Dating meant nightclubs, heels, and black. It meant, "No, thank you. Really, I'm full." It meant matching bras and underwear. Clothes with the word MICRO used to describe them.

I’d rather straighten my pubes with a flat iron than go on another blind date.

If another man wanted me, I was valuable. I was esteemed, no matter that it wasn't self-esteem.

Tell the truth, or someone will tell it for you.

I told him your loins were clearly burning, and he should man up and make a move."
"You did not!"
"I did. And if he doesn't, then I suggest you jump his bones."
...
I finally register what he's wearing. It's a handsome skinny black suit with a shiny sheen. The pants are too short - on purpose, of course - exposing his usual pointy shoes and a pair of blue socks that match my dress exactly.
And I totally want to jump him.

There were upsides to the whole mess. While Douglas was holding me hostage, I’d met a girl—I mean, screw dating websites and house parties; apparently all the really eligible ladies are being held in cages these days. I would have liked to see Brid fill out a dating questionnaire, though. What would she put? “Hi, my name is Bridin Blackthorn. I’m next in line to rule the local werewolf pack. I like long walks on the beach and destroying my enemies. I have four older brothers, so watch your step. We’ll be forming a queue to the left for potential suitors.”
And, trust me, there would be a queue.