Who
I’m 36 years old and bisexual, pansexual, queer—all of them work. I live in Toronto, part-time alone with my 15-year-old cat and part-time with my partner in his two-bedroom apartment.
What
Virtual sex parties hosted by Oasis Aqualounge in Toronto.
Why
Oasis Aqualounge was the first place that made me want to be part of a community. I’m a bit of a lone wolf, in part because I live within some liminal spaces. I’m neither straight nor gay. I’m a raging socialist who also works in tech. I spent most of my 20s as a nomad, finally settling in Toronto because it’s (mostly) a great place to be queer.
My first Oasis visit, eight years ago, was a queer one: A Pleasure Palace event for women and trans people. It’s where I met one of my best friends––we played together a few times then became close friends, as queer women often do. After our first encounter, we would meet at Oasis to catch up over a cocktail and some candy from the communal bowl at the bar (pre-COVID-19 behaviour, wow!). Because why not gab with an old friend while someone gets fisted five feet away?
My current partner and I are polyamorous, but we’ve agreed on exclusivity during the pandemic. We were both regulars at Oasis in the Before Times, but separately––and we somehow never crossed paths. A few months into lockdown, we found ourselves trading Oasis stories as a way to reminisce about our previous selves: Curious, open-minded folk who loved exploring sexuality with people of all genders.
We joined Oasis online to remind ourselves that we’re still those people, even during something as unsexy as a global pandemic.
Making connections
On-camera sex comes with some risk. Screen recording makes it possible for someone to capture your grainy, ecstasy-laden face––should you choose to show it in frame––and immortalize your pixellated sex tape for the internet mausoleum.
But the combination of risk and voyeurism is also what drew me in through the cloud of pandemic monotony. I was alone or with my partner, in lockdown, but the space around us had shifted––the act of observation changing that which is observed.
Amidst all the webcam creeping and whisper-chatting, my partner and I discovered other forms of connection, too: Sex worker Q&As, appreciation nights for bisexual men and whiskey tastings are items on a virtual event menu that don’t deplete my social batteries like so many others do.
Soon we were regulars among other regulars, and now we’re often chatting with friends while someone else is putting on a show. If we squint hard enough, we can imagine ourselves at Oasis, post-pandemic, catching up with friends while a bondage show is happening in the next room.
How queer is it?
To be gay is to be othered by heteronormative society for the queer sex you have. To be bisexual is to be othered by everyone for all the sex you have.
My boyfriend and I are both queer and we are both invisible, if only because we are together.
Oasis online events are queer because they challenge hetero- and homonormative categorizations of sex. When you’re attending an Oasis event, you’re not asking yourself, “What is the right kind of consensual sex I should be having?” Instead, the community teases out a different question: “What is the kind of consensual sex that works for me?”
My partner and I have found so many other couples like us: Both bisexual, both curious, both willing to untangle and examine our evolving desires and preferences. And while I’ve met plenty of other bisexual women in my travels, my partner doesn’t come across as many bisexual men. Oasis is a hub for sexually open-minded people and, as it turns out, a place that attracts sexually fluid men.
Surprise!
Sex may be the main attraction at Oasis, but it’s not the only feature on offer. My partner and I weren’t feeling particularly sexy one night, so we turned on our mic and ran through something of an impromptu comedy routine. Our camera remained in the top five most-watched slot for most of the night, no doubt alongside more sensual viewing.
How to approach it
Attending your first online sex party doesn’t need to feel intimidating. You can choose to lurk in the digital shadows and remain anonymous, kind of like I did in 1999 when I trolled bisexual Yahoo! chat rooms as a confused queer teen.
Just don’t forget that consent is mandatory in digital spaces, too. If someone doesn’t accept your private chat request, take that as a no and move on. And don’t even think about recording your screen when someone is putting on a show––their performance doesn’t give you a free pass to capture it.
Approach an online sex party with curiosity, excitement and relief that queer spaces can still exist within the nooks of a pandemic-fuelled, worldwide lockdown. If we don’t support sex-positive spaces now, they may be a long time coming back when we can be together again.
Have you found an imaginative way to create community in these physically-distanced times? Email us your story idea here.
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