I don't know what I was thinking when I decided to drink tonight. Or worse, what was I thinking when I agreed to go out with this man?
Two weeks ago, we matched on Tinder. He wasn't one of those guys you turn to look at on the street. I'm not saying he was ugly, just... too ordinary. Eyes that are easily forgettable, hair that goes unnoticed. A typical guy, the kind you often see blending in with the crowd on public transport. But he had something--an arrogance and authority that, whether you liked it or not, held your attention.
Interestingly, while we were chatting, his arrogance remained well hidden. Even now, across the table, he seemed almost shy. But a seasoned player like me wouldn't be fooled. I could feel the power behind the restraint, the confidence simmering under the surface.
I didn't even know I could still feel nervous. The last few months had worn my nerves thin with expectations, each date almost identical to the previous one. Good-looking, charming, sometimes well-endowed, but overall, very lukewarm. At best, I'd get the cheapest rose from the flower shop on the corner. The worst? Waking up the next morning and realizing the cash I had set aside for my sister's birthday was gone. No rose, of course. And then... Mr. S. came along.
Anyway, anxiety. So strong that it took me three tries to draw on my eyeliner. He still didn't look phenomenal, but maybe in the dark, he wouldn't notice that it wasn't symmetrical.
"It's going to smudge anyway, you have plenty of other things to worry about," he commented with a wide, innocent smile when I complained about it, sparking a wave of warmth between my legs.
It didn't take long, back then, for me to 'reveal all my dark secrets,' as he put it. The first few days we talked about the most trivial things--books, movies, and other trivia bullshit. However, he caught me online one evening after a short drink and an even shorter, failed sex with a friend of a friend I met at the same party.
"Ugh, booooring. So boring." I typed, irritated, while changing the sheets with my other hand.
Unfortunately, it wasn't wet for the right reasons; the jerk had vomited and ended our not-so-fun night.
"I think that's the message you send me after every night out," he replied almost instantly. "Have you considered switching to girls?"
"I'm really starting to think the problem is me."
"Well, realistically, it is."
"Thanks for the comfort..."
"Alright, let me try to be more useful. What exactly bothers you about all of them? Reveal your dark secrets to me."
And that message started a conversation that lasted the entire night. The disinhibition from those few drinks led me to spill my soul right into his lap, talking about all my fantasies, desires, and, in the end, expectations from potential partners.
"Hmmm, it's not that hard to pull off, if you know who you're doing it with. I've got a thing or two of experience in those matters, you know?"
"Whoa, Mr. S., already shedding your good boy camouflage?"
"I like the 'Mr.' part."
It took me a few minutes to respond to that. I was caught off guard, probably.
"Cat got your tongue?" came the next message.
"Great, now I have to change my underwear again."
And so, we ended up at a bar. He mentioned he used to work there while studying, that the beer was good, and sometimes they had a decent band playing.
"I didn't expect you to wear what I told you," he commented, sizing me up from head to toe.
Neither did I, actually. I'm not really into red; black is my color. But here I am, in a red dress. Heels. Lipstick. I guess red is his favorite color. Luckily, it's winter. Otherwise, I'd melt under the weight of this satin, which now gently caresses my skin--because there's nothing underneath. Yes, the second request was that I skip the underwear tonight.
"Good girl," he added when I didn't respond, and I blushed.
The way he said it triggered a mixed reaction. Though he said it very gently and politely, it made me feel like someone was petting me like a well-behaved pet, and I didn't know whether to laugh, get angry, or something else. I didn't like it. At least not in theory. But my body didn't care about theory.
My heart skipped a beat, my cheeks flushed, and every attempt to control my reaction was doomed from the start. I saw it in his eyes. He knew. He knew exactly what he was doing to me. And he was enjoying every moment of it.
What game are you playing, Mr. S.? What are the rules?
I realized I was smiling--not in a controlled, confident way, but foolishly, almost childishly. Damn it. I immediately looked down, trying to regain control. I took a deep breath and raised my head, determined not to surrender without a fight.
"We're done pretending to be polite, huh?" I managed to say, trying to sound composed.
His smile widened even more, and his eyebrows subtly lifted. "Are we here for politeness?"
That look... it felt like he held the strings to my entire train of thought. I felt my cheeks burn even more, and my brain was desperately searching for a solution.
