It’s a tale as old as time: Boy meets girl. Other boy meets girl. Other other boy meets girl. Other other other boy meets girl. Girl takes boys on a magical trip to Greece. Boys try to convince girl to sleep with each of them on national TV. Girl endures endless gaslighting, and self-sabotages with the one boy that actually cares about her, in favor of the other three nightmares.

Oh yeah, I said three. Peter, it turns out, also has (had?) a girlfriend back home. That’s right, turns out our sentient slice of white bread may actually be a slice of...what kind of bread would cheat on its girlfriend for a chance to hawk FitTea on Insta? Moldy white bread? Seems fitting. But tonight’s revelations make this jagged little pill all the more painful to swallow. We may not go down in a theater, but...well, we’ll get there. 

Keeping right on theme with this season, tonight’s Fantasy Suite episode was every bit as infuriatingly horrific as you’d expect. Granted, Hannah finally—FINALLY—had her Luke illusions smashed, but even that couldn’t be properly celebrated, given A) the way it went down, B) the lingering Peter shadow, and C) the fact that Hannah’s self-destructive bullshit is still going full throttle ahead. If it isn’t Luke, it’s going to be someone in his same gaslighting vein. 

Let’s dive in.

Fantasy Suite 1: Peter is the King of the World in Crete 

You know, I really didn’t see it coming. Of all the idiots on this season, Peter the Pilot genuinely seemed like a puppy amongst wolves. Granted, this is the guy that planted a condom in his car so Hannah would discover that He Has Had The Sex, but still. That feels like something a middle schooler would do, and if I had to describe Peter as anything, it would be a seemingly happy-go-lucky middle schooler that can’t believe he gets to make out with a pretty girl on national TV.

Except he’s not. Because everyone on this show is a horrible piece of shit. I’m still holding out hope for Tyler (and Mike, because #MikeForBachelor) but I swear to fucking Shower God, if Tyler ends up pulling a Dean, or a Blake (DON’T EVEN GET ME STARTED, PARADISE) I’m going to punch more holes in drywall than Luke has in his entire life. That is how badly this season—nay, this franchise—has affected me. 

It’s like every bad Tinder nightmare come true. You just keep thinking “Well, not all of the remaining single guys are bad, right?” Some seem charming. Some seem genuine. Some seem ready for commitment. And then one by one, like a sea of Scooby-Doo villains, they all rip off their masks to reveal their true selves. That one has a girlfriend! That one has severe anger issues! That one has psychotic episodes where he thinks god comes to him in the shower! That one assaulted a woman on a boat and it was public knowledge, given that it was going through the court systems, yet Tinder decided to overlook it! (Yeah, I’m looking at you, Lincoln.) 

I don’t want to sound bitter and jaded, but I am bitter and jaded, because welcome to the real world, kids.

Anywhere, where the fuck was I?

Oh, right. Fucking Peter.

So we kick things off with our doomed duo sailing through the clear blue waters of the Mediterranean. Peter, because he’s nothing if not on trend, shouts “I’m the king of the world!” while flailing about on the bow of the boat. Hannah squeals a lot in between make out seshes, and declares that Peter is “so sexy.” Um. Look, Peter’s not like...awful, but sexy isn’t one of the words I would use for him. Boyish, maybe. Baby-faced, definitely. Asshole with a girlfriend at home, for sure.

Peter, despite spending 99% of his time with his tongue down Hannah’s throat, still hems and haws about his feelings for her. Now, I don’t think he should say that he loves her, because he clearly doesn’t, because 1) no one actually falls in love in 6 weeks, especially given that about 4 of those weeks are spent apart from the leading lady, 2) Peter just left his girlfriend at the beginning of those 6 weeks, and 3) all of the “love” on this show is just Stockholm Syndrome.

But Hannah, because Hannah is newly 24 and has the emotional intelligence and depth of a particularly dense gnat, is whining about how Peter has yet to drop the L-Bomb on her. 

Look, let me say this again. Not all 24 year olds are this stunted and immature. I’ve met my fair share of 24 year olds who were significantly more mature than some 30-somethings I’ve known, but that is not the norm. And that’s okay! 24 year olds aren’t supposed to be rushing into marriage with a virtual stranger. 24 year olds aren’t supposed to be able to easily navigate the dating waters. 24 year olds aren’t supposed to know what they want yet, because this time in their lives is spent messily figuring that out. 

When I was 24, I was job hopping around, dating terrible men, and had literally no fucking clue what I wanted to do with my life. Kids? No fucking clue. Marriage? No fucking clue. Career? No fucking clue. The kind of man I wanted to be with? No fucking clue. The things I did know was that it took me at least 3 Bacardi Razz and Sprites before I’d do karaoke at my favorite dive bar, and that I would never hook up with a specific guy again because he’d worn tighty-whities to bed. That was the depth of my emotional intelligence, and it was right where it should be.

And this is one of the root causes of why this season is such a fucking disaster (the other being the nightmarish men, obviously). Even being from the South, where 24 is practically 44 in Spinster Years, watching someone so young and inexperienced and confused as Hannah is just painful. This isn’t a glorious celebration of womanhood. This isn’t a tough-but-exciting look at the realities of dating. This is a confused child being shoved into something she’s not ready for, while a school of man sharks circle her in bloody waters.

Jesus fuck, I keep going so off track.

So Hannah is all pouty because Peter won’t tell her he loves her. Because Hannah only measures her next steps by the empty words men tell her. ROLL TIDE!

“If Peter was a Greek god, he’d be Zeus,” Hannah says dreamily at one point. “And I’d be Aphrodite, the goddess of love!” This is hilarious because A) if anyone on the show is a Greek god it’s our carved-from-marble model Tyler, and B) ZEUS IS APHRODITE’S FATHER. God bless the Alabama public school system.

After their sea-faring adventure, Hannah and our Latest Cheating Bastard frolic off to dinner. Hannah wears a pink sparkly dress lifted from Baby Spice’s closet, and Peter gushes blandly on about how great she is and how great they are and how great the day is. Hannah, because she’s Hannah, thinks this is a deep emotional connection. Peter finally dry heaves out an L-Bomb, and a delighted Hannah invites him to the Fantasy Suite.

WHICH IS IN A FUCKING WINDMILL.

Which works on multiple levels. 

Turns out our plucky heroine banged Peter in a windmill in Greece, not Jed in a windmill in Amsterdam. I’m...genuinely fucking surprised. Jed, as much as I despise him, I could see. Despite looking like he was beat in the face with his own guitar, Jed’s gaslighting skills are right up there with Luke’s. He’s far more aggressive and far more manipulative, so I could totally see Hannah falling for it. But Peter? Peter?? Our ragged chunk of white bread? But I guess if he can leave his girlfriend in the dust to come on this show, he can definitely get down in a windmill. 

You know, I feel really, really fucking bad for Hannah. She may be somewhat of an idiot, but she doesn’t deserve any of this. She’s going to look back on this season, knowing the true colors of these fucking assholes, and likely be gutted. And no one deserves that. As annoying as she can be, Hannah at heart is kind and sweet and caring, and she deserves someone that genuinely cares about her—not a Peter, not a Jed, and definitely not a Luke. 

But here we are. 

Oh, and: In some behind-the-scenes footage during the credits, we’re treated to a scene of Hannah and Peter hurling fruit at each other in the windmill, and pointedly dining on cake. I fucking cannot.

Date 2: Tyler Wins Our Heart at the Spa

Going back to carved-from-marble models, Tyler—the only thing good, pure, and kind left in this cruel, cruel franchise—meets our hopeless heroine for a soothing spa day to kick off their Fantasy Suite extravaganza. 

Delightfully de-robing, our Lord and Savior joins Hannah on a plush massage table and actually opens up between brisk strokes. They talk about Hometowns, and how Hannah interacted with his family, and it’s warm, charming, and real. Tyler may not be a rocket scientist, but he seems like a mature and kind-hearted soul with more self insight and awareness than most 20-something bros. The two have wonderful, easy chemistry that clearly extends beyond the physical. Which isn’t to say there isn’t an intense physical attraction. 

“You’re making it hard for me to relax,” he tells her at one point, as I weep into my wine. “I want to pounce on that table. Mm.” He then gets off the table and begins massaging her himself. God bless. 

So, of course, Hannah then tells the cameras that her “emotional relationship with Tyler needs to catch up.”

Okay girl, what. the. fuck. WHAT THE FUCK. Peter endlessly prattles on about nothing, Jed literally tells you he only came on the show to further his music career, and Luke endlessly slut-shames you while reliving his psychotic breaks, and yet you think TYLER is the one you don’t have enough emotional connection to?

It’s almost laughable, if it wasn’t so horrifying. Especially because what’s really happening is becoming more and more apparent. Hannah knows, deep down somewhere, that the other idiots are terrible for her. They’re 20-Something Bad Boys (TM) that are going to treat her horribly and break her heart. And yet she self-sabotages by choosing them time and time again instead of Tyler.

Look, I’m not saying that one of the (very) deep roots of this is her deeply religious background, but I’m also saying that one of the (very) deep roots of this is definitely her deeply religious background.

This is a 24 year old that clearly suffers an inordinate amount of guilt and shame for having sex outside of marriage, despite that being what most 24 year olds spend the majority of their time doing. Hannah clearly thinks some part of her is dirty and bad for doing so, because her religion has told her she’s dirty and bad for doing so.

Anyone can choose to have sex, or not have sex, all they want. But when your religion is shoving the idea that you’re dirty for having sex outside of marriage—especially if you’re a woman, because let’s be fucking real—that’s a real fucking problem. It causes this kind of shit. Most organized religion is based in the deeply misogynistic mindset of controlling women’s choices, bodies, and lives, while letting men do things like, oh I don’t know, murder LGBTQ+ men and women, stuff immigrant children in cages, and let white male rapists rape women left and right without any consequences. 

Where was I again? My god, this show is destroying me. 

Anyway, Hannah is self-sabotaging once again, and by this point, with the new revelations about Peter, it’s so fucking painful it’s almost indescribable.

Tyler is the only one actually opening up and showing genuine emotion and depth. He’s the only one that actually does cute little nothings to let her know he cares. But what the fuck ever, apparently.

For the second part of their date, our intrepid duo scamper off to a house boat, where Hannah wears some silver sparkly mess and Tyler rocks the now-famous Salmon Jacket. (Drink!)

Tyler tells Hannah he loves her, and Hannah immediately tells him she doesn’t want to have sex with him in the Fantasy Suite—she wants to work on the emotional side of their relationship instead.

Now, I applaud this (even if the idea of being able to bone Tyler and passing on it nearly kills me). They barely know each other, and while I’m all for getting freaky early on, given the high-charged high stakes of this show, taking it slow is for the best.

BUT GIRL JUST BONED PETER. PETER. OUR MOLDY PIECE OF WHITE BREAD. Choosing to bone Peter over Tyler just hurts my soul, and brain, and nether regions. 

Granted, I think it’s also because deep down, somewhere, she truly knows how good Tyler is, and is also feeling that guilt and uncertainty and wondering if she doesn’t deserve him. But she does. 

At any rate, they take the night slow, and again I think it’s for the best. In the morning, when Peter leaves, Hannah cries and says she has a lot of thinking and emotional management to do. I think Hannah’s tears here are very real, and they’re not a bad thing—she feels her connection to Tyler and it frightens her, but in a genuinely thoughtful way. 

“He allows me to be the strong woman I am. He respects my boundaries,” she says in a daze, as though realizing for the very first time that such a man exists, and that such caring and respect are possible—and attainable. 

Team Tyler. Forever and ever.

Date 3: Fucking Jed

Every week I try—and fail miserably—to figure out what the actual fuck Hannah sees in Jed. He’s such a manipulative fucking monster, but he’s not quite at Luke’s level, so it just doesn’t make any fucking sense. Luke is the king of gaslighting, he’s got the abs of a god, he’s genuinely very good looking, and he’s able to really strike at Hannah’s insecurities with his religious fanaticism. But Jed? He’s really quite unattractive. He’s got a good body, but he doesn’t parade it around the way Luke does. He’s manipulative and terrible, but on a slightly lower scale. He sings like a cat being skinned alive. So what the fuck is it??

It’s certainly not his dancing skills, either, as evidenced by the kickoff to their date. Hannah and this fucking jackass meet in a charming stone courtyard, where they flail wildly and dance in circles with the locals. After working up an appetite, they sit down to dinner with a fuck ton of random Greek strangers, who awkwardly feed them staged questions about how long they’ve been dating and when they’re getting married. 

Jed tells Hannah that he loves her, and because Hannah lives for that and that alone, she seems overly delighted. Even though Jed is kind of sulky and quiet the entire time, and Hannah spends the date talking almost exclusively to the bewildered 60-something Greek stranger, she seems to think this date has gone Exceedingly Well. 

The random 60-something Greek stranger gives Hannah some dish that’s “natural Greek viagra” which I would’ve assumed would be Jed’s moment to pounce, but that’s…not how it goes. This date actually goes curiously off the rails, and I’m not entirely sure of Jed’s motives here. 

Once our doomed duo are alone, Jed decides to use his time to complain about Luke. A lot. Rather aggressively. It’s an interesting tactic, given that this is the FUCKING FANTASY SUITE DATE, and why on earth would he bring up Luke? I have a few theories, but more on that in a second

So the two talk about everyone’s favorite psychotic religious fanatic, and Hannah gets well and truly frustrated. 

"I do think Luke is a good guy, yet I don't know what to say..." she gnashes out, exasperated.

Okay, so first things first: WHY IS HE A GOOD GUY, HANNAH? WHAT HAVE YOU SEEN, OTHER THAN HIS ABS, HIS EMOTIONAL ABUSE, AND HIS PSYCHOTIC GOD VISIONS? 

There’s no second part to that. It’s just that onslaught of need-to-know questions. 

During this entire exchange, Hannah and Jed have 0.0000% chemistry. They look and act like they rather despise each other. Hannah seems incredibly frustrated and annoyed with Jed, and Jed seems to just be shrugging noncommittally and harping needlessly on about Luke.

At one point, Hannah gets up in a flurry of anger, and shouts “Ugh! I do NOT want to do this anymore!”

Jed, living up to his status as (one of) our resident fucking assholes, says: “You have a hard time letting go of things that aren’t good for you.”

Okay, now this is technically true. But my GOD is this fucking RICH coming from an enormous douche canoe that ghosted his girlfriend for a shot at fleeting fame, and literally told the lead of this fucking dating show that he was only coming on the show to further his music career. If this isn’t the Oxford Dictionary’s description of “Pot, Meet Kettle,” I just don’t know what the fuck is. 

So what’s the deal here? Here are my theories:

1. Jed is just a fucking idiot. Plain and simple.

2. Jed is so deeply affected by Luke’s constant stealing of the spotlight that he wants to beat his memory like a dead horse that’s already been beat into a pulp. After all, if we’re spending so much time focused on Luke, how are we going to be able to watch Jed sing and play the guitar at every available opportunity??

3. Jed is pulling Classic Forever Alone Bachelor (TM) Move #1: Being a super manipulative asshole in an effort to get Hannah to dump him, because on some subconscious level, he knows he’s a piece of shit and isn’t worthy of her, so he’s going to manipulate her into dumping him so he can convince himself he’s the good guy here.

4. Jed is pulling Classic Forever Alone Bachelor (TM) Move #2: Being a super manipulative asshole in an effort to get Hannah to dump him, because he’s a piece of shit that wants to milk broken-hearted bullshit in order to try to hawk shitty songs on his YouTube channel.

My money is on #4. It could be #3, but let’s be real—Jed fucking sucks. 

So what happens after all of this bickering, and frustration, and lack of chemistry, and Luke nightmare rehashing? Why, Hannah invites Jed to the Fantasy Suite! OF FUCKING COURSE.

Because there is no god (not even a shower god), our fucking idiots meander off to some house, where they literally squeal with delight over a sectional couch. The bar is set so fucking low it’s literally in the core of the earth right now. 

“Jed is so sincere,” Hannah gushes to the cameras. “That’s what you want in a life partner.”

HANNAH. 

GIRL. 

WHAT.

NO.

JED IS NOT SINCERE, HANNAH. HE HAD A GIRLFRIEND BACK HOME HE GHOSTED ON A POST-IT NOTE WHEN HE CAME ON THE SHOW, HANNAH. HE LITERALLY FUCKING TOLD YOU HE ONLY CAME ON THE SHOW TO FURTHER HIS CAREER, HANNAH.  

In the end, they aggressively make out on a bed, and I chugged my third bottle of wine until the pain stopped. 

Date 4: The Devil Went Down to Santorini

The fact that we are forced to bear witness to the atrocity that is Luke at this point in the fucking season is so incredibly wrong that I can barely form coherent sentences right now. It just took me 15 fucking minutes to type this small paragraph alone.

Luke should not have made it to Fantasy Suites. Luke should not have made it to Hometowns. Luke should not have made it past Episode One, when he told Hannah he used to be, like, a super slut, until god came to him in the shower and told him to keep his dick in his pants. If Jed is 99% of what’s wrong with this franchise, Luke is firmly 1,000,000% of what’s wrong with this franchise. Luke is a fucking farce, and his stunningly abusive behavior should never have been allowed to be aired on fucking television. Luke is not the villain we love to hate—Luke is the villain that should be exiled to some deserted island in the South Pacific to ensure he can never harm anyone again. Without sunscreen. 

We start off this nightmarish exorcism in Santorini, with Luke laughing like a total psychopath. Did you notice that laugh? That’s the kind of laugh you hear right before you’re shoved down a hole in a basement and hit in the head with a bottle of lotion. 

I wouldn’t go within 100 miles of that laugh, and yet Hannah willingly scampers into a helicopter with it. (Inexplicable helicopter date—drink!)

After their excursion, they make out a ton on a picturesque cliff overlooking the ocean. 
“I don't know what Luke's church is teaching him, but that boy can KISS!” Hannah says excitedly. 

Uh, pretty sure his church is teaching him that slut-shaming is a-okay, and that confession can totally wipe away horrific sins, and that being an emotionally abusive monster is cool, and that psychotic visions are grand, and— 

After their sightseeing makeout session, they meet for dinner…in the middle of the rainforest? No clue where they found that location, but whatever. Hannah is wearing the now infamous Magenta Suit Jacket, so we know this is when Luke cranks that slut-shaming up to 1,000,000,000,000 and Hannah finally, blessedly blows a fucking gasket. 

But the road to redemption is first paved with nightmares, so we have to endure more torture before that glorious release. 

“So let’s talk about sex,” Luke says casually, eyes glinting with a barely concealed murderous rage. I’m pretty sure someone spilled the beans about Hannah boning Peter, although to my knowledge Peter isn’t dead in a gutter somewhere, so maybe not. But Luke seems a little too honed in on this conversation, and yeah, like, it’s fucking Luke, but still.

Luke is the kind of guy that makes his wife wait until marriage for sex, and constantly slut shames her for so much as thinking about sex, all while fucking 18 year olds left and right behind her back. Again, the guy’s only course in life is to become a mega minister at one of those “We Spend Millions On Our State-of-the-Art Surround Sound System But Refuse to Give Money to Those That Need It, Because Like Jesus Said: Fuck Poor People and Also Women and Also the LGBTQ+ Community and Also Anyone That’s Not White” churches. 

Luke launches into a rambling, gaslighting, emotionally abusive rampage that’s just chock full ‘o slut-shaming and misogyny. He goes on and on and on about purity and about how he knows she had sex before, and he knows he had sex before, but he’s Absolved (TM) now because he hasn’t had sex in like, 3 or 4 years. This demon weasel probably thinks he grew a hymen from abstaining from sex for more than 6 months.

I was so inspired by this utter eruption of horror that I wrote Hannah a letter:

Dear Hannah,

DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE. DUMP LUKE.

xoxo,
Chelsea

Luke is the kind of guy that thinks his wife watching porn is the same thing as fucking 50 guys while married, but totally watches porn (lesbian porn, at that) whenever he damn well feels like it. Luke is the kind of guy that says his wife can’t be alone with another man at work, while he fucks his executive assistant in his office. Luke is the kind of guy that says his wife can’t raise her voice to him, while he punches her anywhere that won’t leave easily visible bruises. 

Luke is trash. Luke is abusive. Luke is a fucking monster. 

He then aggressively pumps her for information on whether or not she slept with one, or all, of the remaining contestants. 

“I could imagine a slip-up…” he says, looking disgusted, “but like, with all of them?”

Okay, a few things here.

1. This show is literally built around the Fantasy Suite episodes, with a nation of watchers gleefully hoping the lead bangs at least one, if not all, of the remaining contestants. This is not new knowledge.

2. Hannah could choose to fuck one of the guys. Or two of the guys. Or three of the guys. Or all four of the guys. Because she is a grown woman, and who she consensually sleeps with is entirely up to her and her willing partner(s).

3. Hannah could choose to not fuck one of the guys. Or two of the guys. Or three of the guys. Or all four of the guys. Because she is a grown woman, and she can choose not to sleep with anyone simply because she doesn’t want to, not because someone told her not to.

4. Luke is trash. Luke is abusive. Luke is a fucking monster.

Luke is so fucking lucky that Hannah didn’t smash her champagne glass and stab him in the face with it right then and there. Especially given the just-as-murderous look gleaming in her own eyes by that point. 

But—finally—it is time. Hannah has seen the light. It’s not a god popping into a shower, but a true revelation. 

I cannot believe it got to this point before Hannah finally, finally saw Luke for what he truly is, but you know what? Thank FUCKING GOD she finally did. It could’ve lasted forever. She could’ve married this fucking horror show. 

“Ive prayed for clarity,” she tells him, voice dripping with venom. “I’ve finally gotten clarity on you, and I do NOT want you to be my husband”

LADIES AND FUCKING GENTLEMEN, HANNAH BROWN!

She tells him to get the fuck outta her sight that very instant. 

But, kids, remember—this is Luke we’re dealing with. Luke wouldn’t know respect if it hit him in the face with a mace. Luke wouldn’t know consent if it ran over his legs with a steamroller. Luke would’t know boundaries if it pushed aside the curtain while he was in the shower and joined him in it.

“I think you owe me—“ he starts, looking like he’s about to murder Hannah.

NO, BITCH. NO.

Jesus, even in the 11th fucking hour, Luke cannot possibly fathom respecting someone’s wishes, or boundaries, or requests. Hell, he can’t even possibly fathom respecting someone. 

“I don’t owe you ANYTHING!” Hannah all but roars, entirely incensed.

“I don't care that you think you have clarity. I know there's more about me that—“ LUKE FUCKING CONTINUES. The. Audacity. Of. This. Bitch. 

 And the final kick in the teeth?

“Can I pray with you before I leave?” he asks, looking entirely deranged.

Jesus. In. The. Shower. Christ.

After Hannah has told him 100 times to get the fuck out. After Luke told her her feelings didn't matter. After Luke slut-shamed her. This bitch still wants to pray with her. I cannot fucking even. I just cannot. 

At the end of the episode, there is no Rose Ceremony. Just like there is no god. In case we somehow possibly needed a reminder after all of this, we’re then treated to a sneak peek of the next episode, where Luke refuses to go home, returns back to the Rose Ceremony location, and staunchly refuses to leave despite Hannah and all the bros insisting he get the fuck out. The only time he seems to sightly pause is when Tyler looms threateningly over him. 

Tyler for Everything 2020.

Until next fucking week!