of town. Rats leisurely skimming the streets, gated up doorways and windows of open business and Oppenheimer Park blanketed with the local homeless community.
I hate it instantly because it reminds me of being 18 and living in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. And every city after that’s no more than a facsimile thereof. It’s neither the hipsters nor the homeless, or whatever gentrifying phenomena is going on in every city all over the world that gives me a bad taste in my mouth- it’s that two distinct communities can live entirely at odds with one another in the same home. But I’m looking forward to that craft coffee we’re about to have.
We enter Railtown Cafe and Moza steps out to make a call. I order a coffee and sit at their communal table. There’s a group of, what I can only imagine are “young, creative professionals” typically drawn to these neighborhoods seated at the table as well. I’m being bitter and hypocritical in my head, so I tune myself out and lend my attention to their conversation. And at the same moment, one of the guys turns towards me.
“Hey, would you like a beer?”
He turns out to be the owner of the cafe. We make polite chatter and he, and the group, turn out to be engaging and warm.
“I’ve got a question for you guys; what’s up with all homelessness here? I mean, I’m from the States and there the path to poverty and social abandonment is pretty steep and quick. But I’ve always thought in Canada if you need the help, you get it. You know? Like, is it as typical here that people are just dropped out of the social system?”
Blank stares and mindless eyes respond. One member of the group mentions that they’ve all had negative interactions with “those drug addicts”, which has made them “not want to help at all then”.
Moza reappears, I smile goodbyes to them and we take our coffee to go. After a less than stimulating conversation, I’m ready to move on to a new locale.
Outside I tell him that I expected that Canadians would all be more adept at discussing social issues. He apologizes for their cavalier attitudes and begins a well-warranted monologue on the history of homeless in Canada, Vancouver as the original railtown city and resulting transient populations and suggests that I read a book called Big Hunger: The Unholy Alliance Between Corporate America and Anti-Hunger Groups by an author from Portland.
He finishes his retort “Maybe if you’re looking for experts, you can go meet with the author when you’re in Portland.” And he winks, this time, definitely trying to be a dick.
His is the kind of attitude I love. Salty, witty with bite and unapologetically open. Now he’s ready for a new topic.
“So, I hold up my end of the deal, I give you the best tour of your life – and then we’ll do some “single guy activities”? ”.
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“Can you feel feel it?” His eyes are inquiring for more in depth information, his brow is furrowing.
This is the conversation I dread having with every new bedfellow. And there we are, sitting on his bed – MY bed until the end of the month – facing each other with legs intertwined.
I’ve always been every partner’s first disabled fuck. And while they verbally stumble around trying to work out the mechanics of pleasuring a body different from their own, they usually end up trampling my self-esteem.
So I’ve worked out a new method to answer their questions.
I stop him short and press my body up against him, “I’ll show you how it goes.”
He doesn’t need any more of a green light than that. As soon as the words leave my mouth, he’s got me on my back with one hand pulling up my skirt. I congratulate myself on how well my new conversational tactic has been going.
Kissing, his teeth hit mine.
“Why did you stop kissing me?”
“I’m sorry,” I say “I can’t stop smiling.” By now I’m giggling.
“Alright, enough with the 72 virgins act, ya racist.”
He’s funny and he’s generous. And I’m enjoying the feeling of his palms testing which parts of my body elicit the loudest reaction. So I stop laughing and pull him into me.
He thrusts once, drawing out his final moments of temptation. Then again, slower, building tension.
I interpret this as a sign he’s uncomfortable and in a millisecond am preparing myself for an uneasy question like ‘This isn’t hurting you, right?’.
But he says nothing, just grabs me by the hips and turns me over. Then I’m out of my own head and in the moment. As he’s loosening the clips on my bra I unhinge my mind from the realm of anticipation and disquietude. I live for a moment, undone, in seering presence.
to be continued…
