She was a subject more than worthy of the photographer, and more importantly, a subject of mine.
Tinder was more ubiquitous in college than the textbooks themselves and more studied than any major. But if you weren’t paying attention, it was easy to make the same wonderful mistake I did, in not changing your age range.
A truly wonderful marriage between two lovely people was happening about 23 miles from my college campus; Tried, true: successful and adventurous. They spent years occasionally swinging, or hiring a third member for their bedroom, building a library of toys for their relationship, and on lavish vacations. And then suddenly, as if like a switch, the husband had finally admitted to himself that he was indeed a cuckold.
A few weeks of conversation elapsed before they finally indulged his taboo. A gentle experiment. A premium tinder account, and a college campus geo-targeted to ensure proper degrees of separation for them. But together they went.
Why they chose me, I still don’t know. I suppose my profile, my carefully curated pictures, perhaps 20 year old me was boyish in that perfect way still, I am still unsure. But once she sent the first message, their worlds in mine began spinning rapidly.