I’m on my knees, looking up at the hottest guy in school. He smiles suggestively—we both know what’s about to happen. I unbutton his pants, and they drop to the floor. I look back down. Another pair of pants. He chuckles: “You didn’t think I was going to make this easy, did you?”

I laugh awkwardly and unbutton the second pair of pants. Underneath those, a third pair. Then a fourth. Then a skirt. “It’s my mother’s.” Now we’re back to pants again. A shame, things were just getting interesting.

After the 12th pair, I see a bulge. It’s a bouquet of roses. “I’m nothing if not a romantic,” he winks. I remove the petals, one by one. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves—ow, thorn. Without breaking eye contact, he takes my bleeding finger and puts it in his mouth, wrapping it in a perfectly knotted cherry stem.

As I brush the last of the bouquet away, I hear a click. I look down. It’s a bomb. He’s no longer smiling, but white in the face and shaking. “Y-you have 10 seconds.” Oh god. “Which wire?!” Five seconds. I flash back to our exchange earlier in the night. “Oh wow, I just love blue wires!” he had whispered in my ear between hickeys. This convenient tidbit of information is ultimately unhelpful because I am colorblind. I bite all the wires off.

I gingerly remove the bomb. Then, finally, underwear. My underwear? I rip it in half, revealing a 24-carat diamond ring sitting atop his erect penis.

“Nobody has ever made it this far,” he says, tears streaming down his face. “I think I love you.”

I ask him to keep it casual. The ring immediately falls to the floor.