The Toronto Fringe has come to an end, but the hungry collective libido of the hundreds of artists who wanted to see each other naked still lingers on.

This almost-two-week fest facilitates much more than the creation of independent theatre; it facilitates the creation of independent humping/smooching/intercoursing. There is no denying the powerful pheromones flowing throughout the sultry Fringe tent (aka the brothel of the festival). The eroticism in that alleyway is highly palpable, from the security guards gently looking inside your “bag” to the steamy steam emanating from the foodie food vendors in the back. When you enter the tent your body is metaphorically set on fire. Your nose is as red as Morro and Jasp’s. Your breath is as quick as a committed amateur musical theatre performer’s. Your nipples are as sharp as Sex T-Rex’s wit. Fornication is in the air AND in the Steam Whistle AND in the Porta-Potties (literally).

The Seagram’s Apple Cider is your aphrodisiac of choice, and as you consume buckets of this sensual elixir you grow increasingly turned on. You begin referring to your vagina as Cave Springs and nobody finds it nearly as funny as you do. You get a roti to distract yourself from your own desires but it only makes things worse. The spicy spice heats up your body bod to an unbearable temperature. You grab an Ocean Breeze to cool down and it works, temporarily, until you see that old flame across the tent who you made out with once in Trinity Bellwoods after a Summerworks party. As soon as you lock eyes with him you know he’s going to be your Patron’s… Dick. (Nobody finds this nearly as funny as you do).

You casually stroll up and exchange a come-hither hello and a fuck-me hug and a seriously-though-fuck-me arm caress. He coyly asks you, “How’s it goin’?” You coyly reply, “Good! How are you?” He coyly replies to that coy reply, “Not bad.” Oh yes. The convo is immediately electric. You can feel the sexual tension and hear the erogeny and smell the hormones. Then your chatter reaches next-level connection. You’re quoting Peter n’ Chris and deconstructing the philosophical concept of “site-specific” and sharing your opinions on Glenn Sumi’s opinions. It’s just like that previous time you did this. He is officially your new penis-play contest. Nobody finds this nearly as funny as you do. Oh yes. He is the one. The one who you’ll boink and embrace and invite to a show in the middle of a Monday because it’s at a dumb time and your friend has tons of comps. Oh yes. Your Fringe sexual fantasy has begun.

But then it quickly ends when his girlfriend saunters up. She’s smart. She’s nice. She’s wearing glitter. You make small talk with her about her burlesque show. You promise you’ll try your best to be there, and then you wave goodbye forever. You stroll through the tent wondering if you’ll ever be capable of entering the Honest Ed’s parking lot without becoming overwhelmed with arousal. An arousal that results in you accepting postcards for plays that you have zero interest in seeing. You don’t want to take it but the Adonis handing it to you is too alluring to resist. You’re incapable of lying to his chiseled jaw. You want to say that you’ve already bought tickets and are coming on Tuesday, but this sweaty Greek god in a comical T-shirt with a plaid button-down overtop is irresistible. You find yourself nodding along when your potential paramour offers you a word-of-mouth ticket. “Oh yes,” you think, “I’d like a ticket to your mouth, indeed.”

Then he reminds you that he dated your roommate for a year. You decide that maybe you shouldn’t go down that dramatic path. So, you continue on with the great booty hunt of 2015. You use one bawdy, pun-based pickup line after another. You’re on a mission. You want Fringe sex and nothing is going to stop you from achieving that goal. You bump into a bewitching individual wearing a tiny vest and a too-small hat and you utter the phrase, “You’re the only one man show I want to attend.” You smirk at an enticing specimen in a neon yellow tank top and whisper, “I hate standing in this line but not when I’m next to you.” Your friend introduces you to a handsome fellow in bright red pants and you profess, “It’s like my heart is the tickets and you’re a sold-out audience who got the tickets in advance online and now walk-up tickets for other men are not available. So, are you an actor or…?”

Surprisingly, none of your attempts are successful, but you refuse to give up hope. You won’t quit. No matter how bad your reviews might be. One guy wearing a navy suit jacket with a snarky attitude said you were only “two-star charming,” but fuck him. What does he know? Nothing. That’s what. He wouldn’t recognize a good joke if it hit him in his stupid suit jacket face, which is annoyingly plastered on eighteen million posters in your sightline. Your mood improves when a sweet gay gentleman says you’re positively naughty with four Ns. He’s totally correct. HE knows flirtation talent when he sees it. If it were up to him you would win Best of the Coitus-Fest. Hell, you and your vulva would be touring around the country receiving cunnilingus and critical acclaim.

There are dozens, nah HUNDREDS, nah THOUSANDS of genitals within several feet from you, but none are occupying the affections of your clitoris. I mean, they’re fun enough people. And yeah, their messy hair is cute and they’re interesting to an extent and they can hold a conversation about the backspace at Theatre Passe Muraille for a solid two minutes straight. But you want more than the backspace at Theatre Passe Muraille. You want Tarragon Mainspace. You want the Randolph. You want the ENTIRE FUCKING FACTORY THEATRE. EVEN THE ANTECHAMBER.

But it feels like you’ve been searching for your Fringe-beau for an eternity. You’ve felt connections with strangers sitting beside you at shows who accidentally brushed up against your leg but it always turned out that they were just jittery individuals. And now you’re in the tent. The epicentre of copulation, yet you’re still not making progress. You become despondent and begin to worry that it’ll never happen for you. You’re not going to get Fringe-laid. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not the day after that. Not the rest of the week. So you throw in the towel and loudly lament, “Maybe next year I’ll get the media attention that I know I deserve!”

But then, unexpectedly, you meet someone in the designated smoking area as you’re exiting. And this someone isn’t just any someone. He’s an actor-director-sound-designer-box-office-manager-full-time-clown. Your favourite kind of someone. You comment on his wardrobe choice of green shorts that clearly used to be pants and before you know it you’re bantering back and forth. You’re instantaneously clever and so is he. Like, not AS clever as you but clever enough to suit your needs. You discover that you have so much in common. He likes plays. You like plays. He likes drinking. You like drinking. He likes existing. You LOVE existing. It’s fate. It’s luck. You’ve won the Fringe-lottery.

You head to the back bar and he orders you a gin and tonic (your favourite beverage besides beer and wine and that strawberry daiquiri thingy which is kinda too sweet but also delicious). A few gin and tonics later, you’re sitting at a plastic patio table, giggling, touching knees. You’re feeling sexy and wild and dangerous. You want to let loose and drink gin and stay up for 24 hours to discuss required themes as if you’re writing a play and this is a contest. You want to party hard, and why wouldn’t you? It is Wednesday night, after all. Party day.

You’re in Fringe-amour. You feel like you’ve known him for years. And maybe you do know him. You vaguely recall touching his knees a few times before…but you can’t place where or when. His bearded face and neat glasses are just too ubiquitous a look. Maybe you were soulmates in a past life? Or maybe this is déjà vu? Or maybe… Oh, wait, you had sex in 2012. During TIFF. For sure…that’s definitely it…AND YOU’RE GOING TO DO IT AGAIN. You grossly sit on his lap and pet his head and passionately lick his lips in front of your colleagues, who really wish you would stop. You do this for an unnecessarily long amount of time.

Soon enough the last-call man walks by with his last-call light-up machine. You invite green-shorts-that-used-to-be-pants over to your apartment, which is conveniently located in the Annex. He inquires about when you moved out of your place in Roncesvalles. He’s remembered your previous sex all along. Whoops! Your bad. You grab hold of his firm bum and lead him to your final destination. You get inside, rip off his Fringe t-shirt, undo his green shorts with your teeth, and wink at his good-looking pair of balls. Then you thrust and pump and spoon until you can’t thrust and pump and spoon any longer. You lie back and listen to the birds chirping and you look at the sunrise and you hold his body tightly until the end of time.

Or, more accurately, until the end of the festival. You know, when you sober up and realize that the only shared interest you actually have is the Fringe tent, which is enough when you’re in the tent or have recently left the tent but does not make for stimulating conversation beyond those perimeters. Your reasons for not sleeping with him again after TIFF are jogged in your memory. So, you mutually agree that you’re not looking for anything real and will be deleting phone numbers. He agrees on not seeing each other more than you do and you question if you were just straight up rejected…

You wake up on Monday morning, the Sunday after closing, and you’re filled with nostalgia and sadness and hangover. You kinda miss green-shorts. Sorta. Kinda. Sorta. You crave thrusting and pumping and spooning. You frown and whimper and almost cry. You wonder if you’ll ever recover from such a tragic breakup. Then a minute later you get over it. You’ve looked at your phone and realized that the only texts he sent you were, “Are you at the tent?” and “I’m going to the tent now,” and “Boy, do I like this tent.”

It wasn’t fate. It wasn’t luck. It didn’t win the Fringe-lottery. You gotta move on and you will. You know you will. Because you’re on Tinder now and my god, the men on here! So many. Dozens, nah HUNDREDS, nah THOUSANDS. The possibilities are endless, as Tinder is not the Fringe. It’s longer than almost two weeks. It does last until the end of time…or at least until the app fucks up or you get bored or you’re told that there are no other men available in your area. And until then…the booty hunt continues.