In 2006, a group of QTBIPOC organizers in Toronto launched the Sugar Shack, a sex-positive bathhouse night designed by and for queer and trans folks of colour. Held at Central Spa—a gay men’s bathhouse in Toronto’s Little Portugal—the event transformed a space historically oriented toward white gay men into one that centered QTBIPOC pleasure and safety. Emerging from within the Toronto Women’s Bathhouse Committee (TWBC)—the same group behind the iconic Pussy Palace—the Sugar Shack was a direct response to critiques of white dominance and exclusion in queer feminist sex spaces. 

Spearheaded by Deidre “d-lishus” Walton and co-organized by then-rookie TWBC member Deb Singh, the Sugar Shack carved out a celebratory, affirming space grounded in QTBIPOC joy, care, and collective vision. Promotional posters featured trans, gender-diverse, and racialized bodies of all shapes and sizes—representations rarely seen in sex-positive media at the time. As Singh recalls: “This wasn’t made by somebody else for us. This was made by us.” 

Nearly two decades later, the Sugar Shack remains a vivid but underdocumented part of Toronto’s QTBIPOC history. In anticipation of the upcoming storytelling event, Remembering the Sugar Shack, on June 10, 2025, we checked in with moderator Deb Singh and three fellow speakers—Carol Thames, Kusha Dadui, and Rees Nam—to reflect on what made the Sugar Shack so powerful and why its memory still matters.

“I remember standing by the bar ledge taking in the scene, dancing and swaying to the music. I felt it was a good spot to hangout at, kind of like standing by a water cooler, but better. I was checking out some of the cute and sexy folx dancing near me, we were smiling and flirting. We talked about the snacks while having some, whether we were having a nice time and if we’d like to check out some of the rooms.”

— Rees Nam

Alisha Stranges: As a Sugar Shack patron and central organizer, what did it mean to co-create and inhabit a space where QTBIPOC desires, bodies, and boundaries were centered?  

Deb Singh: It meant the universe to us. We didn’t even have the acronym ‘QTBIPOC’ back then—but we existed all the same. Our bodies were eroticized in negative ways by the white gaze, even within queer community. Building the space ourselves gave us permission to see each other as we truly are—beautiful and powerful. At the time, just being seen as ‘valid’ in the background of white lesbianism and gayness felt like a start.

Planning this kind of sex party was a revolution—a sex party with politics. It was unlike walking into Club Toronto or even the broader Pussy/Pleasure Palace events. Sugar Shack organizers, TWBC committee members (both White and BIPOC), volunteers, and the broader community worked to build a space that reflected our political values alongside our desires and vulnerabilities. It wasn’t perfect, but we tried hard to co-create a safer space for our bodies, skin tones, and kinks. We centered—and sometimes worshipped!—fat bodies, gender-diverse folks, people with disabilities, and dark skin. We put ourselves at the centre, after spending so long on the margins.

“The Sugar Shack established a long-lasting political and social legacy that left a cultural imprint. The events were embedded in an anti-oppression framework, the right to consent that merged sexual pleasure with feminism. Confidentiality was critical. It was important that what occurred at the events stayed within the walls of the events. The nights were filled with art performances, a DJ spinning sensuous music, and lustful connections. It was a bare and unbridled exposure to pleasure in many forms.”

— Carol Thames

Alisha Stranges: Looking back now, how do you understand the Sugar Shack’s place in Toronto’s QTBIPOC history?

Deb Singh: The events, I hope, gave us a place to grow and feel valued, beautiful, and sexy as we are, as QTBIPOCs. Many got involved because they craved a space that respected their boundaries and celebrated self-love as queer and trans Black, Indigenous, and People of Colour. Sugar Shack also challenged racism and transphobia within the (White) queer community while deepening our romantic, sexual, and intimate connections. 

That said, White lesbians and gender-diverse folks on the general committee helped us access venues and resources—it was a collective effort. Allyship mattered: people of colour supported Black and Indigenous folks; cis queers backed trans, gender diverse, and non-binary folks. Sugar Shack stands on Toronto’s queer timeline as a moment where pleasure met activism, and queer love and sex mimicked freedom. 

“There was a woman who referred to me as a short king. She pointed at me, smiled and asked if I ‘wanted some loving’ in a way that was so kind and consensual. Considering that at the time I was struggling with my gender identity, she made me feel so seen and comfortable. I did say no, and she was so respectful.”

— Kusha Dadui

Alisha Stranges: What parts of this bathhouse organizing work feel unfinished, or worth revisiting?

Deb Singh: We still need spaces like it. The main barrier, I think, is money—there aren’t many club spaces or ‘nights’ that centre these intersections of sexuality, gender, and race. People do often organize DIY sex-positive events, but not necessarily in designated sex clubs.

Revisiting this history, I wonder: what do QTBIPOC folks want from sex-positive spaces in 2025? Are younger and older 2SLGBTQ+ people organizing separately now? The pandemic disrupted our erotic lives across all identities. As we prepare for this event—a climax (pun intended!) of five years of engagement with the Collaboratory—I keep asking: what can Sugar Shack offer young queer and trans people today, around love, sex, and relationships?

“Back then, I smoked, but the energy was so electric that I didn’t step out for a cigarette until the early morning hours. I finally pulled myself away, threw on some clothes, and headed down the steep stairs to the sidewalk outside. As I lit my smoke, my future partner, Claude Brown—who’d done security for years at queer events—came out and stood beside me. They didn’t say much, just stood there calmly, like my bodyguard, an act of care and solidarity in the unique way only QTBIPOCs know how.”

— Deb Singh

Alisha Stranges: What do you hope people carry with them after attending Remembering the Sugar Shack—especially folks who weren’t there at the time? 

Deb Singh: That this work came from a place of love and survival. Without Sugar Shack, we’d have had one less space to feel free in our bodies. I don’t think anyone back in 2006 imagined I’d be calling them up to revisit those days—but here we are, still seeking pleasure, still doing relationships radically, as we always have as queer and trans folks of colour.

This process—gathering memories from Pussy Palace and Sugar Shack—is about archiving the past, honouring what we built together. But every time I called a former organizer or volunteer to explain the work we’ve been doing with the Collaboratory since 2020, the conversation almost always ended the same way: “So… is another bathhouse in the works?” Stay tuned! Lol.

“Sometimes things are just a moment in history, a happenstance. Organizing the bathhouse events for cis, non-Binary and trans folks was a serendipitous moment in Toronto’s history—a moment when brave individuals dared to come together and create broad public access to raw sensuality within QTBIPOC communities. It was the perfect storm in which the historical stars aligned, allowing us to claim space and to reclaim our sensual expression and sexual identity.”

— Carol Thames

You’re Invited!

What does it mean to build pleasure-centered space for QTBIPOC communities—then and now? How do we honour the labour, tensions, and joy that shaped those spaces, even when they were imperfect? 

On Tuesday, June 10, 2025, join us for Remembering the Sugar Shack—a community-led storytelling event guided by the very organizers, patrons, and volunteers who helped shape the Sugar Shack in the early 2000s. Together, we’ll reflect on the emotional, political, and cultural legacies of the Sugar Shack and why its memory continues to resonate. 

Come witness, remember, and dream forward—because this history still has something to teach us. 

Deb Singh is a Toronto-based community worker, consultant and writer. She has focused her life’s work around love, healthy sex, and relationships. Working for over 20 years in the gender-based violence sector, Deb works from the Seven Grandfather Teachings leading with values such as intersectionality and accountability. Supporting people and movements with kindness and humour, Deb is a polyamourous, non-disabled, cisgender, queer, Indo-Caribbean mom who’s a settler on Turtle Island.  

Rees Nam (He/They) resides in Tkaronto, ON. A dedicated community advocate with 15+ years of experience working within anti-oppressive and relational frameworks. Committed to fostering kindness, care, and compassion through reflexive practices. Neurodivergent, transmasc, queer, a Korean settler on Turtle Island—who engages in community-based justice work that centers equity and connection.

Carol Thames holds an LLM and MPPAL. As a Black Lesbian/parent, Carol has endured many systems of oppression—experiences that ground her work in a human rights lens and foster her commitment to social justice, equity, diversity, and inclusion. She is dedicated to breaking down the barriers that sustain systemic oppression and institutional marginalization. Carol is an advocate, educator, continued learner, and a champion of body liberation.

Kusha Dadui is a Transmasculine Muslim person of colour who came to Turtle Island as a refugee 30 years ago and has been active in the queer and trans community for 25 years. Their work has focused primarily on supporting trans refugees and challenging systems of incarceration.

OmiSoore H. Dryden (she/her/hers), is a Black queer femme and professor at Dalhousie University. Her scholarship and research focuses on Black 2SLGBTQIA+ communities, blood donation systems in Canada and addressing anti-Black (homophobic) racism in healthcare. She loves cute shoes, glitter, and radical practices of liberation and care.

Alisha Stranges (she/her) is a queer, community-based, public humanities scholar, theatre creator, and performer. She holds an MA in Women & Gender Studies and Sexual Diversity Studies from the University of Toronto. At present, she serves as the Collaboratory’s Research Manager.