Page 14 of Sunny Side Up

“What were you buying fabric for?”

“I lost my mind trying to find a swimsuit that I actually felt good in, so Kateryna’s helping me make one.”

“Okay, truly genius,” said Brooke. I’d turned both Brooke and Noor on to Kateryna. They’d witnessed her magic wand waving firsthand.

I asked Brooke about the potential client she’d been to see in Greenwich, and she said it had gone better than she expected.

“He signed on right then and there! I guess he needs a lot of suits and, in his words, ‘casual but professional things I can wear to trendy functions.’ He’s older.

” She shrugged. “I actually started out in the menswear world, so this is perfect. He’s handsome, too. Makes my job easier.”

“You’re amazing,” I told Brooke. “I think you’re about to have more clients than you know what to do with.”

I hugged Brooke and her kids goodbye. The Golden Girls were devastated, but they’d survive. Then I collapsed on my couch, set my alarm for a two-hour nap, and crashed hard before my date that night.

It started off electric. Five minutes in, TJ from Hinge had complimented my outfit, my eyes, and my hair.

At six-foot-five with a muscled frame and the kind of thick, naturally highlighted hair that women brought pictures of to the salon for inspiration, he was good-looking.

Not, like, in-my-opinion good-looking, but could-have-chosen-a-career-as-a-model good-looking.

I tried to tell myself we were equals as I took in his razor-sharp jawline.

Conversation was easy, and we quickly realized we’d both grown up in the larger Wisconsin area and dreamed of life in New York.

He was a lawyer, thirty-eight, and ready to “start settling down.”

What followed: drinks, dinner, a joint on the street, a speakeasy bar, another joint, and down we went.

Back to his loft apartment in SoHo, a wide open-plan space decorated like the basement of a frat house, framed posters of Top Gun , Scarface , Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas , a Ferrari, some random girl in a neon bikini with a sunset-sized bottle of Corona behind her, and Larry Bird.

But whatever. I was here to see his abs, not his decor.

I was stoned and enjoying where the evening was taking me.

My last date, the dud, served as a great reminder that good texting banter alone may not be enough of a filter.

So my new rule was: I should at least want to sleep with them.

My one-time tryst with Cillian was proof enough: We ran into each other on the street a few more times, but I couldn’t stand his round-the-clock cigarette habit, and he flat-out told me he wasn’t a dog person.

It was clear we both agreed that the sex was insane, but it wasn’t going to happen again.

But that sex had awakened me. I’d been so deprived of desire and affection and great sex for so long that now I’d decided to be more relentless in my hedonistic pursuits than I ever had before in my life, at least in the bedroom.

Also, the more dates I had, the more experiences I opened myself up to, meant more content for Sunny Side Up .

I knew so much more about this world now, after advising so many of my clients on it: I knew that if I wanted to continue engaging a rapidly growing audience, I had to write about things that interested them , not just me.

I worried that the body talk alone might not be enough.

Adventures in dating were universal. They hooked everyone.

Looking around TJ-from-Hinge’s place, I made a mental note to include something in one of my future newsletters about orange flags: not full-on red flags, as in RUN, but more “just something to be aware of.” Stuff to inform your group chat about, should it come in handy when dissecting whether his idiosyncrasies would remain charming in the long run or predict future adjacent turnoffs.

It’s possible that my karma for being so judgmental meant I had this coming: A two-person game of strip poker with TJ turned, rather quickly, into a two-person struggle to get me out of my shapewear.

I’d forgotten all about it until he was naked, I declared myself the winner, and he said that no winner could be announced until I got naked, too. Good sport that I am, I obliged.

I had to hand it to him. I appreciated his valiant effort to get me out of the spandex death trap that encased me from the top of my ribs down to my knees.

When I’d gotten dressed for the evening, I’d made a plan to go into the bathroom before we hooked up, take off my sausage casing, shove it into my oversize clutch, then magically appear in my bra and thong. Ta da!

This was all wrong, though.

“Are these supposed to be so tight?” he asked. He was sweating. “How are you breathing?”

“I’m not.”

“I’ll be right back.” He jumped up and ran over to a row of lower cabinets. I could see his junk dangling while he rummaged through one of the drawers.

He came back with scissors, and I held my chin up high. “Kinky.”

“Oh yeah, baby.” He squatted down, then looked up at me with the blades pointing toward my knee. “May I?”

“Go for it.”

I winced as he sliced a gash up through my shapewear, partially because my stomach expanded in dramatic fashion (sweet relief) and partially because the medieval torture device that he’d just butchered had cost ninety dollars .

No joke. Targeted by an Instagram ad during a weak moment. Last time I’d make that mistake.

I excused myself to the bathroom for the good ol’ Freshen Up Before Sex.

I needed a minute to compose myself. I fanned my face and fluffed my hair.

I wasn’t sure if he was wedding date material yet , but he was insanely hot, funny in a dad-jokey way, and a total gentleman who’d just rescued me from the modern-day, non-cartoon equivalent of an evil genius’s train track rope trap.

Besides, I reminded myself: My whole dating resolve wasn’t for the sole purpose of Michael’s wedding.

That was just the motivator; I loved a deadline.

No. This was for me, a way to take control of my love life, my sex life, my body, and go after the things that I wanted.

I was doing this for me. No one else. And right now, I really wanted TJ.

Shoulders back, tits out. Let’s go.

I opened the door to the bathroom and stood in silhouette, offering my best doorway pose. TJ was sitting on the bed, rolling on a condom.

“ You’re so hot ,” he said, then started stroking himself.

It wasn’t poetry, nothing even close to original, but it worked.

I was turned on, confident once again, and proud of myself.

I walked straight toward him, grabbed that razor-sharp jaw in my hands, and kissed him hard on the mouth while climbing on top of him.

Foreplay didn’t seem in the cards. TJ seemed eager to get straight to the point; I was ready to be devoured, not carefully admired (especially given the red marks pressed permanently into my skin).

He nudged me onto my back, flipped me over to my side, then sidled up behind me and tried to, uh, shove it in.

Only he missed a few times and got stuck between my thighs.

We also definitely had a “wrong hole” moment.

“Unless that’s the one you were going for,” I added, “in which case, I’m not a no, but we need to have a conversation, a plan, and some lube. ”

“Come here,” was all he said in response, then used his hand to guide himself into me as I bent my leg into a side triangle, Jazzercize style, to help him.

Once he found his way, he sort of… jiggled himself?

It was the strangest move, very hip-centric, didn’t really do much for me—which was fine, sex with a new person is all about figuring out what works—but then after about one minute of the jiggling, he came very, very quietly.

“Thank you for that,” he said, his breath hot on my left cheek. “I gotta pee. Be right back.”

“Take your time,” I said back.

With the bed to myself, I decided to luxuriate in my success despite his lackluster performance.

I felt so powerful, so in charge of my life, and increasingly more in tune with my body.

I had full agency over my sex life, something I hadn’t felt since— wait, so close, don’t bring his name into it .

Was I magic? Should I run for president?

Should I buy a lottery ticket? Should I launch the next exploration to the moon?

TJ climbed into bed next to me and I rolled over to face him. He smelled like toothpaste, mouthwash, and a fresh swipe of deodorant. He yawned, then rolled over away from me and asked, “Do you think you could rub my back?”

“Uh, sure,” I said. I’d had weirder requests in my past.

And then, as if something out of a movie, he was snoring. Fast asleep.

The next morning, I woke up to mumbling.

TJ was rolled over and on his side, facing his nightstand, but I could peer over his shoulder enough to see that he had his phone in his hand.

And he had Tinder open. Yes. No. No. Yes.

Maybe. No, well, actually. I listened to the rhythm of his finger moving as he swiped.

A naked woman was lying next to him (me! naked!) and he was swiping on Tinder.

Great. I rolled my eyes. Whatever , I thought to myself. Let him have his unimaginative sex with the next unassuming girl. I got up, ready to get dressed and gather my things. He caught my eye, clicked his phone off, and managed to turn a lame situation into my nightmare.

“There she is,” TJ said with a yawn. “Morning. Can I make you coffee?”

“I’m gonna head out, actually,” I said, choosing to ignore what I’d seen on his Tinder screen. Instead, I focused on getting dressed as fast as humanly possible and made sure to stash the shapewear scraps in my clutch. His performance last night didn’t merit a souvenir.