I met a guy from a dating app and we really hit it off. He wasn’t one of those guys who sent ten messages a minute or expected you to entertain him like a court jester. He was calm, funny in a dry way, and actually read my profile instead of just commenting on my pictures. After a few weeks of chatting—voice notes, memes, little inside jokes that made us feel like we had something real—we decided to meet.

It was a Thursday night. I remember because I almost canceled. Work had been a mess, my boss dumped a last-minute report on my desk, and I looked like I’d been dragged through a printer. But he’d been sweet all day, saying things like, “No pressure, I’ll be happy just to see you,” and somehow that made me dig out a halfway decent dress and show up.

His name was Darren. Brown hair, just enough scruff to suggest he wasn’t trying too hard, and a smile that crinkled in the corners like he actually felt it. I liked him instantly—until he leaned in for a hug.

He smelt awful.

Not in the unwashed, gym-socks kind of way. It was artificial. Chemical. Like someone had taken an entire bottle of drugstore cologne and baptized him in it. It stuck to my throat like syrup and clung to the air between us like a fog.

I tried to shake it off. Maybe he just overdid it tonight, I thought. First-date jitters. Could be worse—he could’ve shown up in Crocs and bragged about crypto.

We had dinner at a small Italian place near my flat. He talked about his job in IT—network systems, blah blah—I mostly smiled and nodded. What actually made me lean in was how he talked about his dog, a big dopey golden retriever named Butters. He pulled out his phone and showed me a video of Butters zooming around his backyard with a garden hose in his mouth.

“That dog has more energy than a toddler on espresso,” he joked, and I found myself genuinely laughing.

But the smell. It just didn’t go away. By the time we ordered dessert, I had a dull headache sitting right behind my eyes.

I finally asked him. As casually as I could.

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to say… that’s a really strong cologne. What is it?”

He chuckled like he’d heard it before. “Oh yeah, I guess I’m kind of nose blind to it now. I wear it all the time. It’s my granddad’s old scent. He used to swear by it, and I guess it just stuck.”

I smiled, nodded. Pretended to find it endearing. But inside, I was screaming. Who chooses to smell like mothballs and high school locker rooms on purpose?

Still, I went out with him again.

And again.

He was consistent, kind. Showed up when he said he would, remembered things I said, texted me goodnight without fail. After the last few guys I’d dated—the vanishing acts, the chronic flirts, the ones who said they weren’t “ready for labels”—Darren felt like a stable, grown-up man.

The smell? I told myself I could get used to it. Maybe it was one of those things that faded with affection. Like how you don’t mind your partner’s snoring once you love them enough. Spoiler: I was wrong.

Weeks passed. He started sleeping over. Butters came too, sometimes. My apartment smelled like their combined scent—a confusing cocktail of dog fur, peppery cologne, and something like… gasoline?

I even bought a fancy diffuser and filled it with lavender and eucalyptus, hoping to drown it out. Didn’t work. Darren would walk in, and it was like all the essential oils waved the white flag and gave up.

One Saturday, I decided to drop the hint again. More direct this time.

“Hey babe, you know I adore you, but… that cologne. It’s really strong. Maybe try something a little lighter?”

He raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. “People remember it. That’s kind of the point.”

It stuck with me. Not just the words, but the way he said them. Like being unforgettable was more important than being pleasant.

But whatever. We kept going. I met his friends, who were mostly coworkers and two guys from his gym. They teased him about the smell too. One guy, Louis, said, “Man, you still marinating in that death juice? No wonder women either love you or run for the hills.”

We laughed, but I noticed Darren didn’t. He just took a sip of his beer and changed the subject.

A few months in, I thought we were solid. We’d planned a weekend getaway. Rented a cabin upstate, brought Butters, and stocked the place with wine, marshmallows, and way too much cheese.

It was on that trip that things started to unravel.

Darren was in the shower, and I was unpacking. He left his bag open. I wasn’t snooping, just looking for the phone charger he always forgot. But instead, I found something odd.

A bundle of letters. Old-fashioned, handwritten envelopes. Tied together with a piece of ribbon. Weird.

I sat on the bed, turned them over. All addressed to Darren. All recent. One postmarked just last week.

I opened one.

“Thank you for dinner, my love. I missed hearing your laugh. Every time you wear that cologne, I feel like I’m twenty again.”

My stomach flipped. The signature was a heart with the name Carla.

I opened another. This one printed, but signed with the same name. Talking about how hard it was to give him space, how much she trusted that this “journey” he was on would bring them closer.

The more I read, the more my chest caved in.

I waited until he came out of the shower. Hair wet, towel around his waist, completely oblivious. I held the letters up.

He looked at them. Then at me.

And then, like a sociopath in a rom-com, he smiled.

“I told you, I like being remembered.”

I didn’t yell. I didn’t throw the letters at him. I just packed my things.

On the drive back home, he texted me. Called three times. I ignored all of it.

Two days later, I sent Carla a message. I didn’t know what I wanted—validation? Revenge? Answers?

She didn’t reply immediately. I didn’t blame her.

But three days later, she called.

We met at a coffee shop halfway between our cities. I expected someone brittle, broken. But she was warm. Witty. Sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued. Not the kind of woman who got played.

Except she had. Just like me.

We compared stories. Timelines. Patterns. He told her he was “working on himself” and “needed distance.” Meanwhile, he was with me. And maybe others.

Carla looked down at her cup and said quietly, “You think there are more?”

I didn’t want to know. But curiosity’s a relentless little demon.

Carla posted anonymously on a local women’s forum. Something vague, just enough breadcrumbs. Within two days, six women responded. Same guy. Same tactics. Same disgusting cologne.

We started a group chat. Called it The Butters Club, after his dog. Someone joked we should make jackets.

We laughed. We cried, too, but only a little.

We realized Darren wasn’t just a jerk—he was a collector. He liked the chase. The charm. The illusion. Not the actual work of being with someone.

One of the women, Jess, said he’d once told her, “I like the idea of love more than the mess of it.” That pretty much summed him up.

Then something unexpected happened.

Carla and Jess got close. Like, close close.

They started chatting privately, then hanging out. Three months later, they were officially dating.

“Guess Darren did introduce us to something good,” Carla joked in the chat once.

I stayed single for a while. Deleted the apps. Focused on therapy, my job, my dog (I got one too—rescued a nervous little mutt named Beans).

I ran into Darren one last time, randomly, at a gas station. He was with some woman, younger than me, smiling like he hadn’t broken half a dozen hearts with the same cologne-soaked lies.

He didn’t see me. I didn’t say anything. Just watched him from behind my sunglasses and let it pass.

Sometimes I think about writing to her. Warning her. But I also think maybe she needs to find out like we did. And if she ever wants to talk, The Butters Club is still going strong.

What did I learn?

That being remembered isn’t as important as being respected. That a good morning text isn’t love. That the smell of someone should bring you peace, not pain.

And that you can survive being fooled, so long as you don’t stay fooled.

Now I live by my gut. And my nose. No more excuses, no more hoping someone will change for me.

If the scent makes your eyes water, don’t wait around hoping you’ll get used to it. Run.

And if someone smells like trouble—believe it.

Thanks for reading my story. If you’ve ever ignored a red flag because the conversation felt “easy,” or stayed too long with someone who looked good on paper, give this a like. Share it with someone who needs the reminder: trust your gut… and maybe also your nose.