18 – Fire Hazards & Fairy Tales

Now that I had a bit of dating practice under my belt, I wanted to spend as little time as possible texting. Give me five minutes face-to-face, and I can usually tell whether we’ve got enough chemistry to spark fireworks—or if it’s just going to be two bodies rubbing together until one part chafes. Not exactly explosive. Just…irritating.

My newest Tinder match also didn’t waste time. He lived in Paris but was often in my area on weekends. Convenient. The only catch? We don’t do dates on Saturdays or Sundays. Not because we’re prudish—but because we’re strict about separating sexy time from family time. Weekends are sacred.

But as you already know, I have the world’s most wonderful husband. He agreed to make an exception and take care of Sunday lunch, while I handled dessert—with Amar.

Since I couldn't suggest my usual Tinder walk—too risky to run into someone I knew—I searched for an alternative. Something scenic, distraction-free, and equidistant for both of us. And lo and behold, Google delivered. A medium-length walk around a quiet little lake right near the Seine. It looked peaceful. Secluded. Perfect. Amar agreed.

Then came Sunday.

The closer I got to the meeting point, the sketchier the area looked. If I hadn’t picked it myself, my inner paranoia might’ve convinced me to turn around. Mine was the only car in the parking lot. Amar wasn’t there yet.

Across from me: the charred remains of a warehouse.

Nearby: a caravan park, complete with laundry lines strung over piles of bulky trash. And I thought: This would be a perfect spot to kill someone in broad daylight and cremate the evidence. For safety reasons, I won’t name the location—just in case I accidentally inspire the wrong kind of hobbyist.

But at least my husband knew where I was. If Amar turned out to be an axe murderer, my husband could at least provide the cops with a screenshot of his Tinder profile. Safety first—not just during sex. Otherwise, all the forest floor will return is your naked, hogtied body.

I got out of the car to double-check if this was really the peaceful spot I’d seen on Google. And yep—just 100 meters down the river, it was as idyllic as promised.

Right then, I got a message:

“Where are you?”

I looked up—and saw a car pulling into the space right next to mine.

“Probably right in front of you,” I replied.

He stepped out.

We walked toward each other along the road next to the scorched warehouse.

He smiled—the same smile I’d only seen in photos—and without missing a beat, took my hand, pulled me close, and kissed me like we’d known each other forever. Not like we’d only started chatting two days ago.

And just like that: I liked everything about him. His smile. His scent. His kisses. And, most importantly, the fact that he didn’t seem to have an axe in his trunk—or at least not within reach.

He didn’t let go of me for the next hour. While we walked, he either had his arm around me or held my hand tight—pausing regularly for make-out breaks, where his feet stayed still, but his hands clearly didn’t get the ‘stationary’ memo.

It was a true fairy-tale Tinder date—with zero pumpkins, no curfews, and lots of tongue.

The chemistry? Explosive.

The kisses? Hotter than expected.

The walk? Romantic.

The unsolicited STI test? Negative.

And so, hopefully, they’ll fuck happily ever after—until they run out of stamina… or one of them ejaculates. Whichever comes first.