#05 The cream seats of my G-Wagon never recovered

I hadn’t been on a first date in nearly a decade. Not since Millie.

Millie, who was supposed to be my forever, right up until two weeks before our wedding when she told me she was leaving me, for my cousin Olivia. That revelation was delivered over a cup of peppermint tea. No joke. It not only split my life in two but my family with it.

I spent the year that followed quietly licking my wounds, relearning what it meant to be a 31-year-old man living alone, and adjusting to the silence of a life I thought would be shared. The idea of dating again felt exhausting. The apps? Foreign territory. But eventually, curiosity crept in. Or maybe it was loneliness. One night, with nothing but a bowl of pasta and an acoustic playlist on in the background, I downloaded Hinge.

It was weird. Everyone spoke in quotes and treated their bios like applications to an improv comedy troupe. I forgot how to flirt. I forgot what it felt like to even want to. A few chats fizzled, nothing stuck. Until Zoe.

Zoe wasn’t like the others. Her photos weren’t filtered or curated, they were candid. Sunlight, surfboards, a giant flower in her hair. Her smile wasn’t trying too hard. She seemed like someone who knew who she was. She was a high school English teacher, a weekend surfer, a gym rat with a penchant for spicy margaritas and sunny Sundays with girlfriends. Our messages flowed easily. I found myself grinning at my phone late at night, laughing out loud at her replies like an idiot.

So, I asked her out. Coffee and a beach walk — low stakes, low pressure. She said, “I thought you’d never ask.” And I was more nervous than I cared to admit.

That morning, I parked near the surf club where we agreed to meet and took a deep breath. My palms were sweaty. I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror and gave myself a quick pep talk.

And then I saw her. Sitting on a bench, face up to the morning sun, eyes closed, smiling, like she was soaking up the day before it even began. She was beautiful. More than her photos. Naturally stunning, not trying to prove anything. My stomach dropped.

She stood when she saw me, wrapping me in a hug that felt unexpectedly warm. She smelled like coconut and sea salt, and I swear I almost forgot my name.

The coffee line gave us a moment of awkwardness — those first few minutes where you’re not sure how to stand, what to say. But once we started walking, it was like we’d done it a hundred times before. Conversation flowed. Light, curious, a little flirty. We walked so far we lost track of time. I was late to work. So was she. But neither of us seemed to care.

As I drove off, I had that rare feeling, the kind you don’t get often. Maybe this could be something.

Without wanting to seem too keen, I waited to lunch to message her.

She replied instantly.

We planned dinner that Saturday night. I wanted to do it properly, somewhere nice. She mentioned she had to make a brief stop at her friend’s 30th birthday after and asked if I’d come with her. I said of course.

I booked a modern Asian spot on the coast, right on the water, sleek, a little fancy, the kind of place where they pair your wine based on your entrée, main and dessert. I wore my best chinos, ironed a linen shirt, left a couple of buttons open — the sweet spot between effort and ease.

I picked her up at 7pm. She stepped out of her townhouse like she was walking into a music video. Red dress. Hair soft and fresh. Rosy cheeks. That same carefree smile. She looked up at me like she was genuinely happy to see me.

I opened her door. She blinked in surprise.

“Chivalry’s still alive, huh?” she said, sliding into the G-Wagon.

“Sick car,” she added, giving the dash a little tap. I couldn’t tell if she was impressed or taking the piss. Maybe both. I didn’t mind either way.

Dinner was magic... for a while.

We laughed, flirted, shared stories. She told me about teaching teenagers Shakespeare and I told her about the time I nearly passed out in a boardroom pitch from too many pre-workout scoops. I nursed a couple of wines, enough to relax, not enough to forget I was driving. She, on the other hand, went full throttle on the rosé.

By dessert, her cheeks were flushed, and her laugh had turned up a few notches. Cute turned slightly chaotic. I didn’t judge. I figured nerves or excitement. Or both.

We left the restaurant and headed to the birthday. On the way, she opened her clutch and pulled out a small plastic bag.

Inside: pills. All shapes and colours.

“What are those?” I asked.

She smiled, like I’d just asked about breath mints. “Want one?”

“I’m driving.” I said, surprised.

She shrugged and popped two in her mouth. Dry. No water. Like it was a Tic Tac.

Okay.

We arrived at the venue, and it wasn’t a birthday party. It was a nightclub. A full-on, velvet-rope, sticky-floor nightclub. She skipped the line. The bouncers nodded. She tugged my hand like we were regulars.

“Is the party upstairs?” I asked.

She grinned. “There’s always a birthday I need to show up to.”

What?

She led me through a back door, past a bouncer who looked like he moonlighted as a wrestler. Down a corridor lined with red carpet and dim chandeliers, until we reached a room that felt like a scene from a bad mafia film. Two women in lingerie danced on platforms. Men in suits sat around sipping expensive whiskey like kings on a Thursday.

My stomach flipped. I was never really into these kinds of venues, let alone something seemingly so exclusive.

“Zoe,” I said quietly, “what is this?”

She leaned in. “Just wait here a sec.”

Then she disappeared behind a red curtain.

Minutes later, the curtain parted.

She walked out in a red thong. Nothing else.

I froze.

She strolled over to me like we were at a beach bar, pointed toward an overweight, sweaty man across the room and said, “That’s the birthday boy. One night with him pays what I make in a year.”

Then within seconds, she was walking in his direction and disappeared with him.

I stood there, stunned. It wasn’t the stripping. Or even the sex work. It was the secrecy. The blindsiding. The fact that I’d just spent an incredible evening with her, real connection, real conversation, and now I was here, in this bizarre alternate reality, watching her disappear with a man who looked like he should be someone’s uncle at a barbecue, not someone’s VIP client.

Twenty minutes had passed. I debated leaving over a hundred times. I finally decided I would.

But just as I reached the front of the club, I heard my name.

She came running, now wrapped in a robe like none of it had happened.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m heading home, Zoe.”

“I'm coming with you.”

Of course she would. Despite the evening, I didn't want to leave her without a ride home, especially considering the cocktail of drugs she had consumed. I figured I would drop her home and that would be the last of it.

The drive was quiet. I wasn’t trying to be cold, I just didn’t know what to say. Zoe was slouched against the door, eyes glassy, occasionally humming to herself like she was in a different universe. I kept glancing at her, making sure she was breathing, upright, somewhat responsive.

Then it hit me.

A smell. Faint at first. But growing.

Sour. Pungent. Earthy. Undeniably human.

I gagged. My stomach turned so violently I had to swallow it back down. I turned my head slowly, not wanting to look but knowing I had to.

Zoe’s hand was down between her legs. Her eyes still half-lidded, like this was all completely normal. Her fingers came up covered in something... brown.

I blinked. Hard. I didn’t want it to be what I knew it was.

But it was.

She had shit herself.

In my car. My brand-new, cream leather G-Wagon. Detailed just for this date. My seats. I’m not pretentious, but I work bloody hard, and I take care of my stuff. Especially this car.

“Zoe!” I shouted, slamming on the brakes and pulling over so fast the tires screeched. “What the f*ck?!”

She looked up slowly, dazed. Then — I swear to God — she giggled.

“Relax,” she slurred, waving her hand dismissively. “It happens sometimes. Especially after anal play.”

I stared at her. Speechless. My jaw literally hung open. Anal play?

What. In. The. Hell. Is. Happening?

“What!” I spit out.

She shrugged, like I was the one being dramatic. Like this was just part of the package deal that came with a night out with Zoe. I sat frozen, the stench now coating the inside of my nose and brain, trying not to throw up.

“Okay. Out. Out of the car. Now.” I said, throwing open my door and running around to her side like I was disarming a bomb. She looked down, finally clocking the mess, on her dress, her thighs, and now smeared into my once-immaculate seat.

I pulled a beach towel from the boot, the only thing separating my mental breakdown from full car homicide, and wrapped it around her.

“Off. Clothes off. You’re not sitting in here like that.”

She stripped, giggling again, and tossed the ruined dress into a nearby bush like it was a feather boa at Mardi Gras. I stood there, stunned, while she twirled in the towel like this was just another Saturday night.

I got back in, rolled every window down, and prayed for strength as I drove her home, gagging the whole way.

When we arrived, I didn’t even walk her to the door. I leaned across, opened it, and said, as calmly as I could, “Keep the towel.”

I watched her disappear into her townhouse like nothing happened. Like she hadn’t just defiled my car, my night, my dignity.

I drove home, parked in the driveway, and sat in silence. Then I scrubbed my car for over an hour with every household cleaning product I could find. I booked an emergency interior steam clean. I showered for twenty-five minutes and considered baptizing myself in bleach.

The next morning, I wondered if I’d hallucinated the whole thing.

Until 11am, when my phone buzzed.

“Thanks for an amazing night. When can I see you again?”

I stared at the message, hoping for any sign of irony. There was none.

I waited a few hours and finally responded.

“Hey Zoe. Last night wasn’t what I expected. I’m past the party phase and I don’t think we’re aligned in lifestyle. I wish you all the best, but I don’t think we should see each other again.”

Her reply came just minutes later.

“You should at least pay me for my time.”

And just like that, the woman with the flower in her hair became a story I now tell when people ask me why I deleted Hinge.