My favourite kind of date is the kind where you sit in a bar and drink cheap beer for an unlimited amount of hours. Simple. Classic. Inexpensive. I suggest this activity on first dates, second dates, and anniversary dates. I find nothing more intimate than prolonged conversation over pints and pints and pints of lager.

And because I have had several dozen erotic chats in exotic pubs, I have also had several dozen erotic make-out sessions in exotic pubs. Dating tends to go hand-in-hand with hardcore tongue tango. One typically (hopefully) leads to the other and this hot exchange of saliva often remains in the alcohol-providing venue because neither of us are ready to potentially run into each other’s landlords. We also might not want the option of sex to enter into the realm of possibility yet. Or we’re so horny that our libidos cannot handle the travel time.

Thus, we say goodbye to public politeness and hello to making strangers highly uncomfortable. Screw appropriate private spaces! I say make mouth love in any bar that you can find. I myself have smashed teeth at the below locales:


Talk about a classy joint/bona fide frat house! I’m quite confident this was on a St. Patrick’s Day, when the beer was green, the foam hats were large, and the leprechaun-themed paraphernalia was plentiful. I smooched my first serious boyfriend in the corner while two 16-year-old boys with fake IDs watched on. What can I say? Dyed stout gets me wet, literally, because someone usually spills a bunch on me (and that someone is me).

Outside the washrooms at The Ossington

This has happened on more than one occasion with more than one gentleman. I have engaged in many semi-private convos with semi-hard men while drinking at The Ossington. Thus, I invited them to join me in the downstairs area to “talk” and that “talk” rapidly transformed into a fifteen minute French-a-thon and a five minute play-it-cool-a-thon when random people trotted by us to use the loo. I gotta admit, nothing sets the mood like hearing people fart five feet away.

The back room/covered patio of Squirly’s

Squirly’s on Queen is one of my go-to places for puckering up. It’s a beautiful bar with tasty beverages and a loungey space in the back where you can inconspicuously make the kiss when the saloon has emptied out and you’re thoroughly unsober. There are also red velvet couches. RED VELVET COUCHES. The ideal make-out furniture. When I did the lip deed, another couple was sitting on the other end of the room doing their own lip deed. At one point we made eye contact, smiled, and nodded. For a hot second I was sure an orgy was about to break out.

The staircase leading to the second floor of what was previously Molly Bloom’s, and previously Pour Girl, and currently Prenup Pub

Yes, this epic smooch shag not only transpired in the unfortunate Molly Bloom’s (hello 2007!) it was also ON A GODDAMN STAIRCASE. I went to first base with the man (who I would eventually lose my virginity to) while people quietly said, “Excuse me” and snuck by our tongues on their way back to their table. Why we chose this uneven, precarious spot I will never know. I do recall at one point becoming self-conscious about the big time PDA but then a suave man came out of nowhere and whispered, “Right on, lovers. Keep going”. My public make-out guardian angel?

The Green Room

Speaking of bistros sort of connected to Pour Girl, The Green Room was my home away from home in university, when I had no control over where, why, or how my vagina was going to unleash its fury on unsuspecting students I met once in lecture. It was legitimately the only bar I knew of for about a year, therefore I suggested it for hang-outs. “You want to ‘study’ (aka make-out) for that ‘exam’ (aka my love) at The Green Room (aka your body, my body, and a plate of nachos)?”

Upstairs at Pour Boy

Speaker of bars called Pour (insert gender), how about this moderately-priced Pad Thai establishment? I have noticed a trend as I write this. I seem to be into alehouse’s that have a separate area, which I refer to as the “touch gums” zone. For Pour Boy on Manning, it’s the second floor, where I have many a time been one of two guests making non-metaphorical muahs. The service can be not-so-great as well, which has always worked to my advantage. The server disappears for twenty minutes and my hormones can let loose and partay. They disappear for an hour? You better believe groping will be involved.

The Drake

A guy bought me an elegant $9 bottle of Budweiser and in return I bought him an all-inclusive trip inside my mouth. It was quite brief but pretentiously costly.

Upstairs at The Victory Cafe

THE UPSTAIRS I TELL YOU! The upstairs of any watering hole is the place to be. The Victory has the best vibes in the city, but more importantly it has a large second floor where one can tuck their bodies into a corner, blend into the furniture and camouflage their amour in a two-seater PRE-SEX booth. Or, you know, you could just go wild and get with the ultra public patio smooches, in which passersby can admire your skills and snap a photo or two!

The empty cabaret space of Comedy Bar

I’m a comedian, thus I am at the bar of comedies on the regular and by regular I mean approximately four days a week. So, of course, I am naturally going to cozy up with a handsome fellow’s saliva/tonsils/genitals at my place of work. And this typically goes down around closing time when the majority of comics have already exited with their boink buddies leaving old Jess the smaller, cabaret space to lay her smackdown on thin-lipped hunks who thought her joke about the gynecologist was “kind of funny” (direct quote of thin-lipped hunk).

Communist’s Daughter

I absolutely adore this tiny drinkery on Dundas and when I say tiny drinkery I mean tiny drinkery. I believe it has about seven tables in-house, making heavy petting near impossible, since you may end up petting a stranger’s leg by accident (BEEN THERE, AM I RIGHT?). I remember keeping my juicy pecks to a minimum because I didn’t want to acquire the hate of the cool bartender’s knowing records.

Crown & Tiger

This shall never be spoken of again. It was grimy. It was smelly. It was in a bathroom stall without a door. I’m confident that someone was doing cocaine down the hall. I am not proud of my actions that evening or the bubblegum I later found on my butt upon returning home and showering forever. Crown & Tiger is 100% the most authentically dirty place I have ever gotten poetically dirty.