I told myself it was research. Bad boy dating advice at 12:04 AM is what a girl does when she cannot sleep and the good ones keep sending paragraphs about their feelings. I do not want paragraphs. I want a dangerous man who looks at my painted toes like they are a problem he intends to solve with his mouth.

My weakness is not subtle. The worse the boy, the wetter I get. The worsest is the bestest. Horns, smoke, a chain at his throat, the kind of attitude that does not ask permission before he lifts my ankle and decides my sole is his. It is pretty cute, actually — how fast I go from “how to tell if a guy is trouble” to imagining that trouble on his knees for foot worship he pretends is just a kiss.

I searched why are bad boys so attractive like I did not already know. Confidence. Risk. The smell of a cigar and skin that should not be that red, that warm, that close. I searched places to meet someone after midnight because decent hours belong to decent men, and I was not building a decent night. I wanted a first date with a dangerous man, an outfit that said innocent from the neck up and no limits from the ankles down.

How much trouble is too much trouble? I asked the internet that like the internet has ever stopped me. Things to say to make a bad boy blush. How to flirt without looking like I am flirting. How late is too late to invite someone over. What does “no limits” actually mean when the thing I cannot stop thinking about is his tongue between my toes and my heel in his beard.

How to keep a secret. Can one night change everything. How to look innocent when I am absolutely not. By 1:21 I was not curious. I was arranging myself. Soft lamp. Dark polish. Clean soles. A girl who searches foot worship fetish at this hour is not going to bed alone in her head.

He is not a soft recommendation from an algorithm. He is the result of every worst impulse I have. Bad boy with tattoos. Bad boy with attitude. How to tell if he is actually dangerous — as if danger is a bug and not the feature that makes my thighs restless. Why does confidence make someone hotter? Because when he takes my foot in a red hand and puts my toes to his mouth like I am an offering, I stop being the girl who searches and become the girl who lets it happen.

Should I trust him. Probably not. Should I meet him anyway. Yes. Laugh-crying into the search bar because the answer was never going to be no. I wanted the worsest: horns, smoke, a smirk that treats foot worship like worship and like filth at the same time. Sole licking. Arch kissing. The slow, rude attention of a man who knows a pretty cute pair of feet can ruin a woman if he is patient enough.

No limits, for me, is not a slogan. It is the moment I stop pulling away when he drags his tongue along the underside of my foot and looks up like I am the one in trouble. I searched it because I needed the words. I already had the ache.

Then I got practical, because hunger like this still needs a door and a time. Best late night restaurants. Private rooftop bars. Hotels with beautiful views — not for the skyline. For the chair he can pull close enough that my foot lands in his lap like an accident that was never an accident. Things to do after midnight. Places open until 2am. What to wear when you want to make an impression: something that comes off the feet first.

How to make a first date unforgettable. I already knew. You let the dangerous man take the shoe. You let him learn the shape of you from the ground up. You let foot worship turn a polite drink into a night that does not fit in a search bar.

Delete browser history. Delete browser history permanently. Never mind. If someone finds this, they will know I planned him. Good. I wanted him planned. I wanted the worse boy, the worst idea, the wettest version of a girl who still looks innocent when she is not.

I already knew. He would smell like smoke and trouble. He would look at my feet like they had been on his mind before I ever typed a word. He would not ask if foot worship was “okay.” He would make it inevitable. And I would sit there, pretty and wrecked, thinking how cute it is that the worsest boy is the one who makes me the wettest.

No more bad boy dating advice. No more wondering if a dangerous man is too much trouble. The search history ends where the night starts: Sinta, a bad idea, and a mouth that knows what soles are for.