B Sides: Memory Lane and Roads Best Left Untravelled Brandon Ferguson, Opinions Editor Next to possibly contracting Hepatitis C from either the shady Thai food place on Spadina or maybe from kissing the hand of the Queen of Ethiopia (who reigns from beside a Smithrite garbage bin), the one thing I’ll take away from my time at the 68" Annual CUP Conference is both my sexuality soundly secured and my virgin asshole safely in tact. As with most student conferences, this one had its usual ups and downs: late nights, early mornings (or so I’m told), good speakers, bad food, pubescent girls on the cusp of babedom and boring boys on the threshold of balding; overpriced drinks, underweight dinks, overzealous security dudes with undue harassment and crude hankerings for long overdue sex. All in all, a terribly predictable affair. On the seventh and final night, amid the usual drama where friends realize who their friends really are, I took to the streets at around four in the morning to find out who I really was...again. Maybe I was just looking to buy more cigarettes; maybe I was secretly stalking Hillary Duff, in town that night playing the ACC; or maybe I simply need- ed to put my feet, iPod, and this wonderfully playful yet sinisterly speedy Playboy ecstasy to work. Whatever the case, dressed in jogging pants, a Legion’s blue blazer, and a Captain's hat, I strolled out into the brisk darkness of a Torontonian night. All week we’d been walking away from west; past the same Tim Horton’s, by the same Montreal smoked-meat shack, towards the same damn subway station; but rarely to the right. Among my mom’s more memorable Yogi Berra- ' like mantras—my personal favourite being “time takes time”—she always said that you can’t go wrong when you turn right. And a-right we go. After making my way to a gas station to get smokes, Sour Patch Kids, and some M&M’, I followed the sound south, down Spadina and up and over an orgy of snaking rail lines, down by the SkyDome and on to the wharf. When you're in Toronto and you want to find Lake Ontario, take a whiff—you smell for shit. My reasons for finding the wharf were twofold: I couldn’t smell anything, so the water’s unwelcome waft was a moot point; and, two years ago on my first trip to Toronto, I was arrested on the wharf and detained in the Arts Centre. This nostalgic walk was more about reliving memory than taking advantage of my nose’s sensory mis- givings. There’s an outdoor skating rink down on the water, next to the Arts Centre, in among benches, walkways, and stages. As I completed a wobbly axle and a klutzy lutz, an SUV slowly stalked along the rink side. A few strong glides and I’d reach the other side...just in time to find Sam, the sexually repressed, completely gay, security guard. I waved to the truck, which had stopped at my exit point. Walking over to it, there was an ominous stink to it—not threatening, but not safe. Idle chit chat as the SUV revved in neutral while my insides spun in fifth gear (why do Torontonians and Vancouverites always talk about the weather?), and the security guard asked if I wanted a tour of the Arts Centre. Well, it was cold out. And it was the scene of my crime. And it was 5am, so...nothing dodgy about this. He parked up ahead and I Motown shuffled on over while turning my music off. “T’m Sam,” he said, offering a big leather paw to shake. “T’m Raoul,” I returned, bearing in mind how much I hate authority, real or pretend. We walked silently into the dark Arts Centre. He, a Torontonian of Middle Eastern descent, jingle-jangled his keys ahead of me while strutting that security guard walk that simultaneously says “king of the world” and “gym class wedgie victim.” I stepped to unheard songs and surfed on unseen waves as my eyes darted back and forth in time to my hips. Pulling up a stair on the far foyer, we pick up the man- tle of meaningless banter. “How long have you worked this ‘beat’?” I ask, know- ing guard geeks love cop lingo. “A year and a half,” he says, a sense of pride sliding from his tongue with his tremendous lisp. “Any crazy shit ‘go down’?” I ask. “Not much,” he answers, with a giggle. We talk for a bit about careers and life choices and the differences between our cities; an otherwise amusingly mundane diatribe between two dorks at a coffee shop—if, of course, the coffee shop was an arts centre at 5am, one of the dorks was dressed like a sailor on E, and the other a Velcro-badge cop with a Taser. And then the subject changed faster than a cabaret dancer. “Stho,” he slithers, “what kind of crazy sthtuff to guyth like you get up to?” “T don’t know, Sam,” I say, wondering why the moon works and how it makes such crazy shadows way down here on earth. “Sometimes guys like me dress up in sailor outfits, get ripped on E, and walk around downtown Toronto listening to tunes and skating on rinks.” “Really?” he says with excitement and more giggles. “You're on E right now?” Giggle. Shit. “Yeah, Sammy. In Vancouver, we do all kinds of crazy stuff.” Sam turns towards me, animated. “Like what sthort of sthtuff...” “T don’t know, guy...” “Well, I like to do crazy things all the time...J mean, I go crazy...” I look him in the eye. I’m curious, but only about what this guy’s life is like. “What sort of things, Sammy?” “All kinds of things...” He goes on to tell me all about going to clubs, dancing with “girlsth, guysth, whatever,” and how his gay friend Chris thinks he’s wild and how he’d /ofally consider going all the way. I tell him about Vancouver, about how wonderful the diversity of our city is, how on any given night you can be any given person...and be celebrated for it. I tell him about my time dancing at The Odyssey, about how much I love the gay culture, about how much I wish I were bi-sexual. “Really?” he says with a squeak. “You’re...not? You seem bi.” , “T’d love to be, man, but it’s just not how I’m made. But wouldn’t it be great if you could fuck the whole world like Osama bin Laden?” He laughs, thankfully. I tell him my stock speech about why I’m not gay (stubble; plain and simple, it’s stubble) and about one of my hetero exploits involving multiple part- ners, champagne, strawberries, and Bodywoods (ask your local blow dealer). “Wow, that’th stho hot,” he says. “I think I’m getting kinda hard from that one.” He grabs his crotch. I gulp. He looks at me and I real- ize that I’m about to be ass-raped by a rent-a-cop. I pull the E-brake, crank the steering wheel, and buckle my belt a little tighter. “Look Sammy,” I say, knocking him on the knee. “I just want you to know that you’re not going to fuck me tonight, if that’s what you’re wondering,” For a few seconds, there’s only the sound of imaginary crickets and unwritten parking tickets. His head looks to his shoes, his mouth is agape. He shakes his head a little and squeaks like a 10-year-old who took too many cookies and has been caught, “TI...wasn’t....” “Yes you were, Sammy, and that’s okay. Have you ever come to terms with the fact that you’re gay? Because that’s pretty okay where I come from.” His mouth is now only slightly ajar. He’s looking at me. My hand is on his shoulder. “You know, Sammy, if you ever come out to Vancouver, I’d be happy to take you out and show you a good time, because that’s what we’re all about. It’s what we should all be about.” He didn’t say too much after that. We made the motions of men who have places to be at 5:30am; we moseyed over to the door, where we shook hands like men but smiled like friends. I thanked him for letting me warm up and he thanked me for hanging out. Being gay can be awfully tough when you’re growing up; maybe harder once you’re done. Like any station in life, you can only be where you’re wanted, and if they matter, then you’re only wanted when you're you. People just need a little respect and space to figure it out sometimes. Take a walk; fuck a dude; whatever. It just takes time. Time takes time.