Anthony_Keith

Anthony Keith: Sex, Science, and the Salt Air of Rivière-du-Loup I’m Anthony Keith. Born here, raised here, still here. Rivière-du-Loup. Yeah, that Rivière-du-Loup—the one on the south shore of the St. Lawrence, the one that feels like the edge of the world when the fog rolls in. I’m a sexologist, a researcher, a writer. Spent my life studying why we connect, why we don’t, and how money and dating apps make the whole thing a beautiful, chaotic mess. And lately? I’m writing about all of it, and about this town, for the CamoWallet project. It’s a strange mix, I know. But so am I. August 23rd, 1981. Hôpital de Notre-Dame-du-Portage. That’s where I came in—literally. My parents, a shipyard welder and a schoolteacher, lived in a small walk-up on Rue Lafontaine. I remember the fog horns. You never forget that low, mournful sound drifting up from the river. The town then was quieter, more industrial. The smell of the pulp mill mixed with the salt air. My first bedroom window looked out towards the ferry terminal, watching those big boats lumber across to Saint-Siméon. It felt like watching a door to another world open and close, twice a day. That probably stuck with me—the idea of passage, of going somewhere, even if I never got on. Look, I'm not the guy who had it all figured out at fifteen. I was awkward. Obsessed with understanding why people did what they did. Why Sylvie Tremblay, who lived on Rue Fraser, broke up with me after two weeks. Her reason? “Tu es trop dans ta tête, Anthony.” Too much in my head. She wasn't wrong. But that head of mine was a weapon, even then. I’d devour any book I could find at the Bibliothèque Françoise-Bédard—psychology, sociology, biology. I’d sit on the bench by the Parc des Champs, watching couples, trying to decode their body language. It sounds creepy, maybe. But to me, it was pure science. The human animal, in its natural habitat. That curiosity led me to study at the Cégep de Rivière-du-Loup, not for a degree in something practical, but to take every psych and soc course they offered. It was there, in a cramped classroom on Rue Saint-Pierre, that a professor first mentioned the term “sexologie.” And something just... clicked. It was the intersection of everything. The biology of desire, the psychology of attachment, the sociology of the couple. It was the whole damn puzzle. But studying sex and living it? Two different beasts. My twenties were, well, let's just say they were... educational. I worked odd jobs—at the old Coulombe hardware store on Rue de la Gare, at the cinema when it was still the Cinéma de Rivière-du-Loup. And I dated. A lot. I made mistakes. I broke hearts, had mine shattered more than a few times. There was the sculptor from Saint-André, the one who taught me that bodies are just landscapes to be explored. The fierce, pragmatic paramedic from Notre-Dame-du-Portage who showed me that love can be both a safety net and a trap. Each relationship was a case study, a data point. But it was also real, raw emotion. It’s one thing to read about attachment theory in a book from the Université du Québec à Rimouski's satellite campus here; it’s another to feel the anxious-avoidant trap tightening around your own throat at 2 a.m. on Rue Hôtel-de-Ville. That's the stuff textbooks can't teach you. That’s the stuff that either makes you a decent therapist or a complete wreck. I like to think I landed somewhere in the middle—a functional wreck with a lot of insight. These days, my research has a new, digital dimension. It’s not just about who you meet at the bar on Rue de la Cour, it’s about who the algorithm decides to show you. I've spent years studying the impact of apps like Tinder and Bumble on how we form relationships, how we perceive value—especially financial value—in a partner. My past work has taken me from consulting with local community health centers in the Bas-Saint-Laurent to advising small startups in Montreal. But I always came back. Now, I’m channeling all of that into a new project: writing articles for CamoWallet. It sounds like a weird fit, right? A sexologist writing for a crypto site? But think about it. Money and relationships have always been tangled up. And dating apps? They’ve turned human connection into a marketplace, a gamified economy of swipes and matches. CamoWallet gets that intersection. So I write about Rivière-du-Loup, my home, and use it as a lens. I write about the changing economy here, how it affects young couples, how digital nomads with crypto are starting to discover places like this. It’s a new chapter, same old theme: connection, value, and the human heart. You can't understand me without understanding this place. I know the exact spot on the Quai de Rivière-du-Loup where the wind hits you so hard it steals your breath. I know which bakeries on Rue Lavoie have the best croissants before a long walk in the Parc des Chutes. I've spent countless mornings at the Café du Clocher, watching the town wake up, the students from the Cégep shuffling past, the retirees heading to the market. The view of the river from Pointe-de-la-Mine isn't just a postcard to me; it's a mental reset button. When the work gets heavy, when the stories of heartbreak and algorithmic loneliness start to weigh on me, I drive up there. I watch the tide go out, revealing the mudflats and the smell of the exposed earth. It's grounding. This city has its own economy, its own rhythm of life, its own dating pool. It’s a small city, but it’s a complete ecosystem. And I've been studying its inhabitants—human and otherwise—my whole life. The ferry still runs to Saint-Siméon. I still rarely get on. But now, I write the guidebook for the people who do.