She said 'come over'. Her dog said: Don't!

Around midnight, she said it—casually, carelessly, with the kind of digital shrug only a seasoned flirt can pull off: “Come see me.”

No plan. No promise. Just those three words lighting up my phone and my imagination.

Of course, I said yes. Because I’m a man, and she was a woman who once sent me a voice note so breathy I had to check my own pulse. We’d been chatting for weeks. Sexting, even. In cyberspace, we had chemistry. Fire. Friction. She once told me I had “poetic fingers.” I told her she had “keyboard nipples.” She didn’t block me, so I assumed that was consent.

I got dressed. I got hopeful. I even shaved—not everything, just the expectations around my soul. I imagined soft jazz, scented candles, and some kind of spiritual undressing ritual. Instead, I got barked at.

Loudly. By her dog.

It’s around 12:15 a.m. when I arrive. The door opens, and before I can flash my most innocent “I’m here to emotionally support you with my penis” smile, I’m under assault.

A medium-sized, overly hairy, testosterone-guarding beast lunges at my crotch like it owes him money. His bark says “I smell your desperation,” and I’m not even mad—he’s right.

“Relax, Bongo,” she says to the dog, casually, like he’s just asked for more milk.

I enter. Her apartment is large, artsy, and smells faintly like incense and disappointment. Paintings cover every wall—naked women, moons, breasts floating in surreal landscapes. I love it already.

There are oversized pillows everywhere. Not chairs. Pillows. As if she was expecting either a poetry slam or an orgy. I lower myself into one like a clumsy yogi, legs splayed, dignity gone. Bongo immediately plants himself between my legs, showing me his very white, very unfriendly teeth.

I freeze. My most vulnerable parts are now at eye-level with the enemy. I don't know where to place my hands.

Do I shield my junk? Too obvious.

Do I keep them relaxed? Too cocky.

Do I pet him? That could go either very right or very wrong.

I stretch my hand toward him, slowly, like a man disarming a bomb.

“The dog,” I whisper to myself. “I'm touching the dog.”

He gives me a gentle-but-clear “fuck off” bite. A nibble. Just enough to establish dominance.

“Very strange the way he responds to you,” she says, settling into a pillow of her own. “Are you having sexual energy right now?”

“I don’t remember when I wasn’t,” I answer, still staring down at the canine genital guardian. “But it’s not about him—it’s about the energy.”

“Right,” she says. “The energy.”

We start talking. And talking. About everything and nothing. About her art, my ex, her ex, the full moon, the patriarchy, and how mangoes are better in Thailand. I speak mostly about my favorite subject—me. I know, I know. Some people pay professionals to listen to their issues. I just flirt with emotionally available women.

“When shall we kiss?” I ask, softly, like a question floating between two podcasts.

She smiles. Bongo leaves my crotch and trots to her lap like a traitor. I sigh with relief. I’m safe—for now.

Time passes. 1 a.m. becomes 2 a.m. My libido becomes philosophy. We’re still talking. She says she’s tired but “grateful for the connection.” I nod. What I want is to connect genitals, but I settle for connecting over experimental theater and inner child trauma.

Eventually I migrate over to her side of the room. I move slowly, casually, like I’m not plotting an erotic revolution. I sit beside her, close enough to feel her warmth. Then suddenly—bam! Bongo’s back. Now lodged between us, like a furry chastity belt.

So what do I do?

I stroke him.

Yes, I pet her dog instead of her, and he loves it. His eyes roll back in bliss. I’m giving the best foreplay of the night to a golden mutt who smells like sage and shame.

Around 2:30 a.m., I crack.

“Are you going to kiss me or what?”

She takes a breath. Long, thoughtful. A sigh disguised as wisdom.

“I’m not really feeling any passion tonight,” she says. “I just broke up with someone. I didn’t think this would feel… pressured.”

She smiles sweetly. Kindly. Like a nurse who just watched you shit yourself and is still willing to hand you a warm blanket.

“I had a really great time with you,” she adds.

Oh no. Not the G-word.

“It’s just really late… I think I’m going to sleep.”

At the door, I hug her gently—like a man hugging a ghost of what could have been. She smells like sandalwood and metaphor.

Outside, it’s cold. My keys feel like judgment in my pocket.

I walk into the night like a soldier who forgot why he went to war.

It may sound funny, but I felt… down. Not heartbroken—more like crotch-broken. I wasn’t mad at her. I was mad at me. For hoping. For assuming. For building castles out of text messages.

There was lust between us online. Fire emojis. Late-night audio fantasies. She once said she’d “melt on my lips.” Turns out, it was all WiFi-based heat. In person, I was just a man. Warm, flawed, human—and slightly afraid of dogs.

I got in my car and stared at the wheel for a while.

Just a silly man who couldn't say no to his desires. A man who thought an invite meant a promise. A man who still believes that sexual energy translates across dimensions.

Some nights end in sex.

Others end with your hand on a dog’s belly, wondering what the hell went wrong.