Inever feel sexier than when I’m preening in the bathroom mirror of a shared Airbnb before a wedding. I’ve exfoliated, exorcised every hair from my body, and manipulated my natural waves into my annual Maxine Minx blowout. As I hike my seamless thong all the way up my ass, so as not to disturb my silhouette, one question bounces around my head: Who am I hooking up with tonight?

For the unlucky in love or recently divorced, going stag to wedding after wedding in your mid-30s might sound depressing. But after my last relationship ended nearly four years ago, I was pleasantly surprised to find that weddings are a single person’s paradise, like petri dishes of limerence and sexual possibility. Up to 250 guests are dressed to the nines, drunk off love and premixed cocktails, with nowhere to

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