I Said "Come Over." I Didn’t Mean "Undress My Soul."

This story is HER point of view. Read MY point of view here: (link)

It was late.

I wasn’t thinking clearly. I wasn’t drunk, just… hollow in that floaty, post-breakup way, where attention feels like medicine and silence feels like a threat.

So I typed it: “Come see me.”

No plan. No promise. I just wanted to feel something that wasn’t sad or spiritual. I didn’t expect him to show up within the hour. I thought he’d play it cool—maybe ask when or why or if I was serious. But no. He was eager, like a puppy. Or a man on a mission. Same thing, really.

My dog barked the second he arrived.

Smart dog.

He stepped inside like he was entering a temple—or a strip club that offered existential crisis on the side. He smiled. Too much. Too wide. Like he was trying to manifest sex through cheekbones.

I could feel it already—the way his energy floated toward me like steam. Hot, nervous, and slightly unstable.

He sat on the floor. I told him I had no chairs. I warned him about the pillows. Men always underestimate floor seating until their knees betray them and their balls start negotiating with gravity.

Then came the moment of truth: Bongo, my four-legged bullshit detector, walked directly between his legs and refused to move.

The man tensed. His body said "Zen," but his eyes said, "I really hope this dog doesn’t bite my dick."

He reached to pet Bongo. Brave or stupid—I couldn’t decide.

Bongo nipped him. Just a little. Like a doorman giving a subtle “Not tonight, buddy.”

“Strange the way he responds to you,” I said, pretending to sound curious and not vaguely amused.

“Are you having sexual energy right now?”

He blinked. Maybe twice.

“I don’t remember when I wasn’t,” he said, dead serious.

Oh dear.

We talked. Mostly he did. About art, about his ex, about his fingers—poetic, apparently. About the unfair treatment of men who cry during sex. He wasn’t boring, but he was narrating. Like he was practicing lines for a one-man show called “Confessions of a Horny Philosopher.”

I tried to stay open. Really. I crossed my legs and leaned in and said “Mmm” in all the right places. But underneath it all, I was tired. And broken. And raw in a way that didn’t want to be unzipped.

When he whispered, “When shall we kiss?” I felt a pang of guilt.

Not because I didn’t want to kiss him. But because I knew he was waiting for a scene I hadn’t written.

I smiled. A soft no.

Bongo returned to me like a soldier reporting in. He curled up on my lap like he knew he’d earned a treat. My gatekeeper. My guard dog. My furry emotional boundary.

I saw the man inch closer. Inch by inch. Like a submarine trying not to trigger mines. He sat next to me. Too close, too careful.

Bongo, again, inserted himself between us like a very soft and hairy cockblock. I was grateful. But I also felt something like sadness—for the man, and maybe for myself.

He started petting the dog.

Harder.

Faster.

Like he was trying to earn my affection through canine affection.

Bongo moaned. The man looked proud. I wondered if I should leave the room.

At 2:30, he cracked.

“Are you going to kiss me or what?”

The words weren’t mean. Or angry. They were… tired. Resigned.

I told him the truth: I’m not feeling passion tonight.

I said the usual things. The blah blahs.

I had a great time.

It’s so late.

I just got out of something.

All of it was true. None of it was the thing he wanted to hear.

At the door, he hugged me gently, like I was made of glass and he was hoping I’d melt. I didn’t.

He left without drama. Without bitterness. But his disappointment followed him out like smoke.

After he left, I sat for a long time with Bongo in my lap.

It’s strange, being a woman sometimes. You crave touch but not expectation. You want connection, but not always with a body attached. You ask someone to come over and forget that they might bring more than just themselves. They might bring hope. Pressure. Scripts.

He was kind. Sweet, even. Sexy in that awkward, self-aware way. But I couldn’t kiss him. Not when my body was still echoing someone else’s goodbye.

The next morning, I found one of his long black hairs on my pillow. Not from his head—somewhere lower. I left it there. Like a question I didn’t feel ready to answer.