Baked and Entered

I met Hobbes on Tinder. That should’ve been my first clue.

He was recently separated, had two young daughters, one the same age as mine, and lived in Valleyview—right near the Fraser River and the train tracks. Romantic, I know. He assured me his ex-wife was long out of the picture and that his marriage had been “sexless for years.” Ah yes, the sacred words of the freshly parted.

I agreed to come over one evening. When I arrived, Hobbes was doing dishes at the sink with his back to me, water running and suds flying. I perched myself on a bar stool at the kitchen island, where an assortment of half-consumed bottles lined the counter like a low-budget minibar.

Without turning around, he asked, “What’s your poison?”

“Vodka, cran, and soda,” I said.

He free-poured what I can only assume was 80% vodka with a light cranberry whisper and a soda suggestion. I remember thinking, “Wow, generous pour!” In hindsight, it was probably a tactical decision. While sipping my jet fuel, I noticed a gigantic chocolate chip cookie sealed in a sandwich bag on the counter.

“Oh, I made that for you today,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “You should try it.”

“You baked cookies?” I said, genuinely touched. “That’s so sweet—but I don’t usually eat cookies.”

He turned, crestfallen. “I made it especially for you… not even a little bite?”

Well, now I felt like a monster. What kind of heartless woman refuses a cookie baked just for her? So, while his back was still turned, I picked it up and took a big bite. Then another.

Suddenly Hobbes whirled around like he’d seen a ghost. “Wait! Stop!” he shouted, lunging across the room and snatching the half-eaten cookie out of my hand. Then—without pause—he shoved it into his own mouth and chewed frantically.

“What the hell was that?” I blurted.

“That… wasn’t a normal cookie,” he mumbled.

I froze. “What do you mean not a normal cookie?”

“It’s a weed cookie.”

“Oh shit!” I panicked. “I don’t do weed—it makes me totally paranoid and super weird.”

“I don’t judge, babe,” he said coolly. “Let’s play some video games while it kicks in. That’ll keep your mind off it.”

Spoiler: it didn’t.

The rest of the night unspooled like an episode of Naked and Afraid if it were directed by Quentin Tarantino.

Flashes of wild, animalistic sex. I remember riding Hobbes like a woman possessed, my hair whipping him like a deranged dominatrix lasso. Then—I don’t know what came over me—I windmilled my arm like a shot-putter and rammed two fingers directly into his unsuspecting butthole. No lube. No prep. Just... a full-on primal warrior move.

He made a sound I can only describe as part-gasp, part-dying-goose.

“My ass hurts!” he whimpered.

“So does mine!” I shouted back. Mutual suffering seemed fair.

The next morning, he’d left early for work, and I woke up—still hazy, dazed, and still very much body stoned. There was a breath mint stuck to my butt and... bodily fluids in my hair. I looked like I had narrowly survived a very confusing cult ritual.

I stumbled into the kitchen searching for coffee. That’s when I heard the front door chain rattle.

OH MY GOD. IT’S HIS WIFE.

I panicked, ducking behind the kitchen island like a coked-up meerkat—only to realize moments later… it was the mailman.

I had to wait two more hours until I felt sober enough to drive.

Needless to say, I did not return to the scene of that crime and avoided Hobbes at Kindy pumpkin patches thereafter.

What I Learned from Accidentally Getting Higher Than My Standards:

1. Never eat a man’s cookie unless you know exactly what’s in it.

2. Don’t mix weed, vodka, and primal sexual energy. That’s how people get hurt.

3. If you're going to hide from someone, make sure it’s not the mailman.