Obese Spoon

There comes a time in every twenty-something’s life when you say, “Why not?” and hop on a plane to Montana because your mate from a ski season in the US says you simply must. I was 25, restless, and still living off the thrill of snow-capped mountains and late-night après-ski chaos. So, when my friend chirped down the phone, “Come visit! We’ll hit Big Sky,” I didn’t hesitate. Passport, questionable life decisions? Check, check, definitely check.

Now, Big Sky is... well, big. Think snow-blanketed peaks, a sky that goes on forever, and that intoxicating blend of crisp mountain air and slight altitude-induced giddiness. After an absolute belter of a day carving up the slopes—gracefully, I might add—my mate said we were popping over to see some of her friends. Nothing fancy, just beers, banter, and maybe a hot tub.

Now, a small but significant detail about me: I’m an absolute sucker for a hot tub. Put me near one and I’m in there faster than you can say “chlorine rash.” So when we pulled up to this house and I clocked four blokes already bubbling away outside, it was game on. My friend hadn’t even cut the engine before I was peeling off my jacket and hopping in like a Labradoodle at bath time.

Two of the guys were from Alabama, sporting drawls so thick you could spread them on toast. One of them, bless him, was built like a fridge. One of the Alabama guys had the smooth-talking charm. “Come over here, darlin’. You’ve got an ass for days,” he said, leaning back with a grin so wide I half expected to see a toothpick. Now, I should have been offended—but look, I was flattered. Southern charm and a hot tub? Yes, please.

But my eye was on his mate. Tall, brooding, tattooed, and just the right amount of danger. The night wore on, the beers flowed, and eventually the party thinned. Everyone drifted indoors except for me and Mr. Mysterious. Sparks flew. Kisses were exchanged. One thing led to another and clothes vanished like socks in a tumble dryer.

And that’s when I saw it.

Let’s just say, some things in life are too much. His... equipment... was the thickest I’d ever seen. Like, medically concerning. That thing needed its own postcode. That this wasn't going near me. I did a mental U-turn so sharp I nearly gave myself whiplash.

We were chatting—naked, awkward, slightly shivering—and I asked about his tattoos. He pointed at one on his arm and dropped the clanger of all clangers: “I got these in prison.”

Prison.

Excellent.

Here I was, starkers with a bloke who’d done time and had a third leg that could knock out a small goat. Cue internal screaming.

Eventually, the night wound down into one of those boozy, chaotic messes you think you’ll laugh about one day. (This is me trying.) I passed out on the floor, warm from booze and regret, and awoke to a rather large spoon wrapped around me like a human beanbag. I turned slowly—terrified—and lo and behold, it was Mr. "Built Like a Fridge" himself.

No. No no no.

How?! When?! Did he roll over? Did I roll over? Who let this happen?

I left that house with a thumping headache, a dry mouth, and my dignity dragging six feet behind me. Montana had well and truly chewed me up and spat me out. And not in the sexy, cowboy-rom-com kind of way I’d imagined.

But would I do it again?

Absolutely.

Because at 25, that’s the sort of wild, chaotic memory you file under character building. And if nothing else, it made for one hell of a story.

Craving more hot tub drama, bad decisions, and questionable Southern encounters? Stay tuned. This isn’t even the worst of it.