Anyone with a Facebook or Twitter page in Canada was probably aware that the legendary pop superstar, Prince, recently toured through the country. The status updates were unavoidable.

People getting ready for Prince.

People lining up for Prince.

People being seated at Prince.

Prince was in the house and there was no way you could escape it, though I really, really wanted to.

When I was a teenager, Prince was my messiah. During those particularly imbalanced times, I genuinely wanted to have sex with him and had the opportunity presented itself to me, I absolutely would have. He filled my thoughts. Rather than cutting myself, or joining an after school sports team or whatever it is teenagers do with their time, I fully immersed myself in Prince and his music.  When I was in grade 11, he broke a long silence and released a new album, appropriately titled Emancipation: I cut school twice in one month to watch him promote it on Rosie and Oprah.

To show my undying and everlasting love to Prince, I even got a tattoo of his male/female symbol on my stomach, in purple, and displayed it proudly every chance I could. (I was also 16, so showing off your belly wasn’t that inappropriate of at the time.)

The only thing is, my love has been far from everlasting. In fact, in recent months, it’s faded drastically. (I’ve also since got the tattoo covered up.) I obviously never thought that would happen. And I’m surprised that it did.

For a huge chunk of my life, identifying as a Prince fan helped define me as a person. When I was a teenager, I identified with his music on a sexual level. He sang about things that intrigued and excited me, things I really wanted to explore, just as I was discovering a new part of myself. (Ew, that sounds so gross.)

In my 20s, identifying as a Prince fan helped define me as someone who had good taste in pop music and liked to dance. It was way cooler to say I was weaned on Prince, than say, New Kids on the Block.

Now, in my 30s, I feel like identifying as a Prince fan only helps define me as someone who’s attached to nostalgia. And I’m not a terribly nostalgic person. When I think about my past, I’m mostly embarrassed by it. Instead, I choose to pretend most if it never existed, hope nothing comes back to haunt me, look forward and evolve.

I haven’t bought a Prince album since I was a teenager. Since then, let’s face it, he’s made terrible music. And he’s gotten pretty weird. And not in the making-women’s-lingery-sexy-on-a-man-and-not-allowing-interviewers-to-take-any-kind-of-notes-intense-dramatic-other-planet kind of weird. Having been in the same room as him once, I can assure you that kind of weirdness is the stuff of legends.

Naw, his new weirdness is the kind where you’re kind of concerned about his already questionable mental well-being. It wouldn’t be surprising to find him on your doorstep, asking if you’d heard the good word. (Becoming a Jehovah Witness is known to do that to people. Oh, it’s also known to isolate and traumatize family members who want to leave the religion, suppress free speech and thought, and generally ruin lives.)

By all accounts, Prince still puts on a great show. He’s cut the naughty bits out, which is what I loved most about his music, but he apparently still knows how to excite a stadium. So much so that people couldn’t stop posting about it on Facebook. I’m not going to lie and say it didn’t make me jealous and sad that I missed what is being called the greatest show our country has ever seen. But I ended up having a pretty good night, regardless of not attending his concert.

I went to my friend Louise Burns’ show at the Horseshoe tavern. There, I watched a mini Canadian super-group perform a solid set. Louise, a veteran singer/songwriter who was once signed to Madonna’s label, was backed by a guy who plays in Sloan, and the former bass player from Hot Hot Heat, who was also my first serious, long-term boyfriend.

I hadn’t spoken or seen him perform in years, and it was a trip to watch him in such a different context. The three jammed away, happily, exchanging inside jokes and playing songs from one of my favourite albums of the year.  It was really fun to watch.

I could have been caught up in nostalgia that night, both at the Prince concert and at the Horseshoe, in front of my first true love. But I wasn’t. Instead, I reveled in being present, being there, because I knew it was exactly where I was meant to be.

There was a quote I read once that said something along the lines of “Never touch your idols because the gold rubs off on your hands.” I don’t remember where it came from and Google is not turning anything up, but that was the gist of it – don’t meet people whose work you admire.

This has happened to me three times in my life, this not touching my idols business, most recently being last week, and I’m starting to believe that the Universe really doesn’t want me to meet the few people in show business who I actually admire. I’ll take it as a sign.

Time # 1
When: 2000
Where: Maui
Who: Prince
What: I was visiting my friend Merika in Maui on my spring break in university. Her step-dad was a musician who played in local jazz bars around town. The morning after I flew in, he called to tell her Prince had been in the night before and jammed with the band until the early hours. Prince had told her step-dad “I’m going to be back tomorrow night. I want this place filled with my kind of people.”

Considering Prince is my all time favourite musician, this was big news. The next day, we got on our skimpiest outfits, found a babysitter for Merika’s daughter and headed to the restaurant where Prince had descended upon the night before.

We ordered dinner and waited. It was clear that word had spread as the restaurant was filled with people who were unmistakable Prince fans (women in skimpy outfits – like us, and men dressed in purple and walking with canes despite not having any visible disabilities.)

After dinner, we meandered for a while, ordering a few rounds of drinks. The hours passed by and no Prince. Merika started getting cranky – she was a single mum who wasn’t used to being out so late.

Then, two hours after we’d finished dinner, an Escalade pulled up in front of the restaurant. A pair of beefy men walked in and cleared out the top of the restaurant. The band, now on their fourth set and visibly exhausted, continued playing. Then Prince walked in, bodyguard in tow, accompanied by a slight Egyptian princess-looking woman. The people in the restaurant stopped what they were doing and parted a path for him, as if he were an actual prince, then burst into applause. He walked through without making eye contact. With stilettos on, Prince was my height (5”1) and decked out head-to-toe in chiffon. I wanted so badly to race up to him and tell him how much he meant to me, but I knew it wasn’t going to happen. He went upstairs and looked down as the crowd danced to the live band, desperately trying to coax him to join in. After about seven minutes, he left. I guess we weren’t his kind of people.

Time #2
When: 2009
Where: Toronto
Who: Will Oldham
What: In the middle of my year of sheer emotional hell, I retreated to Toronto to deal with some heavy and dark issues. While there, my second favourite singer of all time, Will Oldham, was playing a show. He’s the kind of musician who has at least three songs on every album that speaks directly to me, particularly through my dark times. I am in love with the man. The opening band on that tour was Lightning Dust, a fantastic group from Vancouver with whom I am friends (they let me use one of their songs as the theme to my podcast.) Of course I was going to go.

After the show, I met up with the band and we hung out for a bit. Will Oldham was a few feet away, chatting with fans and friends. Ashley Webber, one of the members of Lightning Dust, could tell I was eyeing him up, and knowing how much I admired his music, asked if I wanted to be introduced. I enthusiastically told her yes. As she took my hand and led me over, Mr. Oldham finished talking to the group who had cornered him, turned away and disappeared. I didn’t want to bother him and just acknowledged that maybe that moment wasn’t the right one to meet this man who I so deeply admired. Maybe there never will be a right one. I have to be okay with that.

Time #3
When: Last week
Where: A block from my house
Who: James Franco
What: For about two weeks, the prequel to “Planet of the Apes” was filming a block away from my house. I walked by the set several times a day, and gradually got friendly with a few women in the costume department who went absolutely apeshit (teehee) over my dog Dutchie. I asked them if anyone worthwhile was going to be filming and they told me James Franco. Here’s the thing. I watch on average maybe four movies a year, one of which is maybe in a movie theatre. I don’t own a TV. Hollywood stars mean very little to me. They don’t excite me in any way. Except if they’re James Franco. He is the only movie star that gets me excited. And it’s all based on his role on “Freaks and Geeks” (ok, and “Pineapple Express.”) He’s a quirky heartthrob whose, er, brain I’d like to devour.

I got my new friends in wardrobe to fill me in on when he’d be shooting. They gave me a rough schedule and I made note. It wasn’t like I was going to be hanging around set (seriously) but I just wanted to be kept in the loop in case Dutchie needed walking.

I’d forgotten all about it until one night when I was returning home from a night out. I was in a cab, which had to take a detour around the block they were filming.  I remembered it was a night when James Franco was meant to be on set so I got the cab to let me out where the street was blocked off. I was wearing high heels and a short dress. The street was lined with excited girls who were there to watch filming. I tried to walk by but the PA told me they had to shoot one last scene and I had to wait for a few minutes.  I watched as they poured fake rain on the street as James Franco drove a car half way down the block, parked it and carried some groceries into a house. He had that powerful presence that people who are used to being watched have. I wondered if he noticed me staring across the street, in my short dress and heels. I started to get excited. When the scene was done, I was allowed through. I watched James Franco pose with some fans then booted it to my house, in my heels on cobblestone, to get my dog. There was no way I was going to ask him to pose with me for a photo. I’d feel more comfortable getting him to pose with my dog. I ran back, doggie in tow, but he was gone.

I wasn’t terribly upset. I thought about that presence he had, the attention he was used to being showered with and realized, there was no way that I would have felt comfortable interacting with him in a normal, nonchalant way. There is no way we would have been on the same level.

After all, idols are simply representations of gods made in their likeness, objects used to worship. They have a job to do. I would never want to get in the way of that.

In 1996, I had a breakthrough. Like any other teenage girl, I was a mess of hormones and confusion, unaware of what to do with the alluring power of my tender age (16) combined with the undeniable power of my gender (female.)

Then I discovered Prince.

In Prince, I found a messiah. A tiny purple prophet whose message was sex. Mind blowing sex. He crafted songs that could arouse, intrigue and titillate. He was graphic without being vulgar, raunchy without being sleazy and tender without being precious. He became my Guru because he helped define my sexuality the way no other human could. Simply put, Prince is the ultimate sex person.

Sex people get each other. They speak openly and honestly about sex, not because they want attention but because it’s an important part of their lives, and in turn their character. I wanted to interview the pre-Jehovah Witness Prince for this column but he was too busy making your girlfriend come repeatedly, while you waited patiently outside in the rain without an umbrella. So instead, I called up the next best person: Cam MacLeod of sketch comedy troupe Manhussy. He is likely the highest profile sex guy in Vancouver. His performances usually involve seduction and/or (simulated) fornication – and they always speak to me. I was lucky enough to get a little insight on what it’s like to be a sex guy.

Me: What’s a sex guy to you?

Cam MacLeod: I guess a sex guy is someone who loves having sex, is good at having sex and therefore ends up having a lot of sex. Girls that have sex with sex guys usually tell other girls about how great the sex was. This causes a chain reaction of other girls wanting to sleep with said sex guy, or at least gets the idea in their heads. A sex guy is not always hot or sexy. Someone might exude sex just by their appearance but they’re not good in bed

Me: So, not Prince.

CM: Yeah. Totally. A sex guy is usually pretty up front and honest about the fact that he likes sex. He’ll tell sex stories often but won’t be a creep about it. A sex guy is charming. He can get people to talk about sex, who normally wouldn’t feel comfortable discussing the subject. In short, a sex guy knows his way around the bedroom.

Me: How do you fit this description?

CM: I’m not sure. Conor Holler and Craig Anderson from sketch comedy troupe Bronx Cheer started calling me that because I would always tell them sex stories. I guess I have a good catalogue.

Me: Who are your top three musical sex guys?

CM: Chris Isaac. He’s smooth but not very cool. As much I hate him, Tommy Lee. And as much as I’m not into golden showers, R Kelly, though I love his music.

Me: You know he was found not guilty on those malicious allegations? Some fan you are. Anyhow, my sex guys are Will Oldham, because he sings about oral a lot, Ludacris and obviously Prince. What about ladies?

CM: Madonna, Lil’ Kim and although she’s new to sex stardom, Amanda Blank.

Me: Agreed but I’d replace the last one with Isis from Thunderheist. She would tire you out in the best way possible. How about actors?

CM: Johnny Depp ,Burt Reynolds and John Ritter as Jack Tripper in Threes Company .

Me: Bang on. And actresses?

CM: Marilyn Monroe, Sasha Grey, Angelina Jolie

Me: Yeah, Sasha Grey is intense. And strategic. She certainly isn’t shy about her sexuality.

CM: Can I add some honorable mentions?

Me: Shoot it from the hip, baby.

CM: NBA player Wilt “the Stilt” Chamberlain and Cher.

Me: What’s your advice to budding sex guys?

CM: The more you give, the more you receive. Do you like getting presents for Christmas? And by presents, I mean head. Of course you do. Everybody does. But no one wants to be the one who’s always giving the presents.

Don’t be sleazy. Being a sex guy isn’t about trying to get laid all the time. It’s about being confident and honest. If you don’t put pressure on the situation, things will usually fall into place. There is no need to lie about the future of a one-night stand or a casual fling. They are what they are.

Finally, if you’re a good dancer, show that shit off. If you can dance well with a girl, chances are the sex is going to be even better.