Chapter One — The Wedding Reception, or: How We Got Here

The room is full of people pretending they haven’t already spilled champagne on themselves.
Someone’s uncle is slow-dancing with someone else’s cousin. A toddler is doing what I can only describe as interpretive floor flailing to Stevie Wonder. My dad is three drinks in and just confidently called Sarah’s best friend “Susan,” even though her name is Jess and she’s basically part of the furniture at this point.

And I’m standing here—suit slightly wrinkled, boutonniere hanging on for dear life—smiling like a man who isn’t quietly panicking about the state of his back sweat.

This is my wedding reception.

And yes—despite everything you’re about to hear—I somehow got married.

To Sarah.

(We’ll get to her. You’ll love her.)

Right now, she’s across the room laughing with her mum—radiant, effortless, like someone who didn’t just marry the kind of man who would pretend to be allergic to latex to avoid wearing a condom.

Not saying that was me.

Just… saying it’s been done.        

By someone.

A man.

Allegedly.

“Mate,” says Tom, slapping a hand on my shoulder, “You actually did it. You got married.”

“Apparently so.”

The £8,000 room full of rarely seen relatives kind of gives it away.

Tom raises his glass. “She’s amazing, by the way. You’re punching way above your weight. Hard.”

“Thank you,” I say. Because that’s what you say when people compliment your wife and insult you in the same breath.

Another friend—one of Sarah’s, possibly named Ollie or Callum or some other posh-sounding noun—leans in with a grin and says, “I mean this nicely but—how on earth did you manage to land someone like our Sarah?”

And there it is.

The thing everyone’s wondering but one only a posh twat has the gall to ask.

I pause. Sip my pint. Glance across the room again, where Sarah catches my eye and gives me that look like she can read every stupid thought I’ve ever had, and still said yes.

I turn back.

“Well,” I say. “That’s… a long story.”

This part’s not really for Ollie or Callum.

It’s for you.

So pay attention.

Chapter Two — Kiera, or: Essex Definitely Isn’t the Only Way

Flashback: Two years earlier.

My room smells like stale Doritos and defeat.

It’s a Tuesday night, and I’m lying on my bed, phone in hand, staring at the App Store like it just personally offended me.

Because this is it. The moment. The end of dignity.

I’m about to install a dating app.

Now. To be clear: I’m not against online dating. I’m just… above it.

Or at least I was. Until all my friends paired off like penguins and my last date ended with someone asking if I believed in lizard people.

(That won’t be the last mention of birds. Not by a long shot.)

And for the record, I don’t believe in lizard people. But Elon Musk makes it hard to be sure.

Sometimes I look at his eyes and can’t help but think—

No. Sorry.

Where was I?

Right. The dating app and the end of my dignity.

We all have dry spells. This was mine.

And being the last single one in the group wasn’t helping.

Even James had a girlfriend. James. Can you imagine? The man still says “hashtag” out loud in conversation.

I scroll past the apps with dumb names. Luvr. RytOn. Flik.

I pick the one with the best logo. Download it. Sign up.

Add a photo where I look vaguely like a human man. Write a bio that walks the line between “I have a personality” and “please swipe right before I die alone.” Something about liking dogs. Something about my Spotify Wrapped. A blatant lie about loving historical fiction. Done.

DING.

Instant message.

Her name is Keira.

That should have been the first red flag—not her name, nothing wrong with Keira, but like how she was just sitting there waiting for fresh meat to pop up.

And that’s how it starts.

Her profile said she liked “horror films, drinks, and breaking hearts.”

I assumed she was being ironic.

(She was not being ironic.)

We agreed to meet at a bar in the East End. One of those dimly lit places where the furniture looks like it was stolen from your grandmother’s attic and every cocktail requires a credit check.

Before I go any further, apologies to the people of Ilford. I know you’re not all like this. But Keira was… textbook.

She was already there when I arrived.

Perched on a bar stool like it had her name on it, drink in hand, legs crossed, dress... short. The kind of short that made eye contact feel optional.

“’Arry?” she said, before I could say anything.

I nodded, and she gave me a look like I was already late to my own execution.

“Go on—'ave a seat,” she said.

Present-day me would like to interject here and say: I should’ve left. I should’ve stood up, said “You seem lovely, but I’m not your vibe,” and walked into the night like a man with boundaries.

What I actually did was smile awkwardly and ask what she was drinking.

"Summin' wiv tequila an’ attitude," she said. "Wanna sip?"

She offered me her straw. I declined. She took that personally.

(That was red flag number two. There were many.)

“So,” she said, twirling the straw between her fingers in a way that probably worked better on men who didn’t flinch when women made eye contact, “Wha’ made you swipe on me, then?”

I said something generic. “You seemed cool.”

She smirked. “You was ’opin’ I’d be a slag.”

I laughed. She didn’t.

There was a long pause.

“I am, though, ain’t I?” She took a sip. “No shame in that—innit.”

Cue nervous chuckle from me. Cue intense eye contact from her. Cue me wondering if there’s an emergency exit in this place that doesn’t involve faking a sudden illness.

She leaned closer. “You’ve got that kinda face—brought up proper, yeah—but you’d do filthy if someone asked nice. Ain’t gonna lie.”

I nearly choked on my overpriced craft beer.

“Do you always come on this strong?” I asked, trying to sound amused and not, you know, cornered.

"When I know what I want, I go for it—simple as, yeah?"

She placed her hand—her actual hand—on my thigh.

Just rested it there. Like she owned it.

I was not aroused. I was terrified.

(Okay, I was slightly aroused. But like… scared-aroused. Which isn’t the same thing.)

We left the bar after one drink.

Correction: She finished her drink. I was still halfway through mine when she stood up, took my hand, and said, “Let’s go, babes.”

I didn’t even ask where.

We walked to her place. Fifth-floor flat. No lift. I was winded by the time we got to the door. She didn’t even notice. She had already taken her shoes off and was undoing her necklace with one hand.

“Shoes off,” she said, without looking back.

Her apartment smelled like incense and poor decisions.

There was a black-and-white poster of American Psycho above the bed.

I didn’t feel safe.

She poured two glasses of red wine and handed me one without asking. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and looked at me like I was either dessert or prey.

I sipped my wine. It tasted expensive. Or poisoned. Hard to say.

“You’re cute when you’re nervous, babe,” Keira said, grinning as she tugged at my shirt. “All shy an’ twitchy—makes me wanna ruin you a bit.”

“I’m not nervous.”

(That was a lie.)

She didn’t respond. Just kept undressing me like I was a secret she planned to lick open.

She kissed like she was trying to win something. Kept biting my lip. Hard. At one point, I tasted blood and wasn’t sure whose it was. I didn’t ask.

She undressed fast—like it was a race. Tossed her dress into the air like it was a celebration, then stood there in just a red lace bra and matching knickers like a woman who absolutely knew how she looked.

And yeah.

I did some things I’m not exactly proud of. But her tits were the first ones I’d seen in months. So…

She shoved me back onto the bed, straddled me, and said, “Ladies first, babe—then you can do wha’ you like.”

I nodded like a man whose standards had fully collapsed—and was fine with it.

She took off her bra. I forgot how to blink.

Then she pulled me between her legs and said, "Tongue first, babe. Fingers when I tell ya. And don’t even think about stoppin’—not ‘til after I’m done screamin’ the place down, yeah?"

You’ll be shocked to hear Keira didn’t finish charm school.

(Or start it.)

She gave instructions the entire time. What to lick, how hard, where to suck. Half of it I’d never heard before. Some of it might have been illegal.

At one point, she told me to spank her and call her a “dirty little succubus.” I tried. It came out hesitant. She slapped me and shouted, “Mean it!”

After what I’m reluctant to call foreplay, she fished a condom from a drawer. Value pack. Bulk buy. Like she was expecting a crowd.

Normally, this is where I'd roll out my classic line about being allergic to latex — but something about Keira told me this wasn’t the time to play Russian roulette.

Possibly the first smart decision of the night.

And then—

We hit the loud, limbs-everywhere, definitely-going-to-regret-that-tomorrow stage of the evening. My hamstrings still haven’t forgiven me.

She came more than once while I clung on for dear life, like I was being ridden by a horny sleep paralysis demon. Turns out, that did it for me, too.

She collapsed on top of me and said, “I weren’t jokin’ when I said I was a slag, was I, babe?”

Then she passed out.

Fully naked. Sprawled across my chest like a victory flag.

I left at 5:30 a.m.

Fully convinced my encounter with a rejected cast member of The Only Way Is Essex had come to a natural end.

Or rather, she’d rung the bell, and my turn in the ring was over.

So I slid out the front door. No note. No text.

Just a silent exit—and a quiet promise to give the East End a bit of a wide berth, dating-wise.

Except—

She texted me.

That morning.

Then again. And again. And again.

By lunchtime, I had seventeen messages. Mostly variations on:

“Last night was well amazin', babes. I'm still buzzin’.”

“You’re mine now.”

“You want brekkie in bed tomorrow, or d’you fancy a surprise?”

I didn’t respond. Thought that would send a message.

It did not.

She messaged every day for a week. Found me on Instagram. Tagged me in a photo that I don’t remember her taking with the caption “My new man is proper fit. You’d die.”

I reported it. Instagram said it didn’t violate community guidelines.

Neither did her handwritten note taped to the front door of my building.

(Yes. That happened.)

I blocked her.

I moved on.

Eventually.

And here’s the thing:

I don’t regret it.

It was a terrible idea. It was a mistake I will spend years quietly wincing about. But it got me out of my head. Out of my comfort zone. Out of the idea that love would just appear if I waited long enough.

And besides, it prepared me for the next one. Less intense, but more weird.

Chapter Three — Eliza, or: A Different Kind of Bird Watching

You’d think Keira would’ve scared me off the app.

And she did.

For about forty-eight hours.

The thing is—it worked. I pulled. It wasn’t true love, but it proved the system worked. And if failure meant a wild shag and a cracking story for the lads, who was I to complain?

So. I reinstalled the app.

Enter: Eliza.

Her profile was refreshingly normal. A selfie in front of a bookstore. A picture of her dog. A funny quote from Ghosts in her bio. Everything not Kiera.

We messaged back and forth for three days.

No red flags. I even tried tossing out a bit of innuendo—nothing. Not a flinch. Not a twitch. All signs pointed to Eliza being someone I could actually see myself with.

She seemed… quiet. Thoughtful. Shy, even. Like someone who might knit or volunteer or say sorry when she sneezed.

She asked me questions. Silly ones. The kind you laugh at, then answer way too seriously. Like what kind of pasta would I be, if I were pasta?

(I said rigatoni. She said penne. We both agreed macaroni was trying too hard.)

Comfort established, we moved to a phone call. It lasted an hour. Nothing intense. Just two people vibing. I didn’t once feel the urge to fake a tunnel breakup.

So when I suggested we meet up, she said:

“How do you feel about the Snowdon Aviary?”

I said: “Sounds good to me!”

Because I’m a liar.

I didn’t know what an aviary was.

I mean, it sounded familiar. Like I probably knew what it was… if someone reminded me. I figured it was either an overpriced café shaped like a tree, or some kind of arthouse theatre. ‘Aviary Presents: A 3-hour Pinter revival—but with puppets.’

Turns out it’s birds.

Like, just… birds. Lots of them. In an enormous netted greenhouse of flapping, screeching, judgmental feathery things.

But I went. Because Eliza seemed nice. And I thought, how bad can birds be?

(They can be very bad.)

She was waiting outside the entrance when I arrived. Big scarf. Big glasses. Small smile. She looked like someone who wore SPF even in winter.

We hugged. Lightly. Politely.

Then we went in.

Now—here’s the thing.

Not once, in the entire three days of messaging, did she mention birds. Not once, on the phone, did she say, “Oh by the way, I’m an ornithological superfan who lives and breathes avian trivia.”

But in person?

Birds were her everything.

She knew all their names. Their Latin classifications. Where they were from. Their breeding habits. Their emotional tendencies.

“That one’s a lilac-breasted roller,” she said, pointing. “They sometimes fake injuries to distract predators from their nests.”

“Oh,” I said, nodding like that was information I would absolutely use one day.

“I love that about them,” she said softly. “The lengths they’ll go to for protection.”

I nodded again.

She smiled. “Are you having fun?”

“This is great.”

(It wasn’t great. It was awful.)

We spent two hours in the aviary.

Two hours.

I listened to the sound of flapping wings, birdcalls, and Eliza casually explaining the seasonal molting patterns of the Andean cock-of-the-rock. No joke. That’s a real bird. Google it. Look at the head it has on its head. Now you’ve got the same mental image I’ve been living with for two years—an orange cock you can’t unsee. You’re welcome.

I was trying to figure out how to leave politely when she turned to me, mid-monologue about migratory instinct, and said:

“You’re not really into this, are you?”

I froze.

“What? No—I am. It’s fascinating.”

She tilted her head. Studied me.

“You don’t have to pretend.”

I smiled weakly. “I’m not.”

(I was.)

She squinted. “If you don’t care about birds, we can just go back to yours and fuck.”

I blinked.

“Seriously,” she said, deadpan. “I like you. But I don’t need the performance.”

Cut to: my flat.

We stood face to face in my bedroom, Eliza looking at me like she was about to tell me a secret.

“This might sound… different,” she said, “but before anything else happens—can I just get naked and masturbate for you?”

I swallowed. “Uh… sure?”

She told me to keep my clothes on, which I did. Like a man who’d suddenly found himself on a very niche subscription site.

Eliza climbed onto my bed, lay back, and—well, got to work. Confident. Unbothered. Like this was just... her process.

I stood awkwardly by the dresser, unsure where to look or what to do with my hands.

(Answer: I held them like I was in line for communion.)

Then—mid rub, without breaking rhythm—she said:

“Did you know parrots do this?”

I stared.

“They rub their cloaca to get in the mood before mating,” she added—moaning, like it was a genuine turn-on.

Parrots.

I was being outperformed—emotionally and physically—by parrots.

“Is there something I can do?” I asked, because apparently I’d decided to stay involved in this.

Eliza locked eyes with me. Her voice dropped to that breathy, intimate register women use in movies right before something life-changing—or deeply weird—happens.

(Spoiler: something deeply weird happened.)

“When male parrots are excited, they usually move their heads around and shift their weight from foot to foot. Like a little dance.”

I wasn’t sure if this was another one of her bird facts or a request. Possibly both.

In my head: You’re having a laugh if you think I’m doing that.

In the room: my head bobbed. My feet shuffled. I was dancing. Like a fucking parrot.

Eliza’s pace quickened, and she came on her fingers—loudly. The noises she made could’ve belonged to some rare species of South American bird. Possibly endangered. Definitely loud.

She sprawled across my bed like a woman who’d just communed with nature and come out victorious.

“That was great,” she said, beaming. “Take your clothes off and come fuck me now.”

Look—this story isn’t full of proud moments.

But I didn’t reenact a parrot mating ritual to end up like a blue-balled whispergull.

(Not a real bird. Don’t Google it.)

Now, here’s the thing. Once Eliza got what she… needed? She was shockingly normal.

She didn’t just let me have a go at her like she was returning a favour.

Tit for tat.

Or in this case—two great tits.

She was into it.

And—credit where it’s due—she was good. Solid B+ Madam Bird Lady.

Confident. Responsive. Like we’d done this before in some alternate reality where I wasn’t the guy who danced like a parrot to get her attention.

It was the kind of sex that made me wonder if maybe I ought to know more about birds—and whether I was the weird one for not knowing the difference between a crow and a raven.

(Ravens are bigger. Crows have fan-shaped tails. They make different sounds. And crows usually hang out in bigger groups.)

If you ever meet your own bird girl—or bird boy—now you’re one step ahead of where I started.

She climbed on top, and she somehow still followed my lead, responding to my movement, not directing her own.

She had the warmest smile—and look, I know I’ve mentioned it already, but her tits were exceptional. Not too big, not too small. Just the right amount of tit for a man with my hands.

I rolled her over, climbed back on top, and went at her like a man with one very clear goal.

She whispered the filthiest things—mercifully unrelated to birds—and that was it. I came. Hard. Whole body shaking, head spinning, slightly worried I might have dislocated something.

This is what dating apps were meant for. Helping 25-year-old single men let go of the dream of marrying a model and realize that happiness could be found in the arms—or between the legs—of a bird girl.

Afterwards, she curled up next to me. Her breathing slowed. She closed her eyes.

And for a minute, whatever it was I was looking for… felt found.

I looked at her face—peaceful, pale, nestled against my pillow—and found myself, almost absentmindedly, scrolling through ornithology books on Amazon.

Because apparently, this is what I’d become. And maybe I was ok with that.

She opened her eyes.

Sat up.

Reached for her bra.

“That was good,” she said. “I needed a shag.”

I smiled, dazed. “Yeah. Same.”

She stood, pulling her sweater over her head.

“But I don’t see a future here.”

I blinked.

“What?”

She was already putting on her boots. “You’re nice. But we’re not compatible. It’s fine. It was just sex.”

Then she left.

Just like that.

No hug. No kiss. No existential screech from a cockatoo.

Just the sound of the door closing.

I lay there, still naked, still stunned, still vaguely smelling of feathers and sweat, and thought:

What the fuck just happened?

Was I the bird now?

Chapter Four — The Streak, or: How Many Chloes Were There?

Let’s just speed through this part.

Sarah’s going to read this someday, and I’d like to spare her some of the details.

Honey—if you’re reading this—the bit with the strap-on isn’t true. It’s just for the readers. Promise.

(She won’t believe that—and shouldn’t.)

There was Anna—blonde, sweet, gave me one of the best blowies of my life. Too much of a homebody. Smiled like someone who’d never told a lie and wasn’t planning to start.

Jasmine had the best arse I’ve ever licked whipped cream off. Nice girl. But her voice could cut glass, and she used it a lot. Constant commentary. Even during sex. Especially during sex. Think erotic sports punditry.

Chloe #1—cute as a button, filthy in bed, owned three sets of handcuffs, and wasn’t shy about using them. But very efficient with a strap-on.

Megan looked like a sexy travel blogger and actually was one. I made the mistake of giving her my real name. Woke up the next morning to a photo of me sleeping posted on her “Wanderlust & Lust” Instagram with the caption "He said he was allergic to latex. He lied. 8/10."

Chloe #2—pretty sure she was wearing a wig, but cute, filthy, also… wait. Was there a Chloe #2? Or did I just hook up with the same Chloe twice, and she pretended not to know me the second time?

(If you’re reading this, Chloe—respect. That’s commitment.)

There was Zahra, who had a tongue piercing and an actual spreadsheet of sexual fantasies. Nina, who wanted to do it exclusively in public restrooms. Freya, who made me wear a cape. Not in bed—just, like, in general. For ambiance.

Point is: I was on a roll.

A good one.

A very fun, very naked, very ethically dubious roll.

And then came Sarah.

And suddenly the roll stopped.

Hard.

Chapter Five — Sarah, or: How Not to Impress Your Future Wife

Alright, cards on the table: this one’s embarrassing. But we’ll get through it together. And hey—remember, the happy ending already happened in Chapter One. So don’t stress.

At this point, I was riding my hot streak. One of those ridiculous, mythical runs where you’re barely trying, and somehow, miraculously, you can’t leave the house without getting laid.

Everything came easy... including me.

I signed up for the app looking for love—something deep, honest, all that rom-com crap.

But then sex happened. A lot of it.

And somewhere in the middle of that very pleasant detour, I forgot the original plan.

So when I matched with Sarah, I treated it like another lap around the track.

Her profile said things like “photography,” “hiking,” and “big fan of historical fiction.”

Boring. I skipped it.

All I really looked at were the photos, so I could picture what she might look like naked.

(Better than I deserved.)

She passed the world’s most superficial test with flying colours, so I messaged her.

She suggested dinner.

I countered with “Let’s grab a drink and see where the night goes.”

She pushed back—dinner.

That probably should’ve been my first clue that Sarah wasn’t like the others. But I figured, fine, I’ll feed the nice uni girl a proper meal before I bend her over my kitchen table later in the night.

We met at this cozy Mediterranean place in Covent Garden. You know the type—dim lighting, overpriced olives, and waiters who all looked like they were one jazz hand away from a West End callback.

She stood when I walked in. Smiled. Not a flirty smile—just polite. Like she’d been taught good manners and still believed in giving people a chance. She wore a green dress that made her eyes look even greener, hair pulled back into one of those deceptively casual buns that takes more effort than I put into my entire outfit.

She looked stunning.

Everything I’d ever wanted was right in front of me.

And I immediately, stupidly, mentally downgraded the whole evening to a formality. Like: alright, we’ll do this song and dance, and then back to mine for a proper tune-up.

We ordered drinks. She asked what I did for a living.

“Marketing,” I said, which is technically true. I just left out the bit where I mainly write emails that get caught by spam filters and argue with interns about fonts.

“What do you like to do outside of work?” she asked.

“Go to the pub,” I said, like a man who’s never had a hobby in his life.

She smiled politely. Tried again. “What’s something new you’ve learned recently?”

I thought about it. “How to tell the difference between a crow and a raven.”

She gave me a questioning look.

I shrugged. “One’s got a fan-shaped tail, the other’s bigger and more goth.”

(Thanks again, bird girl)

Still, Sarah kept trying. Asking questions. Actually listening. Laughing—politely—at the right bits. She was interested and engaged. Which, honestly, threw me off so much I didn’t even clock it at the time.

And me?

I was already working out how to skip the mains and get her back to mine—because let’s be honest, when you’re on a streak like I was, it feels rude not to share the magic.

She asked what the last book I read was.

“Does the back of a cereal box count?”

Another polite smile. Less generous this time.

“Why did you decide to try online dating?” she asked.

I leaned back, proud of what I was about to say.

“Well, you know—it’s basically Deliveroo for sex. Scroll, swipe, add to cart. And someone slightly out of your league shows up in a green dress, but you win her over with some cracking banter and the promise of a solid Netflix recommendation”.

(Fleabag. For obvious reasons.)

She didn’t laugh. She sighed.

Gave it one last shot.

“Is there something you’d like to ask me?”

I smiled. “I could ask what colour knickers you’re wearing. But I’d rather wait and show you a trick where I guess using only my teeth.”

That sealed the deal.

Just not the way I thought.

She excused herself to the loo. Said she’d be right back.

I watched her walk away. And yeah—I looked at her arse. Of course I did.

(Still do. Every time.)

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Still no Sarah.

The waiter walked by. “Everything alright, sir?”

“Yeah,” I said, smiling. “Just waiting on my date. We’ll order when she gets back.”

He gave me a look. That gentle, knowing half-smile you give a guy who’s just been dumped and hasn’t caught on yet.

I pulled out my phone.

Typed: You alright?

Sent.

Waited.

No reply.

Opened the app.

Blocked.

Not unmatched.

Blocked.

Like I was spam. Or a virus. Which in retrospect—fair play— I was.

I stared at the screen.

Replayed the date in my head.

Every glib answer. Every lazy shrug. Every time she tried to make a connection and I swerved it like a pothole I didn’t feel like fixing.

I thought I’d been charming. Suave.

Turns out I was the prat in the first ten minutes of a rom-com—the one you’re meant to hate so the real love interest feels like a bloody revelation when he shows up.

Even if he’s played by James Corden.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

I kept replaying it. The look on her face when I made that knickers comment. Not shocked exactly. Just… disheartened. Like she had expectations for me that I hadn’t yet dared to have for myself. She’d held out hope that maybe I was just nervous and I’d eventually say something human.

Instead, I offered teeth-based lingerie clairvoyance.

Because that’s what you do when someone’s trying to see your soul—you aim for their underwear.

If I’d only said something normal. Anything. I could’ve told her I liked her dress. That I appreciated her patience. Maybe assure her I wasn’t entirely the twat I was pretending to be. But no. All my brain could think about was keeping my streak alive and what an imaginary version of Sarah would look like, face down, arse up, on my bed.

We’d only spent forty minutes together, but this one felt different. And deep down, I knew it. From the moment I saw her, I bloody knew it.

This one stung.

Not because I didn’t get what I wanted—though, yes, the sexless ending did hurt my ego—but because I realized what I might’ve had.

What I’d fumbled.

What I’d never get the chance to fix.

And all because I’d strutted in like a cocky little magpie flashing shiny objects, thinking that was enough.

(It might be time to confess I’ve been reading about birds.)

I turned over. Checked my phone. Nothing. Obviously. I even opened the app like an idiot, just to confirm I was still blocked. Like there was going to be a “Just kidding!” button I’d missed the first twelve times.

It wasn’t just that I cocked it up so badly I felt like I owed her an apology on behalf of all men.

I missed her.

Like, actually missed her.

Which made zero sense.

How do you miss someone you knew for forty minutes and mistreated for thirty of them?

Because she’s Sarah.

That’s why.

(She’s that impressive in person.)

I couldn’t fault her for anything she’d done, really. I came off as smug cockwomble, and she had the good sense to know she deserved better.

There was nothing I could do about it now.

Nothing except…

Find the next woman to shag.

Don’t judge me.

It was a vulnerable point in my life, and sex had basically become my emotional support blanket.

Chapter Six — Tatiana, or: The Horny Summit.

Tatiana.

That was her name.

And yes—it sounds made up. But it wasn’t.

Every leggy, glossy, heavily-accented inch of her said Tatiana.

We matched on a Thursday. Met on a Friday. Because sometimes God is merciful, and sometimes you’re just due.

Her profile had three photos: red bikini on the beach, white blouse barely containing architectural cleavage, and a close-up of lips that could end wars.

Her bio simply said: “New in London. Teach me English?”

We met at a café in Kensington. Not a chain—one of those twee places where they write the menu in cursive and sell banana bread wrapped in twine.

She walked in looking like she’d been genetically engineered to extract Cold War secrets from James Bond.

And her English?

Minimal.

But determined.

She smiled and said, “Hello. You are… Harry?”

“I am,” I said, somehow already sweating.

We ordered drinks. I got a flat white. She ordered tea and pronounced it “cheh.” I melted slightly.

We sat.

And then she said—across the table, loudly, without warning:

“How you say… I want you to fuck my pussy?”

Everyone in the café looked at us.

Everyone.

She tilted her head.

“You say like this? Yes?”

I cleared my throat. “Yes. Just like that. Nailed it.”

(Which was ironic. Because I very much hoped to.)

She realized her mistake. Blushed. Apologized in rapid Russian.

Then, brilliantly, she pulled out her phone.

Typed something.

Showed me the screen.

Do you want to see me naked, Harry?

I’m sure Apple had loftier ambitions for their translator than two twenty-somethings passing a phone back and forth like diplomats at a pornographic G7. But there we were.

Tatiana was exactly what I needed. She didn’t ask about books or childhoods or feelings. Just sex.

We went back to hers.

Top-floor flat. Big windows. Clean as a showroom, with white walls that probably cost more than my rent. And this faint smell in the air—something between vodka and sex. Very on-brand.

She pointed to the bedroom, then typed something on her phone.

Get naked, while I change into something “fun”.

Her use of quotation marks there raised some questions, but I wasn’t in an analytical mood.

Tatiana disappeared into another room, and I sat on the edge of her bed, stark naked, trying not to have a full-on pre-emptive orgasm from sheer anticipation.

A few minutes later, she came back.

And Jesus.

Leather. Latex. Straps.

(If I were James Bond, I’d have sold us out.)

She didn’t smile. She smirked.

And I—I nearly came just looking at her.

She typed:

Lie back. Hands above your head.

I obeyed. No questions asked. Not even a second thought.

She climbed on top, fully clothed, straddling me like I was a piece of furniture she intended to break in. The crop touched my chest, lightly—like she was measuring where to hurt me first.

She leaned in close. Her breath was hot, her voice low when she finally spoke:

“You no touch.”

I nodded.

She moved slowly—letting me feel the drag of the moment. Ran the crop down my chest, across my ribs, over my thigh. Paused. Reached down and took my cock in one gloved hand—tight, perfect, and completely unfair—just long enough to make me gasp, then let go.

She crawled down between my legs, and just looked. No touching. Just a full visual dissection.

Then typed:

You want me to suck your cock?

(As if no was even an option)

I nodded.

And then—bliss.

Slow. Wet. Devastating.

She took the head in first, her lips forming a perfect seal, then sank down until her nose was against my stomach like it was nothing. Held it there. Swallowed.

My hands clenched the sheets like they might save me from floating off the bed.

She pulled off with a soft pop, wiped her mouth, and tapped on her phone again.

I’m going to ride you. Try not to cum.

This whole routine was a dream I didn’t know I had.

Because you can’t just ask for this sort of thing, can you?

You can’t turn to someone on a lazy Sunday morning and say:

“Luv, would you mind putting on a bit of leather, spank my arse while I wank? No? Ok, we’ll watch the Fulham match instead.”

This was the fantasy.

Tatiana straddled me like she owned me, moved in slow, grinding waves that made time elastic. Her nails dragged down my chest. Her voice whispered things in Russian I didn’t understand, but definitely obeyed.

I begged. I pleaded.

She ignored me.

And when I was finally at the edge—practically weeping—she leaned down, bit my ear, and whispered:

“You Cum now.”

And I did.

Like a prayer being answered.

Like a thank you in bodily form.

Like the world collapsing into a single, blissful point of light.

Except—

None of that happened.

(Nice plot twist, isn’t it?)

After all that build-up—leather, latex, a Russian sex Goddess, me being very naked and very up for it—I just… wasn’t.

Here’s how it really played out:

We got back to hers. I undressed. Sat on the edge of her bed, socks still on like a complete rookie, already hard and trying to look casual about it. She went to change.

And while I was looking around the place trying to take it all in, I saw myself in the mirror—naked, pale, slouched like a question mark—and knew I couldn’t do it.

And this-this is the serious bit. The part where I realized I was in love. So, I’m not going to sully it with a silly bird reference.

(Don’t believe me.)

I couldn’t stop thinking about Sarah, and I couldn’t go through with what would’ve most definitely been a mind-blowing night with Tatiana. For the first time in a long time, my heart was making the decisions—

Which, by the way, was a deeply unpopular decision with my knob, who protested like a French civil servant finding out his 14 weeks of holiday were being cut down to 12.

I didn’t believe in love at first sight.

Especially not when I didn’t even recognize it at first sight.

But Sarah… she made me want to be a better version of myself.

The kind of man who listens. Who tries. Who doesn’t make jokes about knickers when a woman’s looking for a real connection.

I could actually see it. I wanted it. The two of us together.

Like lovebirds. I know—on the nose. But after everything? I’m owed that one.

I sat there for a long minute, staring at myself like I was trying to figure out who I’d become. Then I got dressed and slinked out into the night—with a sad dick, a confused heart, and a brand-new commitment to finding Sarah.

One way or another—I was going to see her again.

Wait. That sounds creepy.

I mean it in a grand, romantic gesture sort of way that invites consent.

Not... you know. Restraining order vibes.

Chapter Seven — The Second Chance Plan, or: Please Don’t Call the Police.

I was haunted.

Fully haunted.

Not in a poetic, Byronic way. More like in the Googling ‘how to tell if someone regrets ghosting you’ at 3 a.m. kind of way.

Sarah was in my head.

The green dress. The gentle smile. The way she asked questions, like she actually wanted to hear the answers.

And the way she walked out of that restaurant like I wasn’t even worth a goodbye.

It did my head in.

So I did what any emotionally underdeveloped man would do:

I made a fake dating profile.

Name: John Smith
Age: 25
Interests: Hiking. Coffee. Long walks on Hampstead Heath.
Bio: “Looking to make a real connection.”

I used a stock photo of some bloke who looked like one of those catalogue models who looks like he owns horses and a helicopter.

And then I swiped.

And waited.

And… nothing.

No Sarah.

I refreshed. Changed the age range. Switched locations. Bought the premium plan.

Still nothing.

Which led me to one very dark, very plausible conclusion:

She’d left the app, and my only way of possibly connecting with her was gone.

Turns out the problem was my fake profile didn’t mention historical fiction. Sarah’s filters were set. I’d been ghosted by the algorithm.

(Seriously, fuck our algorithmic Gods.)

This led me to my last, best hope: James.

James is the kind of friend who believes every problem can be solved with pints and a flowchart. He once got back with an ex because he made a spreadsheet of their shared Spotify history and called it “emotional proof.”

He brought along his girlfriend Charlotte, and we met at our usual pub—a place with sticky tables, weird carpet, and a barman who looked like he’d been cursed in the 1600s.

I told them everything.

“She really does sound lovely, Harry,” Charlotte said. “I think she’d like who you’re trying to become.”

She took a sip of her drink, then added, “And if it doesn’t work out, my friend Megs would love who you used to be. She's a travel blogger.”

“Alright, hashtag zip it, Charlotte,” James muttered, giving her a look.

(He really does still speak that way.)

James pulled out his phone and started listing options like he was planning a bank heist.

“We need to figure out a way to stalk her,” James said.

“We don’t,” Charlotte and I said in unison.

“I’m joking—mostly,” he added. “What I mean is… let’s go over what we know. Do you know where she works?”

“No.”

“Last name?”

“Nope.”

He paused. “Hobbies?”

“Hiking, photography, historical fiction… and walking out on prats before the main course.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So we loiter outside Waterstones until she walks in?”

“It’s not a terrible plan,” I said.

“It is. You’d get arrested before you got her number,” Charlotte was correct to point out.

We were deep into the “What would you do if this were a rom-com?” phase of brainstorming when James leaned back and asked:

“Ok. Back to the basics. What did you say Sarah looked like again?”

“Soft face. Amazing smile.”

“Right. About how tall?”

“Five-six, maybe?”

“Brown hair?”

“Yes, pulled back and in a bun.”

“And she wore a green dress on your date?”

“Yeah.”

“Sleeveless?”

“You know all this already,” I snapped.

“Hashtag I’m sorry, but sometimes going over the details sparks an idea.”

“Are you lot having a laugh?” Charlotte asked, genuinely uncertain.

“No, Charlotte, this is serious. Can’t you see how torn up Harry is?”

She gave us both a look.

“It’s just… You sound like you’re describing that woman who walked in with the gym rat about five minnies ago.”

She pointed casually toward a dim corner of the pub.

“Over there.”

I turned.

And there she was.

Sarah.

Looking exactly as I remembered her. Green dress. Hair back. Still beautiful. Still composed. And, of course, still not sitting across from me.

And next to her?

A man. Large. Bearded. Biceps like tree trunks. The kind of guy who definitely eats protein for fun and doesn’t cry during Paddington 2.

I mean, he might not even own a copy of Paddington 2. That’s the level we’re dealing with.

And I know it sounds like movie bullshit.

But sometimes?

Movie bullshit happens in real life.

(I’ve got the ring on my finger for proof. Deal with it.)

“That’s her. What do I do?” I asked, face flushed, eyes bugging out like a cartoon character who’s just spotted his not-quite-an-ex but definitely-future-wife with a man built like a CrossFit competition.

Charlotte laughed.

James opened his mouth to answer, but I was already moving—like my legs had staged a mutiny.

I walked straight over to their table like I’d been invited.

Like this was a completely normal thing people did.

Like I wasn’t about to publicly humiliate myself in front of the woman who’d blocked me mid-date and never looked back.

“Sarah,” I said, voice cracking just a little. “Hi.”

She looked up.

Confused. Cautious. Curious.

Her date looked at me like I’d just wandered in off the street with a machete.

“Do you know this guy?” he asked her.

She blinked.

“No,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“She’s my wife. Or she will be. In two years.”

(I didn’t say that. But I thought it. Loudly.)

What I actually said was something like:

“I know this is weird. I just—I saw you and I couldn’t walk away. I needed to talk to you. To explain.”

Sarah’s eyebrows did that thing people’s eyebrows do when they’re deciding between calling security and just throwing a drink in your face.

Her date said, “Seriously—do you know him?”

“We went on one date,” Sarah said flatly.

“I’ve hated myself since that night,” I said, faster than I meant to. “The guy you met—he was me. But not the version I want to be. I’ve changed. Because of you. Well—not because of you like it’s your fault. I just mean… meeting you made me realize I could be better. Should be. For someone like you.”

Sarah didn’t say anything, but I could see it—in her eyes, in the way her mouth curved into the faintest smile. She didn’t think I was a lunatic. Not this time. I was flustered, stripped of all the cocky bravado I’d worn like aftershave on our first date. For the first time, she was seeing the guy she’d hoped she’d matched with when she swiped right. The real me. Or at least, the me I was finally trying to be.

The kind of guy who owns a copy of Paddington 2—and a backup—just in case it ever disappears from streaming and the world needs saving through kindness and marmalade.

Her date clocked it too. I could see it on his face—the slow, dawning horror as he realized the most beautiful girl in London had just emotionally checked out of their evening and locked eyes with a bloke who looked like he still used Lynx body spray unironically.

“This is too weird for me,” he muttered, standing up.

And just like that, he left. Quietly. No fuss. Like he knew he’d just wandered into the final act of someone else’s story.

For a moment, she just stared at her drink.

Not at me. Not anywhere in particular.

Like she was weighing something.

The silence stretched—one second, two. Just long enough for my stomach to drop.

Then she looked up.

“Have a seat,” she said. “You’ve got two minutes.”

So I did—like a humbled man who’d just survived my first proper public humiliation.

My heart was still thumping, but the adrenaline was starting to wear off, leaving behind that weird cocktail of hope and oh-god-what-now.

“I was an arsehole. On our date. I was smug. Dismissive. I thought it was just dinner before sex, and I treated you like a prop in my own deluded fantasy.”

Her eyebrow raised. “That’s supposed to win me over?”

“I’m not done.”

I swallowed.

“I’ve thought about that night. Like—a lot. More than I think about how ridiculous an Andean cock-of-the-rock looks.”

That earned a smile. Confused, but amused.

“It’s a bird,” I said. “Massive knobhead. Basically, me... before I realized you deserved better… and I wanted to be that better.”

She stared at me.

Hard.

Evaluating.

Then finally—finally—her arms loosened just a bit.

“Buy me a drink,” she said with a smile.

Then: “You’ve got until the end of it to convince me this isn’t an act—and that you’re not actually an insufferable jackass.”

Smash cut: present day. Wedding reception.

We’re back to the beginning. Drink in my hand, standing next to one of Sarah’s friends. Possibly named Ollie. Or Callum. Or some other first-year-at-Oxford name.

He’s been nodding politely for the last ten minutes as I tell him the whole story.

“And that,” I say, gesturing toward Sarah—who’s now laughing with her mum across the room—“is how we met.”

Ollie-or-Callum blinks.

“So wait… that bit about the Russian dominatrix,” he says, “that happened or it didn’t happen?”

I sip my drink and move on to the next guest.

Chapter Eight — The End, or: Nearly the End Actually

If you’d told me two years ago that I’d be married now—happily married—I would’ve laughed, made a joke about STDs, and gone back to swiping like I was rummaging for a quid down the back of the sofa.

But here I am.

Wearing a ring.

Sharing a flat with someone who knows exactly how I like my tea and exactly when I’m lying about having done the washing.

And I know it’s cliché. I know it’s boring. But falling in love didn’t change me overnight.

It made me earn it.

It made me admit things I didn’t want to admit.

Like the fact that I’d used sex as a shortcut for connection. That I’d chased fantasy instead of vulnerability. That I was so afraid of rejection, I tried to beat it to the punch every time.

Sarah didn’t fix me.

She just didn’t let me bullshit her.

And I guess that was what I needed.

So if you’re reading this and you’re still out there swiping—keep going. Be honest. Be kind. Ask better questions. Answer them like you mean it. And if someone shows up looking like they might actually see you for who you are?

Don’t run. It’s scary, but it leads to the good part of life.

Now—

The story wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t tell you about our wedding night, right?

I mean, come on. Big build-up. Fancy clothes. Riding high, a little tipsy. Two years of emotional growth and sexual chemistry finally coming to—

We got to the hotel.

She pushed me down on the bed.

Still in her dress.

Eyes closed, I slipped her garter down with my teeth—“white,” I said—while she moaned my name like—

Wait. Wait.

Are you mental?

You really think I’m going to talk about my wife in a way that you can get off to?

Mate.

I love this woman.

I cried during the vows. She still brings me tea in the shower. We have, like, throw pillows.

Move along.

There are thousands of stories on this site. A lot of them are really smutty. Like, filthy. Some of them are actually very well-written. A few involve librarians and public transport. There’s at least one about tentacles.

If you want to have a wank or flick the bean, go read one of those.

But leave my wife out of this.

Postscript: Sarah, Or: Nothing. Just Sarah.

Sarah here. I realize you sat down to read Harry’s story, but it’s my story too.

People ask how we met.

Harry always tells the long version.

The Essex girl. The girl who got him into birds. The humble brag about his streak. Our disastrous first date. The Russian hooker.

(Yes—she was a hooker. Harry always conveniently leaves that part out. If he hadn’t fled when he did, two men both named Ivan would have shaken him down for a grand, breaking a finger a day until he coughed up.)

Anyway.

None of that is how we really met.

We didn’t meet on what Harry calls our first date—because that wasn’t him. We met when he apologized for being that version of himself. That’s the man I married. The one who grew up.

Sort of. He does still play with Legos.

The guy I walked out on? Never saw him again.

Don’t get me wrong—Harry’s still capable of some truly shocking lapses in judgment (case in point: the matching “Bird” and “Birdwatcher” shirts he got us for our anniversary). But now it comes from a good place. Occasionally maddening. Always easy to love.

He earned his second chance by putting in the work with no expectation that it would ever pay off. At least, not with me.

So, I gave him one drink.

And after that, another.

Then my number.

Then, eventually, my yes.

Our wedding night?

No comment.

He’s mine now.

Go find your own idiot.