Date Night

The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the wall, a stark contrast to the leaden weight settling in your gut. You'd meticulously planned this date night – a cozy dinner, a bottle of your favorite wine, a slow massage that melted away the day's stress. Now, the carefully prepared meal sat untouched, the wine remained uncorked, and the massage oil felt like a cruel reminder of a reality you weren't prepared for.

Lulu hadn't been secretive about her phone activity earlier. In fact, she'd narrated her Tinder adventure in painstaking detail – the swipes left, the few right swipes, the witty banter that ultimately led to a match. You'd feigned nonchalance, a tight smile plastered on your face as she described exchanging photos to ensure his "anatomy" met her specific needs. You **** down a sliver of jealousy as she scrolled through his profile pictures, dissecting his physique with the precision of a seasoned art critic.

Later that evening, however, the tables turned. Under the guise of "preparing for any scenario," Lulu declared it necessary to document her "assets" for the potential date. With a teasing glint in her eye, she directed you to photograph her in her favorite dress – the one that skimmed her curves with a seductive cling. You complied, capturing the way the fabric flowed around her body. It was a delicate dance, balancing the seductive silhouette with a hint of mystery. The real challenge came next. Lulu, with a playful smirk, requested a photo in her underwear, insisting it was essential to showcase her "versatility" for her match's viewing pleasure. You obliged cautiously, angling the shot to reveal just a sliver of the white t-shirt peeking out from under the waistband. The whole experience left you feeling like an unwilling accomplice in her digital exhibition, a strange mix of amusement and unease churning in your stomach. When topless photos, were on the menu, I protested.

The news of tonight's rendezvous had landed with a thud, effectively derailing your meticulously planned evening. But how could you argue with the unbridled excitement that radiated from her? "He's flying back to Spain tomorrow!" she'd exclaimed, her voice bubbling with a joy you couldn't replicate. "This afternoon is the only chance!"

And so, you found yourself playing the role of the supportive boyfriend, swallowing your disappointment as you rearranged your schedule to accommodate her desires.

Now, as she practically bounced into the room, post-encounter bliss clinging to her like perfume, the weight in your gut intensified. The massage oil glinted in her hand, a misplaced prop in this bizarre turn of events.

"This was amazing!" she gushed, tossing her clothes onto a chair. "He was… different. So strong, so… experienced."

You **** a smile, the gesture feeling brittle on your face. "Different, huh?"

"Completely!" she enthused, oblivious to your internal turmoil. "We have to do this again sometime, maybe find someone like him here. Imagine the possibilities!"

Your smile faltered. The "possibilities" she spoke of scraped raw at the exposed nerve of your insecurity. This wasn't about exploration, not for you. This was a relentless pursuit of a pleasure you simply couldn't provide, leaving you feeling inadequate and increasingly like a spectator in your own relationship.

Anger, hot and unwelcome, threatened to bubble to the surface. But before you could utter a word, Lulu reached out, her touch feather-light on your arm.

"But tonight," she said, her voice softening, "tonight is about us. Come on, let's get this massage started. I want to be well-rested for tomorrow."

The words hung in the air, laced with an unspoken promise. A promise you weren't sure you could believe in anymore.

You cupped her face, gently urging her head to turn towards you. The flickering candlelight danced in her eyes, but they held a distant glint, a reflection of something far away, far from the room you shared. Disappointment gnawed at you, a bitter counterpoint to the warmth of your touch.

Your fingers, usually so attuned to the subtle shifts in her muscles, felt like they were working on a stranger. Her body, normally a canvas for your focused attention, seemed oddly loose, almost detached. Was it the after-effects of the other massage? Or was it simply a lack of true presence in the moment?

Frustration bubbled up, but you tamped it down, focusing on your strokes instead. Long, sweeping motions that aimed to melt away tension, to coax her back to the present. Yet, your efforts seemed to be in vain.

Suddenly, a giggle escaped her lips, light and airy. "He had this amazing scar on his shoulder," she murmured, eyes closed. "Apparently, it's from a bull run in Pamplona."

The words hit you like a physical blow. Here, in the intimate space you'd carved out for yourselves, surrounded by the remnants of your planned date night, she was talking about another man. The anger you'd been holding back flared, a hot ember threatening to burst into flame.

You cupped her face, gently urging her head to turn towards you. You tried to make eye contact, but they held a distant glint, a reflection of something far away, far from the room you shared. Disappointment gnawed at you, a bitter counterpoint to the warmth of your touch.

Your fingers, usually so attuned to the subtle shifts in her muscles, felt like they were working on a stranger. Her body, normally a canvas for your focused attention, seemed oddly loose, almost detached. Was it the after-effects of the other massage? Or was it simply a lack of true presence in the moment?

Frustration bubbled up, but you tamped it down, focusing on your strokes instead. Long, sweeping motions that aimed to melt away tension, to coax her back to the present. Yet, your efforts seemed to be in vain.

Suddenly, a giggle escaped her lips, light and airy. "He had this amazing scar on his shoulder," she murmured, eyes closed. "Apparently, it's from a bull run in Pamplona."

The words hit you like a physical blow. Here, in the intimate space you'd carved out for yourselves, surrounded by the remnants of your planned date night, she was talking about another man. The anger you'd been holding back flared, a hot ember threatening to burst into flame.

"Lulu," you said, your voice strained. "Right now, it's just us. Can we focus on the massage?"

She blinked open her eyes, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. "Oh, of course," she mumbled, but her voice lacked conviction. It was as if the massage was just an afterthought, a necessary prelude to something else entirely.

You continued, your movements growing mechanical. Was this what it had come to? A series of massages, a mere pit stop on her relentless pursuit of pleasure? The thought was suffocating.

Placing the oil bottle down with a quiet thud, you broke the contact. The silence stretched between you, heavy and oppressive. Lulu finally looked at you, a question mark etched on her forehead.