In case you’re reading this, Dad (since you’re trying that new thing where you’re super supportive of everything I do), I need you get off this page ASAP. I appreciate the support, but I’m about to divulge some personal details and I don’t think I could look you in the eye again if you knew the things I’m about to share.

I’m not kidding. I will be talking about es—e—ex and I’d like you to continue thinking of me as the innocent virgin girl I am. So for the sake of all the therapy I’ve already invested in, please leave this page immediately. Thanks!

I was lying naked in my boyfriend’s bed, affectionately scratching his diseased bacne, when he turned slowly towards me, looked me dead in my eyes, smiled, and said the most romantic thing a girl could ever hear: “Time to hit the gym and lay off the candy,” he offered with a little tap on my stomach. My boyfriend, who could pretty much pass for Persian Santa with his big hairy belly, had decided that the best time to give me super helpful feedback about my weight was when I was lying naked in his bed. Cute.

Since I don’t celebrate Christmas, I decided it was time to dump Persian Santa and his hairy sack right then and replace him with a hotter elf. I was tired of getting hair in my mouth all the time anyway.

At this point I’d only been with three guys my entire life, and it seemed like a good time to slut it up. So I did what every normal newly single girl does. No, I did not go to a bar to meet strangers. What am I, a psycho?? LOL. I joined Tinder.

Turns out, you really don’t know how many serial killers are out there until you join Tinder. After a day of swiping left on guys who live in their mum’s basement and enjoy keeping dead bodies in their trunk, I finally matched with my dream man.

Let me explain something really quickly. At this point in life, I was an accountant with low self esteem (hence the hairy ex) and zero social life. Instead of going out I would usually stay home and watch shows made for 12-year-olds. So when I say that I matched with my dream man, I’m referring to a guy I had a major crush on who starred in one of my favorite MTV shows for tweens.

I mean, what are the odds of matching on Tinder with your TV crush??!! This was clearly a sign that God wanted me to have sex with a stranger. Who was I not listen to Him?!

I swiped yes and we began chatting immediately.

He tried to impress me by inviting me to a bunch of red carpet events, but the only carpet I was interested in seeing was in his underwear, and I hoped it was properly trimmed. Luckily, when I suggested meeting at a bar for drinks instead, he agreed.

The day of our date was the best day of my pathetic life up until that point. I shaved my entire body and lotioned it all up. I was smoother than a baby dolphin! I even matched my bra and panties, and gave my vagina a pep talk: “Tonight we try a new type of meat and swallow that shit like it’s candy!” I coached my taco.

He suggested meeting at his house and walking from there to the bar together, so clearly he knew what he was doing.
Still, I was so nervous. When I got to his house, I sat in my car waiting for him to come out. If it wasn’t really him and I was about to be catfished, I figured I’d run him over for toying with my heart and my vagina so recklessly.

But it WAS him!!! That beautiful, 6’4”, blue-eyed British guy I knew from my fave tween show.

I got out of my car and did my best to look sexy but instead tripped and dropped my keys and bag. My British babe helped me up and it was lust at first sight.

At the bar, I did all the talking and drinking. Sometimes he talked but I couldn’t pay attention because I was way too busy imagining us doing it. When the room began to spin and I noticed I had trouble forming sentences, I knew it was time to take our relationship to the next level.

On the walk back to his house, I couldn’t stop thinking about how I was about to see his burrito. I was excited, but also scared. Since I’d only been in three long-term relationships my whole life, I’d only seen three yogurt guns. Was this one going to look different? I mean, he was foreign…I really needed it to look happy and welcoming and not like some one-eyed angry monster!!!

Back at his place, he dropped some line about showing me the bed he’d built all by himself. So I said, “Buddy, I didn’t match my bra and underwear and spend an hour shaving myself so we could talk tonight. I’m already planning on fucking you, so you won…no need for lines, okay?”

He laughed.

Sitting on his bed, I started to laugh too and I couldn’t stop because my nerves were getting the best of me. He said something like “we don’t have to do this” so I reassured him that the night had to end with him inside me and asked that he please shut his mouth and fetch me some more wine.

He came back with my wine, already naked, and before I had the chance to understand how the fuck he’d undressed so fast, he began to kiss me. Nothing will shut me up faster than a kiss, some food, or a Xanax.

As he undressed me ever so slowly, he continued to kiss me. He was so polite, he even went down on me! I remember thinking: Wow British people really ARE nice! I ought to thank this guy’s mum for raising such a nice young man. I wanted to return the oral favor, but before I could he was wearing a condom. When did he get the chance to put a condom on, I wondered. Did I fall asleep for a second? Did he have it on the whole time?? Hopefully this was the last thing he’d be so fast at.

Finally, he entered me and everything was swell. We had the sex. Actually, it was so good, we had it twice.
All jokes aside, I used to think you could only have good sex with someone you loved, which is why I always went back to my cheating ex and never slept with anyone new. Turns out, I was wrong. Literally right as the Brit entered me, my feelings for my ex vanished and the sex was everything and better.

Everything was going so well—until I opened my mouth.

Lying in his arms, I said, “Hey. There’s something I didn’t tell you. I have actually seen your show. I watch it every week. I just need to know something…Um, are you going to die next week? Like, what’s going to happen in the season finale?”

My British husband was now fully awake. “Wow,” he said. “I’ve never actually slept with a fan before, since the fans are usually like 14. And, um, no, I’m not going to die….”

I stared at him with terror as he stared back at, equally terrified. Think, V, THINK! You gotta save this. Say something…say anything so you don’t sound like a crazy fan.

So I said, “Yeah, totally, you must have a ton of 14-year-old fans. I was recently on this fan site trying to figure out what was going to happen in the season finale and whether you were going to die or not, but, like, it’s really hard to carry on a conversation with 14-year-olds, ya know…”

That’s when my British (ex) husband smiled uncomfortably and suggested it was time to go to sleep. I tried to save the whole thing once more by talking about how I’m not actually crazy but at that point he was already passed out, or at least pretending to be.

Even though I blew my fan cover, it was still one of the most exciting moments of my life.

The best part of it all? It wasn’t the fact that we slept together a few more times, or that he helped me get over my ex. It was the fact that I was able to go back to that fan site and tell my 14-year-old friends what was going to happen in the season finale. I was like the coolest girl on that fan site and also maybe the oldest (but who’s counting?).

And that’s that! My first and last Tinder experience. Special thanks to Tinder for connecting a fan with her TV crush’s penis! You’re the bee’s knees for that. <3

This story originally appeared on Daddy Issues LA.