Westside

My B.C. days were up and down. I had a lot of ups and some major downs. Such as the duality of life. I originally left T.O. because I wanted a better life for my daughter and me.

I was involved with a piece-of-shit dude. Honestly, they were all unworthy, selfish, self-serving pieces of shit! The men I seemed to have been drawn to—not one of them had any integrity or the ability to care for anyone other than themselves.

This particular piece of shit, Chet, I knew was no good for me right from the start—just like the rest of them. But the sex with Chet blew my mind! I knew him from seeing him around in after-hours. He was older and much more advanced than I was, to say the least. To say that he was super popular would be an understatement—he knew everybody, and everybody wanted a piece of him. Whether it was to lend an ear, clothes, sex, or just to be in his company, he was a wanted man.

Chet was sexy as fuck back then. He was way ahead of my time. I think he was ahead of his own time. He was a force to be reckoned with. After years of seeing him around in the clubs and the after-hours, one morning I woke up, and he was in my bed, and I was like, what the faaaaaak!! It was just like a scene in the movies when the girl wakes up after partying all night, looks over, and goes, “oh fuck.'“ That’s exactly what it was like.

I woke up surprised. We had only known each other just from seeing each other around. We had mutual friends, but until that day, we had never had a conversation—not once.

I never saw that coming. I don’t know how we came together or got home. We ended up ordering food that day, and we chilled for a few hours—we actually clicked. Taurus–Virgo. Earth people, supposedly a match made in heaven. HA! Any other Taurus who didn’t have a blocked heart—maybe.

Kayla was about 2 or 3 years old. She was at her grandma's house, as she was pretty much every weekend. I wasn’t the type of mother to bring random men home to sleep in my bed with my daughter in the house, no matter how drunk I was—I wasn’t down for that. Truth be told, I never had any respect for the single mothers that did that shit. Unless he was my man-man, my daughter never saw anyone.

Chet was older than me by 5-6 years. A full-on womanizer and a career criminal in a different line of work than I was in—he was more of a con, but that fucker was a chameleon—he could swing any which way at any given time as long as there was something in it for him.

I knew better than to get emotionally involved with him, but after that one night, he kept calling me, and I was like, oh boy, is this really gonna happen again? It kinda felt wrong, but the energy and the chemistry we had between us was off the hook! I had me some good lovin’s before, but this was some next-level shit! It was the early ’90s—Jodeci days, Aaron Hall playing in the background, and he knew how to put it down like nobody and nothing I had ever experienced before!

It was supposed to be entirely just sex—that was it—but we had a connection, we meshed, and after sleeping with him 2, 3, 4 times a week for 8-9 months, well—unless you’re a narcissist or a robot—after spending that much time with someone—you’re bound to catch feelings. He was catching them too, well, as much as a man with an ego his size would allow. We never sat around talking about feelings—not until I decided to leave Toronto.

Chet, being the womanizer that he was always had somebody else on the go—shit maybe a few! I always suspected but never knew who and never wanted to know. I pretended it didn’t bother me and after 8-9 months of his steady touch—I had fully fallen for him.

The last one he started fucking was a little too close for to home for me and I got hurt, more than I could disguise. That wasn’t supposed to happen because I knew from day one this was just a temporary fling, but it wasn’t—wasn’t temporary at all. As I was contemplating leaving Toronto and had the opportunity to go to Vancouver—once I found that shit out, it just made it all the easier to walk away—so I did.

I had an uncle out there—a “good uncle!” I have seven uncles on my mom’s side. She was the second born of eight children. The oldest uncle, the firstborn, I didn’t know much about; we weren’t close. The other two uncles—offside. The one I previously spoke of, the “bad uncle,” is a full-blown fucking pedo! The other three uncles, the three youngest, were and are amazing uncles! If it wasn’t for those three—Randy, Kevin, and Gary, I don’t know where I’d be today! They were uncles, but when I think about it today—the way they showed up for me and when they showed up—looking back, it’s almost like they were angels! They were there for me when I was in some seriously fucked-up situations after I left home.

Kevin is 10 years older than me. He moved to BC in the '80s. He and I were always cool. He saw me—my capabilities. He saw exactly who I was—from the gymnastics to the writing I’m doing today. He used to take me downtown on Yonge Street for walks on Sundays. He introduced me to the Panzerotti!

I never had deep conversations with any of my uncles back then. What? Was I supposed to tell them about their cool brother and what he was doing to me? Ya—no! 9 out of 10 times, the abused just shuts up in shame. I was one of the 9.

Kevin was cool, and we had a special connection. He was smart—science smart—and I looked up to him. He was a right-or-wrong type of guy; all about the rules.

We stayed in contact while he was out west. When Toronto was looking like a dead-end for me and I came to those crossroads—he offered me an opportunity to go out there and stay with him until I got on my feet. He was very encouraging and very convincing that this was nothing but the right move for me to make. And it was. Instead of paying rent the following month, I put all of our shit in storage, bought two plane tickets, and Kayla and I were off—we moved out to British Columbia.

Right away, I started working with my uncle. He’s a Printing Ink Technician Specialist. Basically he makes ink. He was running this plant, Hoffman & Steinberg, and he took me on—showed me the ropes—I was slanging ink! I was moving ink from one barrel to the next with two tools that looked like scrapers. I learned how to pick up ink with those two tools and move it from one bin to the next—that's how it's done, or at least that’s how it was done in the '90s. I truly hope they’ve modernized that process by now and found a faster, more efficient way to do that shit because it was fucking hard, exhausting, tedious work, and it was messy as fuck at first, but I got the hang of it.

It was probably one of the toughest, dirtiest jobs I’ve ever had. That first day, I was covered in ink. As the weeks went on, by the end of my shifts, I was less dirty (full of ink) than I was the day before. I did that for about six weeks. I got another job as a sample girl in Safeway on the weekends and I had another job at the Superstore as a price checker, I was busy.

I remember one day when working at Hoffman & Steinberg. I stood looking outside from the back of the warehouse at the rain. Rain, rain, rain. I can’t remember what month it was, but it rained for the first three months I was there. It was damp, dark, and dreary every day. I remember thinking to myself, what the fuck did I do? Is this a mistake?

It was not a mistake. Once that sun came out in B.C. It was fucking beautiful! A mountain view all the time—everywhere, clean air, and greenery like you’ve never seen. There's nothing like it—every time you walk outside or you’re on the SkyTrain, you just couldn’t help but be in awe, of the mountains and the sky behind them. Vancouver is absolutely beautiful.

Chet claimed to be oh so sad to see me go and started writing me letters, lots and lots of letters, expressing his feelings and his desire to be with me.

Chet was on me. Ideally, he wanted to go to B.C. He knew Toronto had dried up and hurting just as I did. As a matter of fact, he told me when I walked away, the day I was leaving, that he was coming for me out there. I was like, ya, okay, bud, in my head, until the letters started pouring in.

After 3 months, Kayla and I had settled in real good. We had a great apartment—it was bright and had a huge yard. My jobs were steady, the West Coast was chill, laid back, a whole different vibe than what I was used to, and I loved it! I wasn’t sure I wanted him to come out. I healed from the sadness of him—time apart did wonders. I was good.

A couple months later, he came out for a visit, and he was doing all the things to show and prove while professing his undying love for me. That he couldn’t be without me, and in my head, I was thinking he’s leaving his kids behind—his whole life behind—and all the bitches he had on the go—maybe it is real! I was convinced he wanted to be with me. 

It was nice to see him. We had that chemistry, the sex was off the chain, and let me tell you something—that good dick will fuck your head up every time, and every time—that was my downfall! The flames between him and I sparked back up. He stayed for a week or two. He was cleaning, cooking, doing it all and putting on a good show. The two friends I had at the time thought he was the cat’s meow—all that showin’ and provin’ he was doing, they were like, “Oh yeah, girl, he fucking loves you, look at him cooking, he even made you clothes, what a man!” HA! He was a designer, and a good one.

It was one of his many talents, he created some top-tier pieces. It's too bad nothing big ever came of it just like all of his other projects because the potential was definitely there.

Them Scotians, I tell ya, they are a special breed! “Scotians with the motions!” I don’t think there was a woman out there that didn’t find him charming or attractive. My friends in B.C. had no clue about this breed! They had no fucking clue what they were getting themselves into hanging out with me.

I warned them from day one!—I told them all, “These men you’re gonna see around here, some of them are real pretty, they’re smooth as fuck, hard to say no to. But listen to me—pay attention—for your own good stay the fuck away from them—ALL of them. Do not get involved. Do not sleep with any of them or fall for their shit! Cause’ it won’t end well!”

He went back to T.O. I was out and about looking around and doing my own thing. There was a lot of men from Seattle that came up to Vancouver on the weekends. The downtown clubs were full of men, tall men, big men, beautiful American men! There’s a spot in Bellingham, Seattle, where all the ballers go, footballers to train, from all over the states. So, when they were down there, they’d come up to Vancouver to party. Seattle was only 30-40 minute drive away.

I was checking out the action, thinking to myself—do I really want him to come out here?

I should’ve told his ass to stay in Toronto!