The Vixen Files

By Laure L'Amour

Love, lust, sex, relationships, kinky, queer, questioning, BDSM, swingers, threesomes and plenty more fetish and fantasy topics can be found between the sheets of The Vixen Files: Naughty Notes from a Montreal Sex Columnist.

From October 2007 to December 2009 Laure L'Amour was a featured sex columnist in Montreal's alternative weekly paper, Hour. Though the Hour sadly folded in early 2012, Laure's cheeky "V for Vixen" columns live on in this new collection.

Featuring essays on subjects ranging from love and romance to sexual escapades and dysfunctions, L'Amour covers all the bases of the typical sex column with her own unique twist. Scrapping the usual Q&A style, she interviews local sex workers, burlesque performers and Montreal personalities; reviews a variety of sex toys and books; and comments on the permissive sexual culture of the city sometimes dubbed "the Sin City of the North."

Fans of Dan Savage, Violet Blue and Tristan Taormino will find plenty to explore in this collection of naughty notes from our neighbor to the north.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Buttontapper Press
• Release date: Jul 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781524207984

Book preview

The Vixen Files

Naughty Notes from a Montreal Sex Columnist

by Laure L’Amour, AKA The Vixen

© 2012 Laura Roberts

Published by Buttontapper Press

Essays originally published as part of the V for Vixen weekly column in Montreal's Hour newspaper, and online at Hour.ca

Cover design Buttontapper Press

TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

VIXEN IS IN DA HOUSE

HOW TO MAKE A FAKE MARRIAGE WORK

THINGS TO DO IN TORONTO WHEN YOU'RE DIRTY

BURLESQUE WITH THE BEST

WORDS AND FLICKS TO FIRE YOU UP

FINDING THE STASH

AIDS EDUCATION

PUTTING THE XXX IN XXXMAS

HOW NOT TO DATE MY FRIENDS

PLAY SAFE!

SEXY RESOLUTIONS

THE VIXEN GUIDE TO ORAL SEX

WHAT'S IN A VIRGIN?

DEAD DOLL TEACHES STRIPPING FOR THE LIVING

GETTING MORE JOY FROM YOUR TOYZ

DOES SIZE MATTER?

TITTIES GALORE

W FOR WEDDING

THE VIXEN GUIDE TO WOMEN

YES, MASTER

SEX WORKERS OF THE WORLD, UNITE!

THE KAMA SUTRA MUST DIE

THE VIXEN GUIDE TO TANTRIC SEX

KEEPING IT UP WITH THE JONESES

SEXY READING

POLYGAMY GONE WILD

THE VIXEN GUIDE TO DATING

MONTREAL GUIDE TO BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE

VIXEN ENTERPRISES

ROOFTOP MASTURBATION

CARRIE BRADSHAW IS RUINING MY LIFE

WEDDING MADNESS

ANAL SUCKS

DEFINING SMUT

SEXY SUMMER READING

CAN A LOVE GURU REALLY HELP?

THE MYSTERIOUS VULVA

TITS UP!

BREAST INTENTIONS

MAGICAL THINKING

INNOVATION IN VIBRATION

THINKING OUTSIDE THE BOX

THE TOP 5

LOLITA ISSUES

SEX ADDICTION

SEXY MYSTERY SOLVED

SMUTIQUETTE

DANIEL ALLEN COX SHUCKS IT ALL

SEXUAL CONFUSION

NO SEX, PLEASE, WE'RE AMERICAN

CHEAP SPICE AND EVERYTHING NICE

QUIVERING IN ANTI-CI-PATION FOR THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW

SCHEDULED, SPONTANEOUS OR WIDE OPEN?

OH YES, YES... YES! WE CAN!

RUNNING A SEXUAL MARATHON

SERIOUS SEX PARTIES

DIRTY, SEXY WORDS

BEASTLY COUPLING

BAD ECONOMY, BAD SEX?

XXXMAS CUMS BUT ONCE A YEAR

COSMO'S CRIMES AGAINST GOOD SEX

GETTING BENT

STRIPPER STAND-IN

BOUDOIR PHOTOGRAPHY AND BUBBLY

QUEERING GENDER WITH THE DUKES OF DRAG

SAFE BREATH PLAY

POETRY WHORES

BUSTING OUT

ONLINE DATING DO'S AND DON'TS

HAVE AN EROTIC BALL

PROBING THE RULE OF THREES

CORSETS FOR BEGINNERS

CYBERSTALKER AVOIDANCE 101

HACKING YOUR LOVE LIFE

OPERATION SEXY BREAKFAST

TITS AND ASS

ORIGINAL SEXPERTS: ANAÏS NIN

TEACHING SMUT

FETISHIZING SEX WRITERS

BORN TRANS

SQUIRT!

STUDYING SEXUAL DESIRE

BELLE DE JOUR REVEALED!

A CONSTELLATION OF SEX WORK

OUT WITH A BANG

MORE BOOKS BY LAURA ROBERTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

INTRODUCTION

From October 2007 to December 2009 I was a featured columnist in Montreal's alternative weekly paper, Hour. Though the Hour sadly folded in 2012 (after its paper version had ceased publication in early 2011 and a web-only version finally gave up the ghost), I will always look back fondly on my time as a columnist for this scrappy little English-language newspaper. It was one of my first paid writing gigs after graduating from university with a creative writing degree, and it made me feel like a minor celebrity within the small, kinky island town that is Montreal.

Although none of my friends read the Hour (nor its rival, the Mirror, for that matter—which also ceased publication this year), it still felt special to be able to tell people who asked what I did for a living that I was a newspaper columnist. I was not just a regular contributor, but a personality that people would pick up the paper weekly to read. Indeed, many of my friends only began reading the paper because they knew I had a column in it. It is undoubtedly thanks to their wholehearted support that the gig went on for as long as it did, as several loyal friends (and fans!) regularly commented on the website and wrote in to the paper to let the staff know that they were reading my work, even as the number of papers picked up on the street dwindled daily.

As a sex columnist, I wanted to cover the usual topics in a unique way. Montreal is a very open-minded city when it comes to sex, so while sex columnists in other locales might occasionally find themselves challenged by the Prude Police, I was more often called to account by readers who wondered why I hadn't yet written about a threesome or a lesbian encounter that they could vicariously live through. So, while I'm not sure I always succeeded at giving the people what they wanted in terms of racy stories, I certainly did my best. Whether it was covering the topics of sexy breakfasts (a Montreal original, according local legends), or HIV/AIDS testing, I wanted to concentrate on the people that were affected by the subjects I was writing about, as much as the philosophical and cultural underpinnings of those issues.

By contrast, my predecessor (who shall remain nameless, although this information is easily Googled) has been writing the same types of articles for years, and her writing is about as fresh as the bedsheets in a whorehouse. Though she's been described as Canada's Carrie Bradshaw, I have never found her pieces inspiring, and apparently the folks at the paper agreed. Or maybe they just wanted fresh blood, someone whom they could pay less money to do the same gig? We may never know, but I'd prefer to think I was a wanted (and wanton) woman. After all, a friend had vouched for my writing skills as well as my dedication to the beat, and we all know that the writing world is nothing if not built upon nepotism, favoritism and straight up flattery.

My first column Vixen is in da house was an introduction both to the ideas I planned to cover and to me as a columnist. The title wasn't my idea (in fact, I've always been terrible at titles, though I still feel I could've come up with something better if they had asked me), but I suppose it could've been worse. When I realized that V for Vixen was the column's title, but I still needed a story title each week, I tried to come up with more punny, attention-grabbing headlines before committing anything else to paper.

The column covered a wide range of subjects, using Montreal as the backdrop for most of the stories. I tried to find the local angle as much as possible, rather than simply sharing sordid stories about sex or treating sex stories as bizarre as other publications often do. Sometimes I borrowed news from other countries (most notably the UK seems to regularly feature sexy headlines in the Guardian), and sometimes I shared stories of my own. For this collection, I have omitted the overly insular stories and the shameless plugs. Those that remain should appeal to anyone who enjoys reading about sex, in all its many forms.

Throughout the book I also refer to my website, Black Heart Magazine, which has since changed direction from a straight-up smut zine to focus on indie literature in all genres. At the time I was writing the V for Vixen column, however, Black Heart was an erotica magazine with both an online and print presence. Those who are interested in these sexy artifacts can still purchase PDF versions of the magazine on our website at blackheartmagazine.com or check out our archives, which still feature many of the original erotica stories published from 2004 to 2009.

Finally, I hope that my American readers will pardon the British spellings used throughout this book. Canadian publications prefer them, if only to differentiate themselves from their American counterparts, so I've left them in here as a reminder of the sometimes strange differences in our shared language.

And now, without further ado, here are the best of my V for Vixen columns in chronological order from my first appearance in the paper on October 18, 2007 to my final adieu on December 17, 2009. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them.

XO,

Laure L’Amour, AKA The Vixen

July 2012

VIXEN IS IN DA HOUSE

October 18, 2007

Coming up with a title for a column is hard. Not as hard as neurosurgery, bench-pressing 900 pounds or Ron Jeremy’s cock three seconds before go-time, but it’s tricky. It’s got to be catchy, memorable, something that makes sense or can be explained in 100 words or less.

According to Wikipedia, source of all modern knowledge, vixen refers to a wide variety of nouns, ranging from a female fox to a shrewish, ill-tempered or spiteful woman, to a DC Comics superheroine, to a form of ’80s-era political correctness. And let’s not forget that it’s also the name of one of Santa’s legendary reindeer and my nail polish colour of choice.

The word vixen, however, most often refers to an attractive woman, and is usually used in a sexual sense. Therefore, I think using the term in the title of my newly minted sex column is appropriate. Plus, who doesn’t love an allusion to anarchy, fighting fascism, a bald Natalie Portman and Hugo Weaving in a Guy Fawkes mask?

It’s also way sexier than my original title, Vagina Popcorn. Lucky you! Of course, you may be wondering who the mysterious vixen behind the V is, so here’s an extremely brief kiss-n-tell-all biography for ya:

Laura Roberts, author of V is for Vixen, is the editor-in-chief of Montreal smut magazine Black Heart. She has been building the mag since 2004 with a varying gang of geeks, nerds and fetishists, and she recently graduated from Concordia with her second extremely useful degree – this time in creative writing and English literature. She’s a damn Yank, according to some, and a hack writer, according to whoever vandalized her Wikipedia entry back in January. And that’ll have to suffice, for now, because there’s something that’s been on my mind.

I’m sure all writers get this at some point, but it still gets this vixen every time: It’s the way people you’re dating will invoke the Don’t write about me! clause when they find out you have an audience of some kind, whether it’s a column in a paper or a blog that no one ever reads.

There are a couple of things that come to mind right away when someone says this to me. The first is, of course, "Who says I’d want to write about you?" Honestly, what kind of self-centred freak immediately assumes that they’re being discussed (and negatively, bien sûr) when I say I used to fuck a dude with a monkey fetish?

More importantly, though, why would I not be allowed to write about my lovers? Allowed by whom? Why would I need permission to write about my feelings and perceptions of various events? Those belong to me, and as a writer and human being, I’m perfectly within my rights to use those feelings and events to tell a story. The question is whether those stories are factual or fictional, and that, my darlings, is always up to the reader to decide. Furthermore, if anyone is going to get upset about the way they appear in print, perhaps they ought to change the way they act. Or get gigs writing dirty, filthy sex columns so they can out me in return!

Dueling sex columns? Man, that would be hot. I need a cold shower just thinking about it.

But seriously, I can understand why people don’t like to be written about, which is why I always give them sweet little nicknames like Stinkfist and Jowly. Only my little black book knows their true identities. And my closest girlfriends, because let’s be honest: When we go out for coffee, we’re talking about how y’all rate in bed.

Still, I don’t like the phrase kiss and tell, because while what I do may qualify as such, I also think it’s an organic part of human nature. It’s in our blood to tell stories, to share things that touch us, and sex touches us deep inside. Not just in our genitals, asshole! I mean in those places that are tender and fragile and easily mocked, and it takes a lot of courage to admit that you had sex with a bed-wetter not once but multiple times. Why? Because you thought maybe he was worth it, and because you don’t like to judge until you’ve got all the facts.

Sometimes, though, a kiss is just a kiss and a bed wet by a 30-year-old man isn’t worth lying in.

Next week: How to make a fake marriage work!

* * *

HOW TO MAKE A FAKE MARRIAGE WORK

October 25, 2007

I’m starting to worry about my fake husband. We don’t talk nearly as much as we used to, and I’m wondering if the spark has gone out of our sham marriage.

Stop. Hold that thought. Rewind.

First things first: I got married in a mass wedding ceremony at the St-Ambroise Montreal Fringe Festival. My groom proposed to me outside the venue I was managing – a broken-down former public pool that the city turned into a theatre – after I informed him about the date it was all supposed to be going down. We’d known each other for all of 20 minutes, and he didn’t bother with formalities like getting down on one knee or even offering me a ring. It was the thought that counted, especially since I’d planted the crazy idea in his head in the first place.

I knew it was meant to be. I mean, where else will you have the chance to get married on a talk show?

Well, when I saw him holding hands with a nun on our wedding night, I should have known he was trouble. The nun said she was getting hitched to the Big Man in the sky and left us two lovebirds alone. We got liquored up and said our wedding vows, which were designed specifically for the event by Fringeleader Jeremy Hechtman, and included such oaths as I promise to see your show, or give you comps to my show. We kissed like giddy schoolchildren, missing each other’s mouths, and then had a do-over.

We even waited until after marriage to have sex – a total first for both of us dirty sluts. Ah, romance!

Our honeymoon consisted of watching as many of the remaining festival shows as possible, eating nachos, drinking mead and aiming at the title of World’s Most Obnoxious Newlyweds. We even made a list of the horrid things married couples do, so that we could cross them off one by one. Topping the list? Peeing with the door open. Gross!

When it came time for the big Fringe Divorce, we decided to stick together. We refused the Timbits that were being passed around, designed to murder our marriage like the Kool-Aid at Jonestown, but in spite of our best efforts to keep things going, I’m starting to wonder. I mean, what the hell is a fake marriage about, anyway?

If you don’t even know the person you’ve married, and essentially end up running the relationship in reverse by dating after you’ve sealed the deal, does that make you crazy or clever? I’ve been involved in my share of twosomes over the years, and I know that eventually things just get old. People start to take each other for granted, stop worrying so much about impressing each other. Leave their socks on when they make love. At least with this relationship I never quite know what to expect, since there’s no guidebook on How to Make a Fake Marriage Work.

He makes me laugh, though I’d be really worried if he didn’t, seeing as he’s a comedian. But you know how they always say you should marry someone who can make you laugh? I have to wonder if they meant it quite this literally, because I can’t take anything seriously when I’m with him. It’s nothing but silliness and him trying out new material on me. I’m glad to help, but what about my needs? Dammit, man, a girl can’t live on laughs alone!

All in all, I’d have to recommend Fake Marriage to anyone considering the real deal. It’s way less hassle, ten times as fun, and you can still cloyingly call each other Hubby and Wifey afterwards, reprogramming your cellphones to reflect this momentous occasion. So get some Dollar Store rings and a couple of faux flowers, stamp on a plastic cup and go have fun already! In the end, isn’t that what marriage is really all about?

* * *

THINGS TO DO IN TORONTO WHEN YOU'RE DIRTY

November 1, 2007

The Vixen has been out and about in Toronto for the past few weeks, and as any good Montrealer will agree, Toronto sucks.

Except it isn’t really that Toronto sucks, it’s just that it’s so damn big that you can easily get lost here, both physically and metaphorically speaking. Originally, I came here to do a brief archiving job for the Canadian University Press (mad love to president Amanda McCuaig and national bureau chief William Wolfe-Wylie, who have graciously put up with my fanatic Scrabble playing and obsession with the sexy side of the CUP archives). I was also going to spend my free time cavorting with my favourite Montreal transplant, a girl I shall call Jem – because she’s truly truly truly outrageous – and, of course, my Toronto-based Fringe-hubby.

Instead, I’ve spent two of my three weeks here supporting Jem as she left her live-in boyfriend, packed her stuff into boxes and hauled ass back to Montreal on the way to Saint Jiggy.

I’m not complaining. She’s a good friend, and I’m not going to be one of those fuckers who turns her back on a girlfriend in need. But I’ll admit it wasn’t really something I’d put at the top of my to-do list, especially seeing as I finally managed to escape Montreal’s July 1 moving day madness this year.

With this minor derailment of my intent to explore Toronto the Good – and to actually dig up some of the good stuff that Montrealers are convinced this city lacks – I’ve been a bit out of sorts. So when I got a text message from a photographer friend asking whether I preferred a) public nudity or b) clown sex, I chose the former, and then became terribly flustered when he proposed that we meet at the very busy corner of Yonge and Bloor, and I wear nothing but a raincoat.

Flashing bankers and businessmen, while all in good fun, was also not really on my Toronto to-do list – outside of the confines of window modelling as one of Miss Behav’n's lingerie minxes on Saturday evenings, that is.

The photographer in question called to allay my fears, and then suggested a less public idea involving a character with a panty fetish. An opportunity to steal women’s underwear and wear some cute booty shorts of my own? How could I really say no? Besides, I’d already posed for him as a 1950s-era dominatrix, complete with turquoise body shaper and knee-high lace-up stilettos that required me to lean against things to keep from toppling over. He made this seem terribly normal and assured me that conical rocket boobs are, in fact, totally hot.

Toronto, it turns out, is full of perverts. And closeted Degrassi fans. Jem, for example, spent most of her youth secretly watching Degrassi on her mother’s TV, going so far as to ice the apparatus down to trick her mother into believing she hadn’t been surreptitiously watching the banned program. So when she heard I’d been to a pool party at Dwayne’s house, she nearly lost her lunch.

"Why didn’t you tell me?! she shrieked. She then recounted her story of meeting Arthur in a grocery store while she was bombed out of her mind and on a quest for non-gelatinous yogurt. You’re the guy who had wet dreams! I love you!" she memorably shouted at him, before a friend dragged her out of the store, sans yogurt.

The bully was super sweet and hosted a mean pool party, even in a raging downpour, but now I really wish I’d met that guy!

Yes, Montreal, Toronto can be cool, but only if you go looking for it. Just as tourists will stroll down Ste-Catherine and think they’ve done Montreal, you can’t simply buy awesome in a store on Queen Street West – though they do sell just about everything else your filthy capitalist heart desires. There’s plenty of good food, friendly people and adventures to be had in this town, especially if you’ve got an open mind that’s a wee bit filthy. Take it from the Vixen, who can both suck and blow simultaneously.

* * *

BURLESQUE WITH THE BEST

November 8, 2007

Montreal is full of sexy events, and with a neo-burlesque revival in full swing, the Vixen recently sat down with two local practitioners of the art. Welcome, Miss Seska Lee and Miss Sugarpuss.

The ladies are putting on a new show (part three in a series of four) at Mainline Theatre this Saturday, and they were eager to chat. The Cocktail Hour involves their characters, the inept people who run a home for wayward girls in mythical Mountainland. In previous installments, the ladies