At one point, dating was my side hustle.No PTO. No benefits. Just emotional labor and men who peaked during the Vine era.
But hey, I was learning. Fast.
I learned what I wanted. What I definitely didn't want. What was a red flag. What was a beige flag. What was a full-on DEFCON 1 flag waving behind a dude who still lived with his mom and called her "Mommy."
Eventually, I'd always narrow it down to about three guys I was talking to consistently. The finalists. The top contenders. The Dating Olympics.
But before I got to that efficient little system, I made one fatal mistake.
I turned my roster into a group chat. Accidentally created a reality show.The Bachelor: Local Edition. No roses. Just rage.
Now, mind you, this was before Snapchat, close friends lists, or private stories. Back when group texts were landmines and your shame had no filters.
Back then, if you sent a group text with a photo? Every single person could see everyone else's replies.
So there I was, trying to save time, thinking I was being smart by sending the same selfie to a handful of dudes. A cute "hey you 😘" moment.
Except it turned into a group thread of chaos.
They were all replying. To each other. In real time.
One guy said, "Looking good, babe."
Another replied, "Wait… who the hell are you?"
And a third said, "Is this a joke?"
And I just sat there. Watching it all burn. Like a dumbass in a digital bonfire of my own making.
Who does that? WHO?
Spoiler: Me. I did that.
I group-texted my entire roster like I was managing a little league team.
Thank God for Snapchat. Say what you want, but we all know it was created for one reason: nudes and mass distribution with plausible deniability.
I'm kind of kidding.
But also not.
⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾
So. I'm supposed to be going on this date with this guy I've been talking to for a while, and for once, I'm actually excited. Like, shaved-my-legs-above-the-knee excited.
But when the time comes? Ghosted. No text. No call. No "sorry, something came up." Just vanished like a dad in a Disney movie.
I drove a whole damn hour for this man. Did my makeup. Wore the dress. The one that says, "I might be a little dangerous but I also know how to fold a fitted sheet." And I ended up sitting there, alone, snackless, and dressed like an abandoned prom date.
Now, I'm a practical gal. You've got to keep a rotation. I limit it to five at a time. Not because I'm a player, but because I'm forgetful. Any more and I start confusing names, life stories, and which one has a pet iguana. No one wants to be called "Ethan" when they're actually "Kevin." Trust me.
So while I'm sitting there, emotionally spiraling into a pile of mascara and unmet expectations, one of my backups, let's call him Superman, texts:
"Hey, what are you up to?"
And I think, Well, I'm already dressed like a hot mistake, so I shoot back:
"Actually, I'm in your town looking real cute. Want to meet up?"
He's in. Tells me to meet him at the mall.
I show up expecting a casual, maybe-we-vibe hangout. What I get is him, his cousin, and his identical twin brother.
That's right.
Identical. Twin. Brother.
And not the awkward "one of us is hot and the other peaked in high school" twins. No. These two looked like they were genetically engineered by Marvel. Tall. Muscular. Perfect hair. They were Superman, Clark Kent, and Batman.
I'm standing there like I just accidentally walked into a CW casting call. Trying to act normal. Trying not to sweat through my dress. Trying to remember which one I'm actually here for.
So we walk the mall. I flirt with Superman, my original date, but Clark Kent has that broody, emotionally complex thing going on. He keeps giving me smirks like he's one trauma away from confessing his love in a thunderstorm. And I'm like, Oh no. I can fix him. I love a man who looks like he listens to sad playlists in the shower.
Meanwhile, Batman Cousin is out here being flirty AF. Touching my shoulder. Brushing my waist. Making jokes that actually land. And Superman? He doesn't care. He just pulls me in like we're already dating and he's protecting his prize from rival suitors.
I'm not mad. I'm confused. But I'm not mad.
They mention they've got movie tickets, and Superman buys me one without even asking. I go. Obviously.
Because clearly I'm not in danger, I'm in a fanfiction.
We drive across town, Clark behind the wheel, cool and mysterious. I'm squished in the backseat between Superman and Batman. And let me tell you, this dress? Too short. Too tight. Too much leg. And every inch of it is getting accidental contact.
Superman has his hand on my thigh. Kneading it like sourdough. Batman keeps brushing my arm, my hand, my hip. Like he's just accidentally touching me over and over and over. And Clark? Still making me laugh like this is a competition and the prize is me.
I could not tell you what movie we watched. Not even a little. It could've been Shrek 4 or a National Geographic documentary on penguin mating rituals. I would not have known.
Trying not to spontaneously combust in the middle of that human rotisserie of bad decisions and perfect jawlines.
Afterward, they ask what we want to do. And because we'd stopped at GameStop earlier and bonded over video games, I say the worst possible sentence:
"We could go back to your place and play something?"
Now, pause.
Let's review.
I have agreed to follow them, as a unit, to a third, private location.
You guys.
I LET THEM TAKE ME TO A THIRD PRIVATE LOCATION.
I was one bad decision away from a true crime podcast, except I would've hosted it myself. My brain? Nonexistent. My hormones? In charge.
Did I live to tell the tale? Obviously.
Was it chaotic, questionable, and deeply entertaining?
Always.
⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ
Okay, listen.
I'm not saying exactly what happened that night.
Partly because my sisters are going to read this. Partly because I blacked out from sheer sensory overload. And partly because I think there are laws in some states against being that happy.
Let's just say…
I was Wonder Woman. A tall, beautiful, curvy Amazonian goddess walking straight into a living room full of testosterone and questionable decisions. And honey? I did not come to play, I came for the 3-for-1 special.
This time, I rode to their house smooshed between Clark Kent and Batman while Superman, my original date, drove. Apparently we were rotating positions now. More thigh grabbing. More low chuckles. More "accidental" touches that were about as subtle as a neon sign reading We Do This All The Time.
And looking back? Oh yeah. They'd definitely done this before. The casual way they moved around each other. The silent glances. The synchronized flirtation like a boy band trained in polyamory.
At one point I leaned into Clark for some deep, soulful brooding while Batman was, well, doing Batman things. Superman just kept driving like it was Bring-Your-Date-To-Group-Foreplay Friday.
The house was normal. Like, suspiciously normal. Couch. TV. Game controllers. And I'm standing there like: Am I about to be featured in a documentary or a porn parody?
Part of me knew this was insane. The other part wanted to see if HBO would buy the rights to my biopic.
But honestly? I didn't care. I was there. I was dressed to kill. I looked like a sin. And I was feeling myself. Literally and figuratively.
Now here's the technicality that saved my future marriage arguments:
Did I have a threesome that night? Technically, no.
Technically. (Insert wink and slow sip of wine here.)
My second husband would always get weirdly jealous and ask, 'Have you ever had a threesome?' I always said no.Because he never asked how many.
And sweetie, there were more than three involved.
So no lies were told.
I got all of their numbers. I left with makeup smudged, lips swollen, and very distinct handprint bruises I didn't bother trying to hide. No shame. Just a smile. A big, dumb, post-apocalyptic, I-lived-through-it smile.
Sometimes you don't need closure.Sometimes you just need to visit the Eiffel Tower.In. The. Living. Room.