#06 Engineer of Orgasms

I’m going to preface this by saying: I am not new to the dating scene. I’ve been single for almost eight years. That’s eight full rotations around the sun collecting romantic highs, humiliating lows, and enough “what the actual fuck?” moments to make up an entire season of Love Island. But this? Unsure where it sits on the dating spectrum, to be honest, but it felt dramatic. It’s brief, but nonetheless, it’s tattooed on my brain forever.

I met this man at a bar one night. He was with his mates, watching the footy on the big screen, and let’s just say I noticed him immediately. He stood out from the rest because of his insanely good looks. He was tall, noticeably even when sitting down. His hair swept across his perfectly tanned, almost exotic-looking face, with piercing green eyes. He looked calm, laid-back, completely invested in the game and his mates, not even slightly on the prowl, which of course I found deeply attractive.

I walked past him on the way to the bathroom, and we clocked eyes. That stomach-flip, blood-rush kind of moment. I felt it. Instantly, I cared. I went from “just having a few casual drinks with the girls” to “I need to fix my hair and makeup stat.”

I’m not shy, but this man short-circuited something in me. I couldn’t even make proper eye contact. Was he looking back? Maybe. Or maybe I hallucinated the entire thing. Either way, it didn’t matter, because as I stood at the bar talking to a friend, I felt someone step behind me. I turned, and there he was. Towering. Smirking. Completely casual.

“Hi,” he said, like I was just another drink to order. My whole nervous system screamed. He leaned in, cool and effortless, the kind of guy who doesn’t chase, because he doesn’t need to. But he’d clocked something too. I could see it in the way he looked at me. The chemistry was palpable.

The next few hours played out exactly how you’d imagine when attraction is mutual and the energy is right. Flirting. Laughing. That locked-in gaze that gives you tunnel vision. His name was Ryan. He said he was an electrical engineer, though, honestly, nothing about him screamed engineer. Maybe that’s a bias, but he didn’t give academic or logical. He screamed something more magnetic, like the kind of man who walks into a room and people instinctively swivel their heads. His charisma was too loud, too intoxicating, too cinematic for spreadsheets and circuit boards.

We kissed for the first time sitting outside in the courtyard, knees grazing, sitting opposite on a bench seat when he suddenly pulled me toward him, hands strong and deliberate on my waist. It was hot. That commanding kind of masculinity that makes your brain switch off entirely. He knew what he was doing. I forgot all about my no-first-night-sex rule. I was toast. So, when he asked me to come home with him, I said yes before my conscience could even object.

When we pulled into his driveway, I realised just how successful this man was. The garage rolled open to a fleet of very shiny, very unnecessary cars. BMW. Maserati. Something so low to the ground it looked like it belonged on a racetrack. I needed to know more so, as you do, I got a little nosy. I asked who he lived with and he laughed. No roommates. All his.

Oh. Okay. Just him and apparently Jeff Bezos’ salary.

We walked up the internal stairs and into a space that nearly knocked me sideways. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Open-plan everything. A view of the entire goddamn skyline. He moved through it casually, like it wasn’t impressive. Opened the fridge. Pulled out a chilled bottle of rosé and two glasses in one hand and led me to the couch. Who was this man?

We sat on the couch, kissed again. That heavy, magnetic kind of kissing that makes you feel drunker than you are. His hands roamed, mine followed, and before long he was leading me upstairs.

That’s when I saw it.

Off the hallway, a door slightly ajar, lit with huge softbox lighting. It was impossible to miss. Tripods. Multiple cameras. And in the middle of it all, a bed. Just sitting there like an exhibit.

I stopped dead.

“Uh… what’s that?”

He clocked my reaction, quickly closing the door to the room.

“Oh. That’s my filming room.”

I blinked. “Filming…?”

He looked back at me, casual as anything.

“OnlyFans. Some other platforms too.”

And just like that, all the puzzle pieces snapped into place. The cars. The mansion. The curated everything. Engineers don’t make this kind of money. Porn stars with millions of subscribers? Absolutely.

I didn’t know what to say, so I just… nodded. Like he’d told me his WiFi password.

He smirked, clearly unbothered, and tugged me toward the bedroom. But the spell was broken. Suddenly all I could see were the cameras, the lights, the bed that had probably seen more action than the entire cast of Bridgerton.

Too scared my less-than-average lovemaking would end up on his channel, I made an excuse and went home.

Of course, I Googled him the second I got into bed. And holy shit. There he was. Everywhere. Millions of followers. Videos with women, with men, with toys that honestly looked illegal in several countries. Clips of him living out every kink known to humankind, and probably inventing a few new ones.

I lay there staring at my phone, equal parts horrified and impressed. The man was a walking, talking empire of sex. And I’d almost signed up for a guest appearance, and is it wrong I regret not finding out what it would have felt like?