I Dated the Dark Tetrad: From Glory Holes to Gaslighting

It Started Like a Bromance

I didn’t know what dark tetrad personality traits were when I met him. I just thought I’d found someone who understood me. It started as a bromance and ended in psychological warfare.

It started with sex. Great sex! And the kind of friendship that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, this time it’s different. I’d just landed in Atlanta, barely unpacked, still figuring out the rhythm of a city that didn’t know me yet. He was one of the first people I met. We hooked up. Then we hung out. Then we kept doing both.

There was this sense of ease between us, like we skipped the awkward phases and just clicked. He was funny, sarcastic and quirky. Also thoughtful. He’d share personal things quickly, and I thought that was vulnerability. I mistook that openness for depth, like we were building something real instead of just throwing our trauma at each other and calling it connection.

So yes, it started like a bromance, except we were fucking. That blurred line made it feel special, like this wasn’t some random hookup. This was someone I could talk to, laugh with, maybe even trust. We joked, we shared meals, we told each other things you’re not supposed to tell someone you’ve only just met and then slept together.

If you’ve ever asked yourself, Can Bromance Be Mistaken for Romance?, the answer’s obvious to me now. Yes. Especially when the sex is phenomenal and the manipulation hasn’t started yet.

Looking back, it was already happening. He was mirroring me, and my stories, my interests, even my moods. I didn’t see it as grooming, but as connection. At the time I’d thought I’d stumbled into one of those rare, messy, beautiful dynamics where friendship and sex mix and something more eventually emerges.

I just didn’t realise what would emerge was war.

The Glory Hole Honeymoon Phase

The sex was great. Electric, open, no awkward fumbling or forced roles. It just worked. But that wasn’t the most addictive part. What really pulled me in was the friendship.

We became close. Fast. That kind of instant bond where you skip small talk and jump straight into inside jokes, shared playlists, and conversations that go from trauma to trash TV in the same breath. We went shopping together, had drinks and met up with friends like a couple. Went to events, bars, even ran errands like we were a team. It wasn’t just about hooking up anymore. It was companionship. And for a moment, it felt like I’d found something rare. A man I could trust, laugh with and have sex with.

The bromance bloomed into something unspoken. We never defined it, but we both knew it was more than casual. The lines blurred. Were we dating? Was this love? Or just two trauma-tangled souls pretending we weren’t slipping into something deeper?

Then came the experimenting. Not just in bed, but in the way we navigated experiences together. One night, we ended up at a sex club. Initially just to check it out, have a drink, be curious. But that curiosity didn’t stay hypothetical for long. We explored. Talked. Wandered. And then found ourselves on either side of a glory hole wall, letting strangers touch parts of us neither of us usually gave away.

We used it. Not on a whim, but together. Deliberately. Like we were in on something primal and secret. It felt weirdly intimate and almost sacred. We walked out of that club with the kind of bond you don’t come back from easily.

I had no idea that behind that bond were dark tetrad personality traits waiting to surface.

There’s a post on What Gloryholes Reveal About Male Sexual Desire if you want the full philosophy behind that moment, but for me? It just felt like connection. Like trust.

Or at least, that’s what I thought it was.

Then the Narcissism Showed Up Wearing a Smile

At first, it was just little things. Barely noticeable and almost charming.

He was all about me. From the moment we connected, his attention was laser-focused. We were constantly together. Texts, calls, hanging out, sex. Non-stop. It felt like a whirlwind, but not in a chaotic way. More like I’d stumbled into something rare. Someone who saw me fully and wanted all of it. Every minute, every thought, every breath. It was intoxicating.

But in the middle of all that closeness, there were these tiny cracks. A sarcastic jab about my appearance. “You’re so dramatic when you’re tired. It’s kind of cute, though.” A moment where he interrupted me mid-sentence to correct a detail I hadn’t even finished. A weird story about a friend who’d “betrayed” him, but when I asked what happened, the details didn’t quite add up.

He’d go quiet, not for days, but for moments. Micro-withdrawals. Sudden shifts in energy. I’d say something and the room would go cold. Not obviously, but enough to make me backtrack, apologise, ask, are you okay?

And then he’d smile. That same warm, disarming smile he used at the beginning. The one that said, you’re lucky I chose you.

It wasn’t just narcissism. It was something slipperier. Something calculated. Not rage and not even drama. Control.

But I didn’t see it. Because I liked him too much. Because it was still early, and I was still convincing myself that these weren’t red flags. They were quirks. And I’d finally found someone who just “got me.”

The Dark Tetrad Arrives in Milan

When I left Atlanta and returned to Milan, I thought maybe some space would soften things. Instead, he said he wanted to move there. To get away from old habits, start anew and to be closer to me.

I was thrilled. And terrified. But I told myself it would be good for him. A new country, new habits. He’d grow, change and settle into something healthier. I told myself it would be different. That the cracks would stop cracking if we just poured enough optimism into them.

My friends didn’t buy it. Those that had met him, warned me loudly. Those I’d spoken to about him, raised the red flags I refused to see. Everyone said he was off and they said he made them feel uncomfortable. I defended him and said he was misunderstood. That he just needed a clean break from his old life and a chance to start fresh.

So I let him move to Milan.

He was supposed to get his own place, find a job and create something for himself. I was just the landing pad, but he’d bounce.

But from the minute he landed, none of that happened. Plans became delays. Delays became excuses. Suddenly, everything was harder than expected. Except for the part where he slid straight into my flat, my life, my everything. I realised then he had both Autism and ADHD, and I did a lot of research on both so I could understand him better and help him even more.

And that’s when the mask started to really slip.

Diagnosing Dark Tetrad Personality Traits in Real Life (Without the Psychology Degree)

By the time he was physically near me again, living in my city, in my space, I started to see all four faces of the Dark Tetrad. It was textbook dark tetrad personality traits, but I didn’t need a textbook to feel the damage.

Narcissism was the easiest to spot. He needed constant praise. If I didn’t tell him he looked good, he’d sulk. If I praised someone else, even casually, he’d ice me out. He interrupted. Steamrolled conversations. If I talked about my trauma, he had a worse one. If I shared something joyful, he either hijacked it or undercut it.

Machiavellianism was slower, more insidious. He lied exceptionally well and he did it smoothly, telling different people different stories depending on what reaction he wanted. He lied to me repeatedly about being cheated on by his ex. The truth was that he’d done the cheating.

Psychopathy showed up in moments of pure coldness. Once, I had a night terror. I’ve had them since childhood. Unbeknownst to me, he’d filmed it. Six months later, long after I’d blocked him, he sent me the video and I could hear him laughing in the background. He said I looked possessed and that it was hilarious. I felt sick that he thought it was content.

Sadism was the hardest one for me to accept. Not because it wasn’t there, but because the idea that someone I felt so deeply connected to could enjoy my pain was almost impossible to digest.

But there were signs.

He would say things specifically designed to hurt. Little verbal barbs that went beyond sarcasm. If I reacted, he would smirk or shrug, like my discomfort was amusing. When I confronted him, he would say I was too sensitive or claim I misunderstood.

Once, during an argument, he told me my therapist was manipulating me. That wasn’t concern. That was psychological sabotage. Planting doubt exactly where I most needed clarity.

But the line that still echoes was during one of the hardest times of my life.

My mother was dying.

And he looked me in the eye and said, “Who’s going to teach you how to lie now?”

Not just cruel and not just calculated. That is what gaslighting sounds like when it is weaponised. It wasn’t about winning the argument. It was about undermining my entire reality.

That was the hook, the loop and the game.

Each of those traits, narcissism, Machiavellianism, psychopathy, and sadism, didn’t appear in isolation. They worked together. Like four demons in a trench coat wearing a perfect smile.

The Cold Realisation

It didn’t come during the arguments. Or after the gaslighting. Or even when he started sleeping beside me like he owned the bed.

It came the moment he had me falsely arrested.

But even then, my brain struggled to make sense of it. That’s the thing with cognitive dissonance. It doesn’t just confuse you. It fractures you. One part of me was still trying to explain it away. Maybe it was a misunderstanding. Perhaps he didn’t mean for it to happen. Or maybe he was spiralling again.

While the other part, the quieter, colder voice, was saying, no. This was planned. This was the point.

I was caught between two versions of him. The one who used to laugh with me and tell me I was safe, and the one who stood by while I was dragged from my home and said, for the eighth time, good luck getting rid of me.

That’s when it landed.

This wasn’t just about sex or trauma or love bombing.

This was a calculated, weaponised campaign, and I’d been living in it like it was a relationship.

He didn’t want to be with me. He wanted to consume me, crawl under my skin and live there until I disappeared.

And even after I broke, he stayed. Because that was the point.

This is when the memoir started writing itself.

And when the horror stopped being romantic.

That’s when I realised the Dark Tetrad personality traits weren’t just psychology terms.

It was a diagnosis for what had already happened to me.

Aftermath of the Dark Tetrad Personality Traits

If you’ve been through something like this, you already know. You don’t just move on: you survive in fragments and you rebuild from ash. You question everything. Your judgement, your sanity and your worth.

I’ve been there. I’m still there some days.

But I’ve also written it all down. Not just to purge it, but to expose it.

Because when you date someone with the Dark Tetrad personality traits, it’s not a breakup. It’s an extraction. And no one warns you how much it will cost.

The memoir is called Good Luck Getting Rid of Me.

Because those were his words.

And now they’re mine.

If you’ve been consumed, erased, humiliated, or stalked, and somehow still managed to crawl back into yourself, then you already know:

This wasn’t just a love story.

It was war.

And you weren’t the only one.