Boreal

LOVE, SEX & 2 1/2 SUICIDES

Margaret

(Formatted for the web)

“It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.” I was crossing at the top of Canada Way on a misty January morning to take the bus to Simon Fraser when I noticed the activity at the bottom of the hill.

It was the first day of classes and I did not want to be late. Just another fender-bender, I thought, and paid it no further attention except to ask a young woman at the bus stop if she had seen what had happened. She had not. Her name was Margaret. And that is how we met.

Such a beautiful girl! If it had not been for the collision at the bottom of Canada Way, I doubt I would have had the nerve to even say hello. With Margaret I experienced Dickens’ best and worst of times—minus the guillotine.

Margaret had moved to Vancouver (Burnaby) from Windsor, Ontario. She had moved to escape her past. It would catch up to her. She had rented a room with a bathroom and kitchenette across Canada Way from where I was staying.

It wasn't long before I was spending many an evening at her place, lying on her bed, smoking one of her Craven M's while watching her strum her guitar and hum the lyrics to Mr. Bojangles or Janice Joplin’s “Me and Bobby McGee.”

I never tired of hearing her sing out of tune, or watching her struggle with a difficult chord that she never got quite right.

She started opening up to me in a weird sort of way; sometimes she seemed extremely knowledgeable, then other times exceedingly naïve when it came to sex. She talked about her reason for coming to Vancouver.

She explained that she had been sexually assaulted while hitchhiking between Windsor and Toronto. One of the two men was about to be released from custody, and she did not want to be around when that happened. When we first became intimate, she confided that it was the first time she had been with a man since the assault.

We had been friends for maybe a month before the apparent glorious reawakening of Margaret to the joys of sex and, like with Joyce, it caught me completely by surprise. Friday night was pub night at Simon Fraser or at Shakey’s Pizza Parlour and Pub in New Westminster.

It was when we were alone in the back of the bus returning from an evening at Shakey’s that she snuggled up to me, laid her head on my shoulder and whispered, “Is it okay if I fall in love with you?” I was already in love with her but did not dare admit it. Even after that unexpected vulnerable whisper, all I could do was hold her even closer.

Later that night I was sprawled on her bed, not knowing what to think, what to say or what to expect when she left the room and returned a few minutes later wearing a white bathrobe, which she let fall to the floor or placed on a chair; I don't remember what she did with it exactly. That's not important. One moment it was on, the next it was off.

Naked, she walked to her side of the bed and lifted the covers. She did not lie down, but sat on the side of the bed, watching and waiting while I took my clothes off.

I was not keeping score, but obviously Margaret was. Sitting on the side of the bed next to me in the morning, Margaret’s mood vacillated between elation – “We did it five times!” – and worry: “What if I get pregnant?”

I waited until I was back in my place before going to the bathroom. That was a good thing. Ouch, ouch, ouch and ouch again, it burnt. I might as well have been spewing hot lava. Was it possible that I had contracted an STD in such a short time?

Without telling Margaret, I visited the medical clinic at Simon Fraser. They assumed it was gonorrhea without inquiring as to my sexual history. They gave me a shot of penicillin, some condoms and sent me on my way assuring me that everything should be back to normal in a few days.

Three days later I was again at the clinic with the symptoms, if anything, having gotten worse. An appointment was made for that afternoon with an off-campus physician.

Doctor: When was the last time you had sex?

Me: Last Friday night.

Doctor: And the time before that?

Me: At least six or seven weeks.

Doctor: I think I know what the problem is, but I will need a sperm sample to confirm.

He obtained what he needed via a prostate massage. That was different, but not unpleasant.

As I am writing this, I am reminded of a question that British comedian Ricky Gervais would like to ask God should they ever meet: “If you hate homosexuality so much, why did you put the male G-spot up the ass?”

After looking at my sperm under a microscope in his office, the doctor explained that, if I have not had not sex in a long time, I should not overdo it when the opportunity presented itself. He then went on to explain the role of the prostate in ejaculation and that, if don’t give it a chance to deflate before going at it again, it may stay inflated—which explained my symptoms.

He reached for some pills in a cabinet. “Take these for the next couple of days.” By the time I again joined Margaret in bed, all my symptoms had disappeared and she was none the wiser. To be safe, I mixed it up a little; more cunnilingus, less coitus.

My prostate adventure aside, even the weather gods conspired to make this the best of times. Springtime in Vancouver tends to be misty and grey, but not that spring. Even on days when the lower mainland was socked in with low-lying clouds, mountaintop Simon Fraser was bathed in sunshine.

Where that sunshine was most agreeable was in the legendary courtyard on the grass (which has since been replaced by paving stones, sigh). Next to the pond in the middle of that great grey raised square—Arthur Erickson’s tribute to the celebrated monasteries and early universities of Europe—is where we did what all college kids do: talk about how we were going to change the world, tell jokes, and laugh at anything and everything.

She thought I had a wonderful sense of humour. We talked about her favourite French male singer, a rugged-looking Quebecker by the name of Robert Charlebois. She did not understand all the words to his songs, but he was her type of guy. This should have been a hint.

Spring also meant the end of the winter semester; time to head back up the Fraser Valley to Kamloops. Margaret would come and visit me there, giving her small black dog Cricket what I have to assume were veterinary-prescribed sedatives to keep him quiet during the five-hour bus trip.

It was during one of these visits that she met my mother who was confined to her bed, the result of a stroke. The doctors did not hold out much hope that she would survive more than a few months. She asked to speak to Margaret in private.

What had my mother told her? How she was glad her son had found a girl like her; that she worried about me, and hoped that Margaret would look after her boy when she was gone. A few weeks later, she was dead. Mother died thinking that her sometimes weird, unpredictable boy was going to be okay because he had found the right girl. That was not a trivial thing.

I returned to Simon Fraser in the fall. Something had changed. First of all, the sex! Margaret gave indications in the games we played that she wanted me to take her the way she had been taken the night she was raped between Toronto and Windsor. She would pretend to fight me off as I attempted penetration. Often during these mock sexual assaults, I would lose my erection and there would be no rape play that night.

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Please be aware! Unlike a real rape, Margaret was wet in anticipation that her role-playing lover would roughly penetrate her without as much as a by-your-leave.

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When everything went according to plan—her plan—and I managed, despite her realistic pretend protestations, to pry open her legs and literally shove it in , she would shout out, “Oh, the pain, the beautiful pain,” and we were having straight sex.

I wish I had been more curious and asked her about what she was experiencing and thinking at the time; maybe we could have worked things out. Whether it was the rough and ready sex she now preferred, or the more progressive and romantic type that was my sex of choice, I was grateful for our physical intimacy. It was more than good enough for me, but obviously not for her.

More and more often Margaret wasn’t home until one day, I found her in bed with another man—my good friend Rakesh of all people.

Neil Diamond was playing at Vancouver’s Queen Elizabeth Theatre. I did not have the money to take Margaret to see him but Rakesh did. After the performance, rather than drop her off where she lived, he took her to his room on campus and that is where I found her the next morning. Bring on the worst of times. To this day, I find it difficult to listen to Sweet Caroline.

I saw less of her at Simon Fraser. She had discovered a cause, and that cause was Amchitka, a volcanic, tectonically unstable island in the Aleutian Islands.

Amchitka was the last great underground American test site for nuclear weapons. In 1971, the United States was planning its largest underground explosion ever: the Cannikin test. This particular nuclear test was highly controversial. Environmental groups feared that the Cannikin explosion would cause earthquakes and tsunamis along the B.C. coast. Large protests were held, some organized by Simon Fraser students and professors.

My last conversation with Margaret at Simon Fraser was about Amchitka. She did all the talking. It was a rather short conversation.

I had run into her as I came out of the library. She brought up the massive demonstration against the Cannikin test at the Blaine border crossing and how exciting that had been, and then continued on her way.

It had been some time since I had last seen her when I learned that she was in the hospital. I went to see her, picking a bunch of flowers on the way. It was the afternoon and she was asleep. There were no other visitors. I left the flowers on the table next to her bed and returned that evening. Again, I was the only visitor.

She asked about the flowers. It was like meeting again for the very first time.

We were just getting reacquainted when a nurse appeared to inform us that visiting hours were over. I hated to leave, and Margaret may not have wanted to see me go. I was barely out the door when the nurse asked me to wait outside. A few minutes later she came out of Margaret’s room and said, “You can go back in, but don’t tell anybody and be quiet.” She had dimmed the lights.

For the first time in a long time, we held hands and talked until she fell asleep. The worst of times got a little better and then she left; she got better, got on a plane and went home.

The Americans went ahead with the Cannikin test. They said that the big explosion on Amchitka did not cause any collateral damage, but don’t tell me that.

Margaret was first attracted to me because I was non-threatening. I lost some of that appeal when I was not threatening enough. The violence that was done to her changed her in ways she may not have expected, in ways I did not expect and would only begin to understand when it was too late.

Sex During Her Time of The Month

Thinking it might improve my prose when it came to writing about sex, I decided to read Fifty Shades of Grey by E. L. James.

Reads too much like a romance novel, meaning a lot of small talk between oohs and aahs, yet often short on details such as when the author describes Anastasia Steele (how did she come up with that name) having sex during her time of the month.

“When did you start your period, Anastasia?” he asks out of the blue, gazing down at me.

“Err... yesterday,” I mumble in my highly aroused state.

“Good.” He releases me and turns me around.

“Hold on to the sink,” he orders and pulls my hips back again, like he did in the playroom, so I’m bending down.

He reaches between my legs and pulls on the blue string… what! And… a (sic) gently pulls my tampon out and tosses it into the nearby toilet. Holy fuck. Sweet mother of all… Jeez. And then he’s inside me… ah! Skin against skin… moving slowly at first… easily, testing me, pushing me… oh my. I grip on to the sink, panting, forcing myself back on him, feeling him inside me. Oh the sweet agony… his hands clasp my hips. He sets a punishing rhythm – in, out, and he reaches around and finds my clitoris, massaging me… oh jeez. I can feel myself quicken.

“That’s right, baby,” he rasps as he grinds into me, angling his hips, and it’s enough to send me flying, flying high.

Whoa… and I come, loudly, gripping for dear life onto the sink as I spiral down through my orgasm, everything spinning and clenching at once. He follows, clasping me tightly, his front on my back as he climaxes and calls my name like it’s a litany or a prayer.

“Oh, Ana!” His breathing is ragged in my ear, in perfect synergy with mine.

“Oh, baby, will I ever get enough of you?” he whispers. Will it always be like this? So overwhelming, so all-consuming, so bewildering and beguiling.

I wanted to talk, but now I’m spent and dazed from his lovemaking and wondering if I will ever get enough of him?

It was good for her but was it good for him? Probably not, based on my experience, despite the author describing the scene with the penetrator enjoying himself as much as the penetratee (sic).

Margaret didn’t care for condoms when we first started having sex. She wanted to feel skin against skin, not as if I was wearing a sock, as one young woman described the experience of being fucked by a condomed prick. That was a long time ago when latex was the predominant material and manufacturing was not as precise.

The New Times, in 2025, reported that in a test involving both men and women, condoms made of ultra-sheer synthetic rubber that felt ”soft and skinlike” came out on top. No more excuses not to practice safe sex.

Except for the first time we had sex, when she appears to have thrown caution to the wind, Margaret expected me to perform coitus interruptus, withdrawing before ejaculation. If she felt I had left anything in, she would rush into the bathroom and stick a syringe into her vagina to rinse out any strays.

We were back in her bedroom talking and having a smoke when she left the room, returning dressed in her white bathrobe and holding a large towel.

I had already gotten off the bed and started to get undressed when she opened the covers and spread the towel on top of the bedsheet. She then took off her robe, flung it onto a chair, got into bed—settling her bum in the middle of the towel—spreading her legs wide before inviting me to fuck her, and nothing else.

On this occasion, I was grateful for the “nothing else.” A girl I knew by the name of Marilyn tested her boyfriends’ commitment by having them go down on her during her time of the month.

As she was spreading her towel, Margaret explained that she wanted me to come inside her and the safest time to do that was when she was menstruating.

Outwardly, nothing appeared different: no sign of blood. Only when the head parted her outer lips did I feel something was different. It was not the normal smooth slippery entry, but like I was unsticking a pair of shutters into her domain. This is, of course, a circumcised penis talking.

Advancing into that domain, it did not get any better. It was like I was plowing through a gooey and even gritty substance that at times felt like it contained small grains of sand, making it feel more like an abrasive than a lubricant. This could have had something to do with the viscosity of menstrual blood at the time we were having intercourse.

Menstrual blood viscosity varies throughout the cycle, typically ranging from thin/watery to thick, jelly-like, or stringy, often due to the shedding of uterine tissue and blood clotting. Viscosity is generally lowest at the start of bleeding and increases to a peak around day 7, with higher viscosity often observed during heavy flow or as clots.

Google AI

I found menstrual blood during intercourse left much to be desired. This was one time I could not wait to get out of there and declined all further invitations to repeat the experience. As to Margaret’s reaction, I think I would remember if it had been as memorable for her as it was for Miss Steele.