A Sheep in Wolf’s Clothing

The most tragic thing about my relationship with Marlene was not that it ended, but that it ended in betrayal, and worse, dishonesty.

I met Marlene when she was still in high school – her senior year, I believe – though I never asked her age. It just never felt like the kind of detail I needed to know. I pieced things together from how she spoke, how she carried herself online, through our mutual friends. So from the very beginning, I kept our interactions respectful and conservative. Even now, I still don’t know her exact age – and frankly, I’ve always found it strange to pry unless there’s a meaningful reason to.

Over time, I finally met her in person at Storm Crow Tavern alongside her sister. To my surprise, she was softer in person than she was online. Online, she was blunt – borderline combative. But in person, she was cheerful, a bit shy, with an almost endearing awkwardness. I remember asking if I could pat her head – she said yes. I did so gently, like petting a fuzzy cat. It was harmless, affectionate, and emblematic of how I treated everyone in our circle – with care, and above all, equality.

Years passed. By December 2021, Marlene and I began talking privately more often. She told me how, for most of her life, she felt like the outsider – the kid everyone had to tiptoe around. But lately, she said, something had changed. Our group started including her fully. We spoke to her as an equal. For the first time, she felt accepted, like she truly belonged. She loved that we didn’t treat her like a child anymore. I was genuinely happy for her. That was always my goal: to create gaming sessions and group chats where everyone felt welcome. If someone was quiet, I’d stop the group and ask them directly if they had something to say – Marlene included. I treated her like I treated everyone else. She wanted connection without condescension, and I thought we had that. So when our conversations occasionally turned personal – sometimes sexual – it didn’t feel strange. It felt mutual.

By February 2022, she opened up about herself even more. She told me she was a shibari model, that she’d done erotic photography, that she enjoyed sexual experimentation. In her own words, she was “a very nasty girl”, giggling in voice messages as she said it. I found her alluring – not just because of her openness, but because of her generosity, her energy, and the sense that she had grown into herself. But I want to be clear: at no point did I take her disclosures as an invitation. I never assumed she wanted anything more. I never pushed boundaries. All of our exchanges were built on unspoken mutual respect. As it should be.

We spoke about her frustrations with men her age – how they were insecure, selfish, immature. She told me about an ex who ditched her while she was sick on vacation so he could go drinking with friends. I tried to play devil’s advocate, but in the end, I agreed. If Amber were sick, I’d have stayed with her. Simple.

Around that time, I casually floated the idea of proposing a situationship with Marlene. I asked Thomas. He said if my gut had doubts, follow them. Amber, always sharper in tone, said if Marlene was as emotionally mature as she claimed, she’d handle the proposition like an adult – whether she accepted or not. If she wanted to be seen as equal, then equal treatment meant receiving honesty without turning it into drama.

Awhile later, while Amber was going down on me, she paused mid-way, glanced up and said, “Just do it.” At that moment, my cock was rock hard in her hand – but as I thought of Marlene, I started to go limp. Amber noticed. I admitted something felt off. “I don’t know what it is”, I said. “But something about her doesn’t sit right with me.”

Still, I gave in. Amber’s insistent tongue and my own libido won out. I sent Marlene a short, respectful message.

She replied, “Haha, no I’ll pass,” followed by “Thanks for your honesty.” I took it gracefully. I never brought it up again. I never sexualized her out of context. I never crossed that line again. To me, that moment ended there.

Until it didn’t.

Two weeks later, Marlene blew up in our WhatsApp group over something trivial: a Valheim server reset. We had already discussed, as a group, that with every major game update, we might have to start fresh. This wasn’t new. But Marlene acted as if the game world was her only support system, accusing us of abandoning her, saying we were never there when she needed friendship. It wasn’t the words that hurt – it was the blindsiding tone. All of us had gone out of our way to include her: at hangouts, at movies, during casual gaming. And now she was acting like we were strangers?

A few people messaged me privately. They were confused. “What the hell was that about?”

Two weeks after that meltdown, I reached out to check in. I expected a short conversation. Maybe even an apology. Instead, she dropped a bombshell: she no longer trusted me. She accused me of making her uncomfortable. She implied I had crossed a line. I was stunned. I asked her to clarify. She sent back a screenshot of my original message – but conveniently cropped out the part where she thanked me for being honest.

That was when I realized this wasn’t just a misunderstanding.

This was a betrayal. This was someone reframing history to serve a narrative. This was someone selectively editing reality to imply I had done something inappropriate. And even then, I stayed calm – not because I wasn’t hurt, but because I refused to become the caricature she was trying to paint me as.

Let’s be absolutely clear: her right to say no was always respected. The problem wasn’t the rejection. It was the revisionist aftermath. The quiet backstabbing. The insinuations. The gaslighting.

She wanted to be treated as an equal – until it came with accountability. She wanted to be seen as an adult – until adulthood meant hearing uncomfortable truths.

That’s not maturity. That’s manipulation.

What truly pissed me off was something she said after the fact:

She said, “Like sorry if I fed into that or what, I just thought I finally get to be myself and share stuff. I saw it was sharing with your friends that are just your friends.”

I read that and thought, what the fuck? So she gets to share, but I don’t? She gets to speak freely, but I have to walk on eggshells? I thought friendship was mutual. I thought trust went both ways.

Here’s the reality: in my life, I’ve been transparent with maybe 40% of my female friends. I’ve proposed FWBs, relationships, or simply confessed attraction. All of them – except Marlene – responded with maturity. Some led to deeper bonds. Others rejected the idea, and we stayed friends. Only Marlene took my trust and twisted it.

She also said, “I think it’s the fact that you are also like 20 years older than me.”

And there it was. The mask slipped.

For all her claims about not wanting to be treated like a kid – for all the joy she expressed about finally being seen as one of us – when it suited her, she put the age card back on the table.

So which is it?

Does she want to be an equal – or a kid we all have to tiptoe around? Because you don’t get both. You don’t get to demand adult treatment and then retreat behind your age when it becomes inconvenient.

That’s not inclusion. That’s hypocrisy.

After those two conversations, I tried to act normal. To go back to how things were. I offered help. I was polite. But the truth is, I couldn’t unsee the betrayal. I couldn’t forget the lies she told about me to Thomas and Tammy. And while she said she wouldn’t share what happened with the group, I kind of wish she had – because then I would’ve had a reason to release our entire conversation history. Voice notes, texts, timestamps. Let the group decide for themselves who was honest and who wasn’t.

I saw Marlene one last time in September 2024 at Jelaina’s house. I treated her kindly – but distantly. When Reuben casually suggested I help Marlene build a website, I didn’t even respond. Pre-April 2022, I would’ve jumped in, built the whole thing for free, added payment processing and a shopping cart just to support a friend. But now? I didn’t give a shit whether her business sank or swam.

At the end of the night, she hugged me goodbye. It was a warm hug. It almost felt real. And for a second, I almost let my guard down. But then I remembered – she betrayed me. She twisted the truth. She made me into a villain.

To this day, I don’t fully understand why she did it. I’ve tried to. I’ve put myself in her shoes. And the only explanation I can give myself is: if I had done what she did, the only intent would’ve been to ruin someone.

Since then, I’ve developed a kind of low-grade PTSD around people under 30. There’s this trend – this weaponization of age. People who scream about being weird, anti-conformist, open-minded – but when challenged, they hide behind social safety nets. They’re not anti-conformist. They’re performative. They’re playing roles. Wearing masks.

And the moment you question the script?

They’ll rewrite the scene and call you the villain.