Author: amiepetite

You’re in Seattle, maybe on a visit, maybe you live here. You’re looking for some vivacious female company and you’ve heard somewhere that something called an ‘escort’ might fit the bill. A pretty younger woman who can entertain you for an hour, or all night. You want someone who looks good to you, but you feel comfortable with, too.

But where on earth does one find a Seattle Escort?

Trusty old google to the rescue.

Fortunately for you, the pertinent question isn’t “How to find a Seattle Escort” but “How to decide which one to see!” The escort scene in Seattle, as in many major cities, is bustling. There is new money and old, a variety of folks seeing a variety of things, and a thriving sex positive culture in which to do them. Seattle, being such a sexually progressive city, has escorts listed on almost every national and international advertising platform. Each platform can have up to 250 escorts advertising at once. So how do you choose!?!

Well let’s get started.

First: don’t think you’re going to find someone tonight. While many Seattle Escorts do offer same-day service, most do not, and new clients should expect there to be some level of screening, even if it’s not explicitly stated, which will take time. In fact, an escort in Seattle who does not ask for some form of screening is more likely to be a bait and switch, an upseller, or vice squad than she is to be that super sexy, low priced vixen her ad claims she is.

More on screening later. Right now, you’re the one screening out escorts who don’t fit your preferences, or who are difficult to get a feel for.

You’ll start with an advertising platform. The first two pages of googling “Seattle Escort” will almost always return ad spaces that offer listing after listing. I personally prefer slixa.com, tryst.link, eros.com (with many caveats), and a smattering of other places. For a more complete list, visit my ad spaces blog post HERE.

You’ve made it to an escort advertising website. You’re scrolling through pictures. You might be overwhelmed at this point. I was when I tried to find someone for a client to see in Portland, and I know what I’m doing! With me being both an escort myself and mostly straight, I only found a few that reeeeally made me want to see them and sure enough, they proved fabulous. This is how you, too, can narrow it down to only the best.

A word on faces. Faces are the most subjective canvas. A face can sway you one way or the other when considering which Seattle Escort you choose. Unfortunately, the legal and social climate of today does not favor escorts or our clients. For that reason, many of us choose to hide our faces in our public images. This is to avoid detection by law enforcement or our personal and professional circles, to avoid being recognized by fans who are not screened clients, and most importantly to you, to avoid you being seen in public with a known escort. Despite Seattle’s sex positivity, there are still few places where escorts and our clients are truly and openly welcome. When choosing a Seattle Escort, balance your attraction to her face (which I have fallen prey to myself) with your need for discretion.

After pictures are prices. There are many opinions within the escorting world about rates but no one disagrees that they are rarely low. Rates for Seattle escorts easily start at 500$ per hour and can go as high as two thousand dollars for a single appointment. While my rate structure implies 500$ per hour, my ninety minute minimum appointment means a new client is looking at shelling out 750$ at least. I and my beloved clients feel it is worth it, all things considered, but for you it may rule me and many others out. Most Seattle Escorts have rates listed in their ads. If they do not, they should have a section on their website specifically for rates. You should never have to ask an Escort for their rates.

A note on rates: Before you start looking for your Seattle Escort, have an idea of what you can realistically spend once a month. You may want to visit more or less often, but it’s a good baseline. Some clients spend lavishly and others save up for their birthday every year. Have a budget in mind before you start letting Junior make your decisions.

Now that pictures and prices have narrowed down your options, you get to dive in. Most serious Seattle Escorts have a website. They are usually divided into sections such as about me, rates, contact, etiquette, and galleries. You’ve seen pictures (though websites often have more photos than ads) and rates, now you get to read what they write. You’re moving into the in-between space of you choosing your escort, and her choosing you. In the etiquette (sometimes called expectations) page, she will outline your next steps. Usually that involves some kind of screening, and an appointment request.

A tip on checking out your Escort: A few years ago, a new law was passed that made it harder for Escorts to advertise transparently. We lost access to reviews, the main consumer protection method, and had to verify ourselves elsewhere. Seattle escorts who had not had social media before this legislation began using spaces like twitter, snapchat, instagram, and for me, reddit, to offer insights into our personalities. We post candid images, quotes and quips, sometimes special deals, and other social media whatnot for our clients to review as a way of showing our “realness” for lack of a better phrase. If your escort has social media, she will usually link to them from her website. Go take a look!

You’ve scanned the advertising platforms, you’ve picked out the ones that attract you the most, you’ve ruled out the ones that are too expensive, and you’ve browsed website and social media for those who remain. You’re ready to reach out and schedule an appointment to meet your first Seattle Escort.

Now you’re ready for screening. Because of the current legal and social climate, the vast majority of Escorts will screen their clients. We are screening out vice cops, creeps, violent people, and sometimes just folks we really don’t think we’ll like. Many escorts accept referrals or references from other escorts you’ve seen before. If you’ve seen escorts in cities outside of Seattle, they may consent to vouch for you with a new escort. For those who don’t accept references, or if you don’t have references yet, you will almost certainly be asked to verify your identity. This may mean sending a selfie of you holding your drivers license, it might mean a link to your work profile on LinkedIn or your business’ official website, maybe for those working in education or government, an email with a innocent code phrase to your work address may suffice. However your escort prefers to verify you is how you’ll be verified.

So many things about screening. First: it’s important. Between law enforcement, opportunists, targeted violence, and simply compatibility, screening is how you offer your escort the same assurances she’s offered you. It’s also why it’s so important for you to take a few days to choose your escort before reaching out. You want to see someone you’re sure will be who she says she is. She wants the same.

Second: everyone screens differently. Old school escorts may ask for a phone call. Xennials might want you to snap chat them. Some escorts ask for deposits, others operate on a two-call system (you get directions to a place near them where they can see you. Once they have eyes on you, they give directions to their door). Some escorts use their intuition and others have a strict protocol. I strongly recommend avoiding providers who don’t ask you for anything at all. They will rarely be legitimate, reliable, or experienced.

Finally: Be patient, be open, but don’t be gullible. There are too many good, reliable escorts here in Seattle for you to waste your time or money on someone who won’t show up on time, won’t be good company, or won’t keep your information safe. We encourage each other to follow our gut, no questions asked. You should, too. If someone seems too good to be true, she isn’t.

Yay!! You’ve found your Seattle Escort, you’ve screened her and she’s screened you, you’ve set a date and you’re on your way! Congratulations! Now take a deep breath, make sure you scrubbed between those booty cheeks and put on deodorant, and put a couple extra twenties in your wallet in case she is better in person than you expected. You might be nervous. That’s ok. Relax and have fun, try to let go of any lists or agendas, and…

Sha la la la la la Don’t be shy!

I have been hearing from so many old lovers lately!

I have a hunch much of it is due to our new found freedom and reacheiving comfort in the arms of others and it is yet another silver lining. When we lost our little community in 2016, many of us tried to stick together but it wasn’t the same. I feel that some, after this recent restriction of ALL communities, are finally realizing that life is short and reconnecting with old friends is worth the time.

I welcome you with open arms. My memory is absolutely awful so, though names might trigger feelings of warmth or goodwill, they probably won’t bring back specific memories. I am SO excited to rediscover each other. I know I have changed; It’s been half a decade since my favorite part of Seattle’s escort scene fractured and I have made headway in my personal journey. I look forward to finding where you have landed, my dear.

I frequent several online forums that encourage members of the public to ask questions of sex workers. At least once a week someone, usually a young man, asks about seeing a sex worker to “lose their virginity.”

Virginity is an abstract concept, not something one can misplace, but it is a powerful one that carries emotional and social baggage. While I don’t prefer the phrase “losing your virginity” it is a popular colloquialism so I’ll be using it in this article. If you like, you can instead read it as “having sex for the first time” or “trying something new.” 

Disclaimer: Losing your virginity to an escort is not for everyone. There will be condoms involved which can sometimes be awkward and do change the quality of sensation. If you find someone compassionate and thoughtful, it can be a great way to explore this activity that our society craves and also fears. If you wind up seeing someone with little investment in your learning and growth, it can be lackluster and possibly reinforce negative internal and external messaging. Seeing a sex worker also carries heavy stigma and may not be something you will ever be able to share in the future. Only you can decide if losing your virginity to an escort is right for you. Because these encounters aren’t spontaneous and perfectly organic, you are unlikely to forget it. Don’t be afraid to take your time deciding, or to change your mind.

Disclaimer two: This article is aimed as heterosexual men who want to learn how to sexually pleasure heterosexual women. Much of what I have to teach can be applied across gender and orientation boundaries and I welcome folx from across the gender and orientation spectrum. I will say that due to class and sex dynamics in the sex industry, my experience is less broad outside of cis/het men. People outside the cis/het/male box have as much to teach me as I have to teach you.

I love the expression “sex is like money: the less you have, the more you worry about it.” Sex lives at a major crossroads. Love, pleasure, physical touch, societal expectations, gender, orientation, identity, family ties… People may feel trepidation, excitement, fear, joy, worry, curiosity, and a range of other emotions, based on their previous experiences with their bodies both sexually and otherwise, and their feeling for, towards, and around the person they’re about to have sex with. We are confronted with sexualized images of men and women every day, selling us products to look better, smell better, fuck better, be loved better, work better, and in every case we are sold stories about how men are supposed to be. How women are supposed to be. And how men and women are supposed to be together. If you haven’t had sex yet, this ocean of imagery can be a painful and constant reminder of that fact, carrying the implication of deficiency, as well as images of a heteronormative future that you may or may not want.

Sex can be great. It should feel good, it can be a way to connect with someone you care about or a way to enjoy pleasure with someone you may not know again tomorrow. It is also highly charged and rarely talked about candidly. For young men, the pressure to perform properly the first time can be immense. In some cases, that pressure prevents people from seizing opportunities and if that happens often enough, you may start to feel behind the curve. Not just a late bloomer but inexperienced. You may begin to worry that when you do finally find a girlfriend, you won’t know how to please her. Shame may lead to fear, fear may lead to avoidance, and while I am a huge fan of doing things on your own time scale, we do not exist in a vacuum and societal pressures may worsen as time goes on.

Thats a lot of pressure to put on something that often lasts about three minutes.

The first time I had sex, it was wonderful. I am a sexual person, deeply physical, and our respective religious upbringings made each step forward excruciatingly slow. Kissing took weeks to work up to. Months later we were down to underwear. The afternoon we first had sex, we had kissed and hugged and inched closer for something like an hour. The anticipation had us both so aroused that actual penetration was effortless. All thirty five seconds of it.

While it was not enough for me to orgasm, the sensation of wanting to feel a penis inside my vagina and then finally getting it was incredibly satisfying. I *still* love that feeling. Unfortunately I didn’t have the vocabulary or the sense of self to say that and instead, I lied. I sad that I had come many times and for the next two years I lived with that lie. We never developed a mutually satisfying, healthy sexual relationship and it took me years of working with more mature, giving partners to come into my own. I sometimes wish I had been able to give him real feedback. I hope his wife is happy and has been able to mend some of the bad habits I never had the courage to confront.

It’s been fifteen years since that day. I have developed (and continue to strengthen) my ability to advocate for myself and offer constructive feedback. With my training in full body touch and my experience helping people slow down, I am finally ready to offer what I was unable to give my high school boyfriend. I didn’t tell him that his kisses were too big and too wet. I didn’t tell him that he needed to let me touch myself during sex if he wanted me to orgasm. I didn’t tell him that I wanted to try new positions or new things. I didn’t even know I wanted him to go down on me, much less tell him how to do it.

But I can tell you. If you’re ready to hear it.

Coaching sessions aren’t reserved for virgins, but recipients are best served when they come with open minds and are ready to rebuild from the ground up. Much of what I will teach you isn’t sexual. While many women are just as horny as men are assumed to be, *in general* women also need safety and time from you before they will have a fulfilling sexual encounter. I’m not a pickup artist. I’m not interested in teaching you how to trick women into bed or how to bed as many women as possible. I am not responsible for getting women into bed with you. What I *can* do is help you get them in bed more than once.

As your sex coach, I will teach you:

-Recognizing and confirming nonverbal cues
-Escalating touch
-Critical moments in sexual progression
-Establishing initial and ongoing consent (without breaking the mood)
-Giving verbal and nonverbal safety cues
-Reading body language during foreplay
-Recognizing the right moment for penetration
-Specific sexual positions to suit your body
-Aftercare

Incorporated throughout:

-Dirty talk
-Safer sex practices
-Kink awareness
-Tips and techniques to try out
-Self care and preparation
-Grooming
And whatever else pops up during our time together.

I love to give back. I have had so many solicitous, caring, encouraging clients (and a few notable boyfriends) share their experiences, stories, and cocks with me. I have learned a tremendous amount about sexuality, sex, how to do it well, how to take care of your partner, and how to advocate for yourself. It’s time for me to offer these skills in return to the next crop of eager, possibly a little nervous, young men.

Sessions are not discounted. This coaching is hands on and a branch of the work I already do. I won’t do a coaching session shorter than two hours and it is strongly suggested you plan on several sessions not more than a month apart.

At this time I will not be seeing couples or women *for coaching*. Womxn are still encouraged to come in for nourishing bodywork and enjoy 50% off on their first two sessions. Couples are welcome to book a minimum two hour session for regular intimate companionship and are not currently subject to an additional fee. My practice is growing but for now I’m sticking to what I feel most at home with.

My gratitude for those who shared their wisdom, my excitement for those with wisdom in their future, and my pleasure for all good people, wherever you are.

I rarely tour. I don’t like to travel on a tight schedule or with uncertainty and I prefer to stack reasons for visiting an area. If I have friends, family, or other reasons to visit somewhere, I might travel far afield, but I generally don’t prefer to travel alone, or far from home without a very good reason.

I have also generally declined to fly bespoke to locations near and far. When I travel, I stay at my location long enough to make the irritations of air travel worthwhile. I like to get my boots on the ground and enjoy the area I spent so much time, effort, and jet fuel to reach. This means my fly-me-to-you minimum would be quite a long appointment. I never thought that would be worth it to anyone but, since folks have been asking, here it is.

First: check my calendar. If you see several days of availability in a row, it’s likely I’m not busy for enough hours in a row to allow a trip. If you are planning ahead I can sometimes make room.

Second: Calculate my minimum appointment length. My minimum appointment will be: (flight time + 75 minutes) x3, then round up. A trip to LA is a twelve hour appointment. Chicago would be 15 hours. Flight time includes layovers so small towns mean longer appointments.

Third: Send in your inquiry. For my darling friends who have met me before, that’s easy. For new clients, Submit a screening form first, then ask about the trip. This means asking about specific dates, not vague ideas about sometime late next month. Offer several dates if you can. Rose will confirm my availability or suggest alternatives.

Fourth: Get out your credit card. You will receive a deposit invoice equal to:

-25% of my fee (50% for new clients) – Partially refundable
-Premium class airfare – Nonrefundable
-Food Per Diem of 50$ per day – Refundable
-Hotel cost at our destination – Nonrefundable
**I will not discuss details of any trip without this deposit.**

Finally: Enjoy! I LOVE getting excited about trips. New eateries, museums, skylines and sunsets? How fun! Plush hotel beds and room service? Yes, please! Someone to share it with? Living the Dream.

If the above feels like all too much, why don’t you fly yourself to me? Seattle has much to offer the curious traveler. Fine chocolate, fresh seafood, gorgeous mountain sunsets, lush parks, quirky pit stops, and of course myself and my bevy of bodacious belles.

Wherever it happens, I look forward to seeing you there.

This past year I’ve been envious of my neighbors. Raised beds, tiny lawns, fruit trees, trellises, rain wise gardens, way more tomatoes than is strictly necessary, all inspiring longing and envy. I love being outside and I love working with my hands. I love food and green growing things. I love the smell of blooming shrubs and trees. I love the satisfaction of eating something I coaxed from the earth myself. And I live in an apartment.

I’m finally going to have my own garden. Back east, somewhere in the general vicinity of Spokane, there’s a place I go sometimes. I’ve been here for the past four days and right now my hands are so, so tired. I’ve been raking and digging and drilling and hammering and picking up and putting down and ripping out and planting and hopefully, by next spring, it will all burst forth with greenery and beauty.

But right now it’s dirt and empty and holy hell my hands hurt and I tried to fit an eight foot by two inch by twelve inch plank in my Prius (successfully, with clear awareness of how ridiculous I looked loading them (yes them. There were four) into my hatchback) and I only fixed one of the screen doors… Projects are endless but it feels good to watch them progress.

I am not a submissive lover but after this week I understand absolutely the pleasure of marking. Marking, usually bruising, often simply soreness, sometimes something as extreme as scarring, is a reminder to the bearer of good damn times. My hands are sore and my back hurts, I’ve got a scrape on one shin and bruise on the other, there are matching blisters on my thumbs, and I am in sore need of a manicure. They’ll heal and fade and that’s for the best, but as I type, I can feel the evidence in my body of the work I’ve been doing the past four days. It feels good.

After 18 months of forced doing-nothing-ness, it feels good to have, and work on, a project. In retrospect I should have been doing this all last summer but hindsight and all. I thrive on projects. Little things like replacing a switch or rearranging the furniture. Big things like moving house or building a garden. All of them feel good to do, and to have done. I sometimes pile on more than I should, and get mad at myself when I don’t get it all done, but without them, I flounder.

So it was no surprise to my friends and family when, last year, I fell somewhat apart. I did make a short film, and a website for it. And I did play all of Zelda: Breath Of The Wild (I will fight anyone who says that’s not an accomplishment). And I did continue to volunteer weekly taking care of shelter animals. But I didn’t finish learning French and I didn’t knit myself any more hats and I didn’t build a garden and I didn’t join a digital choir and I didn’t build the new Seattle sex worker website and…. And it took another year for me to be ok with that.

And I am. Ok, I mean. Life kinda got stuck there for a minute and I *did* learn to forgive myself a little. But man am I glad to be back in the thick of some projects. I return to school for a certificate program in just a few days and my sore hands tell me I did something big this weekend. Week. I have planning to do for other things and there’s a surprise in the works for my darling clients in the coming months.

But for now, I and my tired fucking hands are going to sit by the fire and try to catch up on my crosswords.

It’s good to be back.

I went for a long walk last night. I started out just wanting to stretch my legs. I’ve been awfully sedentary the last little while and my restlessness is finally getting the better of me. It’s a restlessness I’ve felt in all aspects of life. I’m not as busy as I want to be (though if you’d asked me about it two weeks ago I’d have had a different answer). Not with work *or* with my personal projects. I missed a major opportunity last spring to disappear into the woods for three months and avoid *gestures broadly at the world*.

So I was restless and started walking, aiming for the nearest hill and a direction I don’t usually go. I didn’t have a clear idea of where I was going but about halfway there I realized I was going to the beach. Up hills, down them again. Up more hills… until I found myself on a pitch black sidewalk under a hooting owl. Rabbits racing through the bushes kept startling me. Dark and quiet, in a place full of other people, is unsettling. I could see a crackling fire off to one side and avoided it. Looked hard through the windows of the cars checking for strangers. I aimed for the beach and walked softly, trying not to alert the person at the other end of the shoreline.

It took a minute, but once I assured myself no one was coming to bother me, I settled in to watch the water.

I love being at the water’s edge. Something about the sound of the waves rustling, the reflection of the light on the water, the pebbles, skittering as they come in and go out again. It felt soothing. Calm. But not quite right.

Light from the east side reflected off the clouds and the water. Only the very brightest stars were showing. I could hear someone coughing. I would see a flicker of flame, hear a breath, then a cough. I tried not to think too hard about what exactly he was smoking. The drum circle didn’t feel safe and welcoming, it made me nervous. Everyone kept to themselves, as I expected. And everything was fine, but I was unsettled.

I realized it wasn’t home.

For the first time, I realized that Seattle isn’t quite home anymore. Sure, I love the restaurants and that you can find culture wherever you go. I love that it’s an enormously sex positive space full of people striving to do better. But sitting in the sand, listening to the waves, my feeling wasn’t what I had hoped it would be. I wanted to be out at the lake.

It took another forty minutes to get home. Once I got back to the land of the street lights I felt much better and started to dissolve into imaginings. A warm barn with bleating goats and crooning chickens. The smell of alfalfa hay. A walking path that smells of balsam and dark earth. The lake lapping at the sand just a few steps from my door. The dark a welcoming blanket instead of nervous veil.

I remember one year, at Christmastime. I couldn’t sleep. It was late and dark. Everyone was asleep. I sat by myself in the living room, watching the tree. Some of the lights were those blinky ones, the ones that go off and on at a slow tempo. With my glasses back in my room, the halos around the lights that stayed on grew and shrank as my pupils dilated and contracted over and over. I don’t know how long I sat there, childish wonder keeping me awake.

Just a few weeks ago, in Charlottetown, walking to the pier at 2 on a Tuesday morning. The only people around were clustered at the only open bar. The only sounds at the water’s edge were the swish of the wind, the tinkle of rigging against masts, the shushing of the waves as they came in and out. Even though I wasn’t home, I felt safe.

Sitting by the lake in the middle of the night under the milky way feels safe. It might not actually be any safer from human encroachment than the city, but it *feels* like it. I feel ownership and responsibility. I know the people who might come down and join me. And that they probably won’t. I know the steps of the trail such that I don’t need light. The sounds of the bats and the swallows as they skim across the water. All familiar.

I’ll be there tonight. At the lake, listening to the bats and the birds and the waves and my own heartbeat. Tomorrow I’ll tear out some undergrowth and try to build something. Always building. Or fixing. I love it. It feels like building a home.

I took a break from writing because, as I think I’ve said before, misery inspires some of the greatest writers to some of the greatest works in literature. I am not one of them. Inspiration, for me, is beauty and sunshine, joy and pleasure. The past 18 months have been spare on joy.

But today, for the first time in a very, very long while, I *wanted* to write. I’ve told this story a few times in longer and shorter versions so this may not be new to every reader but I can’t help but share my nonconsensual night in Toronto.

A few weeks ago I visited friends all the way over on the west coast of America’s friendly hat. Prince Edward Island is a little province north of Maine, famous for Anne of Green Gables, Lucy Montgomery’s red headed spitfire, idol of many a feisty young girl. PEI is the New Zealand of Canada: rolling hills, friendly farmers… I half expected to see a hobbit hole if I looked close enough.

For five days we dug for clams, ate cheese curds on fries, swam in a deliciously warm ocean, stayed up late drinking mead and watching Werner Herzog documentaries, and enjoyed what for some of us was our first meaningful human touch since March of 2020.

I had been planning two trips at the same time when I booked my flights. The dates for both trips are similar but not exact. Unfortunately in my double booking, I scheduled myself to leave a day before everyone else. I tend to try to make the best of things but I was missing out and my heart was heavy as I headed to the airport. I had a long day ahead of me: take a puddle jumper from the island to Toronto, wait two hours for my flight to Detroit, then four more hours before finally coming home. I was already tired by the time I reached my connecting gate in Toronto but, resigned to the day, I plugged in my phone and curled up in a corner.

I had seen a sign asking passengers to upload their negative covid tests but I had assumed that was for foreigners entering, not for citizens returning. Until I heard my name over the intercom. The arrogant American tourist in me thought “they won’t keep me, right? I’m an American citizen, going back into America. They’ll chastise me and put me on the plane because otherwise I’ll miss my flight. I’m an American. I’ll be fine.”

Incorrect. At fifteen minutes to boarding, I was escorted back through security and pointed in the general direction of the ticket counters. The agent apologized for the trouble. Both of us knew I wasn’t making that flight. She told me that she would have to check to be sure but, though they would put me in the next seat from Toronto to Detroit for free, that next seat was on Tuesday. It’s currently Saturday.

Crying in public is really no fun. People try to fix whatever is making you cry but they usually can’t, so you wind up with people just being uncomfortable near you while you are also, but usually more, uncomfortable. Crying behind a mask helps prevent conspicuous onlookers, but presents soggy issues of its own.

So I’ve missed my flight, I’ve returned to the ticket counter for Delta but no one is there so I go to speak to WestJet. The agent does her best but, like a rube, I purchased my tickets third party and it’s a Delta flight operated *by* WestJet so after a half hour standing in line and on the phone, I am referred back to the Delta counter where an agent has appeared.

I figure that if I fly to Vancouver, at least there I can simply rent a car and drive home. And Covid tests are only required for international flights.

Incorrect. The Delta agent tells me I need a test for every flight, even to Vancouver, and points me at a train to a parking garage where I can get a rapid test.

The outlet on my puddle jumper wasn’t working and, assuming I’d have access to outlets all over the airport and on the next flight, I hadn’t guarded my phone battery very well. Smart phones are magical devices, granting access to knowledge of and connectivity to every corner of the world. Sometimes I forget just how useful they are. Standing in line, staring angrily at signs asking me to register for my test online, I remembered. I was also extremely conscious of my mood. I try to recognize that the service people helping me have really nothing to do with my bad mood and it’s not fair to be rude to them. I can hear my clipped sentences and add “hyper aware of how upset I am” to the list of reasons I am now upset.

I got my test, the fourth test I’ve gotten in less than a week, returned to the terminal, and speak to the gate agent at Delta again. There are no more Delta flights that day. She can’t issue me any refunds or credits because, having booked third party, I have no privileges and she has no flexibility. What she does find, however, is a flight to Vancouver with WestJet. It leaves in 90 minutes. I am light on my feet. TSA preckeck, a backpack and nothing else, no liquids… I can do this.

Correct. *I* can do this. The HERD OF COWS in front of me cannot. Between the family of five with two under two, the old lady whose bag is two kilos overweight but can’t possibly leave any precious items behind, and the sheer volume of folks in line… my excitement at maybe getting home tonight starts to fade. I watch the minutes tick by on my wrist. Ninety minutes to boarding. Seventy five minutes to boarding. An hour. Forty five minutes.

I have now cried perhaps five times in the past two hours? Maybe six. Most of them have been relatively containable but I can feel it coming. There are gonna be actual sobs this time. Not only am I far from home, I’m stuck, and my friends are still in our gorgeous air bnb, relaxing on the patio and celebrating their successful SCUBA certification. Not only am I lonely, I’m hot. I haven’t eaten in nine hours. I’m tired. I’ve got a headache coming on. I am *this* close to ugly crying in (a not socially distanced at all) line at the airport.

I’m out.

There was a hotel next to the testing garage. I’m getting a room so I can cry in private. “What brings you here today?” “I missed my flight” “Oh. I’m sorry.” One word answers make it easier to hold it together but I feel rude. “I’m sorry fo…” I’m sorry for not being polite. I was going to say that. I tried. I collected my room key as quickly as possible.

You know in movies when someone sits on the floor of their shower stall and cries into the water? That really happens sometimes. It feels so good (or at least less bad) to wash off the stress sweat and the salt. To feel fresh water sweep over you and really let it out. Privacy and resignation, a little catharsis… fifteen minutes later I felt a little better.

I plugged in my phone and climbed into bed naked. Texted to let people know I was safe and wasn’t coming home that night. Thanked my sweet rescuer who wired me enough to cover the hotel room and the very expensive ticket for a flight home the next day. Checked in for the flight and submitted my test results. Felt a little better. Still needed to eat something.

What the heck. I’m in one of the largest international food hotspots for the night. There’s a light rail directly downtown. I’m stuck here and if I have to be here for a night, I should make the best of it. I’ll regret it if I don’t. My phone’s got juice now, its warm outside, and I’m gonna go treat myself after a long and disappointing day.

This was not the right decision. Never let fear dictate your travel plans. The fear of missing out drove me into the world and the world kicked my ass.

The light rail leaves every half hour. I time it perfectly, get a ticket for the 7:30 train, step towards the doors, and a little old lady stops me to ask for help buying a ticket. Theres only a few minutes before the train leaves but I’m me and I can’t help myself and so I try… I have no idea how someone alive today doesn’t understand how to put money into a vending machine. She struggled so much with it the transaction timed out. I hate leaving someone who needs help but I can hear the announcement “doors closing” and make a break for it. Cue cinematic cliche number two: the doors close practically on my nose and I press the open button frantically and to no avail. sigh.

I kept reminding myself to be charitable. Kind to the people around me, even if they can’t hear what I’m thinking at them. The next train was already there so I took a seat and prepared to wait. Again. More. Two young people sat in front of me, chatting away about their travels. In another mood I’d have thought it was cute. Kismet. Youngsters in a foreign country bumping into someone from home. Budding love. Ugh. Gross. Fuck off ya twats!

I had dressed for the heat but the train was air conditioned so now I’m late, hungry, tired, cold, headachey, and still determined to make the best of it. I’ve picked a place called Alo. French food with local Canadian ingredients. Good cocktails. Highly rated. I love walking as a way of appreciating new places. The streets are bustling, everyone’s dressed in their Saturday night best, the girls all have their tits out and there are firm asses everywhere. It feels like there’s never even been a pandemic and all the blisters and irritation are worth it. The weather is perfect: warm and cozy. I’ve given myself permission to miss the last train back and just enjoy dinner. I can always have them call me a cab.

With really nice places on Saturday nights, it is wise to call ahead and check if there’s room.

At this point in the day, every time I hear no I just have to laugh. No you can’t get on the plane. No you can’t book another flight. No you won’t get anything back. No, you can’t get on the train. No you have no clean clothes. No, there’s no room for a single diner tonight.

Well I suppose I’ll just grab something quick and catch that train after all.

The blisters don’t really seem worth it anymore.

No, I did not fly across the country to get Dairy Queen, no matter how delicious it sounds.

That reminds me. There was an ice cream shop on the map on the waterfront. It’s hot, it’s late, ice cream on the lake sounds perfect! I can still salvage the night.

Are pedestrian traffic lights always this long in Toronto?

I’m getting flashbacks to standing in line for a ticket, watching the minutes slip away faster than seems appropriate. Watching my ice cream window get smaller and smaller. Watching it close.

Fine. No ice cream. But I have to eat something. It’s been twelve hours since breakfast and I’m thirsty, too. The words “Pulled Pork Poutine” in enormous letters on the side of a food truck signal my salvation. How delicious and perfect! Hot salty meat on fried potatoes, squeaky cheese curds, and a cold sweaty bottle of water.

Hahahahahaha! The poutine truck is out of poutine. The only bottle of water they have left is the displaying that’s been sitting in the heat all afternoon. They can make me a burger. I hope they can make it quickly.

Lolnope. That burger and the fancy boobs were the highlight of the entire day. Elegantly seasoned, cooked to perfection, on a brioche bun with fresh toppings, it was definitely worth the time it took to make it. Unfortunately ‘worth the time it took’ and ‘have the time it took’ are different things. Despite walking as fast as one can walk with a map in one hand and a dripping sandwich in the other, despite almost getting hit by a bevy of bicycles (cinematic cliche number three), despite running as many pedestrian lights as felt safe (very few), I missed the last train home.

The second guy in line at the taxi stand agreed to take me to the airport for fifty bucks (first guy said…… you guessed it: no). He got the last of my American cash at a 1:1 exchange rate. I hope he had a nice rest of the night.

The hotel bar is closed for renovations. Would I like a tiny overpriced bottle of off-brand Chardonnay? Finally, my turn to say no.

Fucking Toronto.

I believe I have discharged my accumulated bad karma from the past seven years. I have never had a day so full of mistakes, disappointments, tiny irritations and aches that stacked, one on top of the other, until they began to feel inevitable. By the end of the day it was either cry more or laugh hysterically. I was too tired to do either.

I got a late checkout the next day, slept in, and caught a direct flight back to Seattle. On which there was a medical emergency. I’ve never been on a flight that had to wheel someone out on a stretcher but it felt appropriate that this one was my first. Like this poor woman took over for me on the crappy karma train and I watched as it left me at the station.

Fucking Toronto