Next time I want to feel the burn, I’ll just text my ex like a normal degenerate.
It started, as all great disasters do, with a TikTok thirst trap. Some shirtless gym goblin in grey sweatpants that defied several laws of physics was pouring hot wax across his abs in slow motion while a remix of “Careless Whisper” played. The caption read “low-temp soy wax only, kings.” I watched it seventeen times. Seventeen. My phone battery wept. My dick filed a formal complaint. By the end I was convinced that if I didn’t immediately ascend to the ranks of sophisticated wax doms, I would die basic and unloved.
So naturally I did what any rational, horny thirty-something does: I opened Google, typed “best candles for wax play,” and then immediately closed the tab because the first result was a $90 artisanal bundle from a shop called “Wick & Wound.” Ninety dollars? For candles? That’s three UberEats orders and a therapy session, thank you.
That’s when the targeted ad hit me like divine punishment. Kmart Australia, bless their fluorescent soul, was having a 75% off sale on “Summer Breeze” scented soy candles. Four dollars each. FOUR. The picture showed a pastel jar that looked like it belonged on a coastal grandmother’s coffee table next to a bowl of potpourri and expired Werther’s Originals. The description promised “a gentle tropical escape with notes of coconut, lime, and a hint of ocean mist.” Gentle. Tropical. Escape. My brain heard “perfectly safe to pour on balls.”
I bought six. Free click-and-collect. Adulting.
Friday night rolled around. I deep-cleaned the apartment like I was expecting the Pope and a health inspector to tag-team me. I shaved everything that could possibly catch fire. I even flossed, because romance. Marcus-with-a-K, my favourite walking red flag, confirmed with a peach emoji, a flame emoji, and a voice note that simply said “wreck me, daddy” in the laziest baritone known to man. Consent achieved. Green lights everywhere.
I set the mood like a try-hard Pinterest board: fairy lights (half the bulbs dead, naturally), clean sheets that still had the Target sticker on them, lube on the nightstand next to a bottle of water because hydration is sexy, and an Enya playlist I titled “Ironic Celtic Foreplay.” Marcus arrived wearing a cropped hoodie that said “bottom text” and the kind of grin that gets you pregnant in certain states.
We made out like teenagers who’d just discovered tongues. Clothes came off in the elegant manner of two drunk flamingos. There was some light choking, a lot of heavy breathing, and a solid five-minute debate about whether his lower-back tattoo was a koi fish swimming upstream or a flaccid penis wearing a party hat. We never reached consensus.
Then I reached for the candle like I was about to reveal the Holy Grail.
