Lying Is My Love Language

‘So, do you come here often?’

The man sitting across from me tilts back his bottle of Stone & Wood, gaze sweeping lazily down my body like I’m a daily special he might order twice. I resist the urge to roll my eyes – barely – and answer with a smile that feels like a performance, which, to be fair, it is. This bar, Brookie’s, is five minutes away from my place and the food is almost worth pretending to be interested in someone’s job in crypto. Jodie, the waitress behind the bar, knows my order by heart. Guac to start, kingfish ceviche, a side of fries because I refuse to apologise for carbs, and a lychee martini – or two, depending on how bleak the date is.

‘Not really,’ I say with a nonchalant shrug. ‘I’m more of a bookworm. I don’t get out much.’

Lie number one.

He nods with a practised smile, all straight teeth and tousled brown hair like he just rolled out of a Ralph Lauren ad and into my dating app. He leans in, biting his lower lip like the tension between us is already building. It’s not his first time running this game. Sadly, it’s not mine either. We’re two turds circling the same toilet bowl, waiting to be flushed. Romantic, I know.

‘I saw on your profile that you’re into Charles Dickens,’ he says, eyes sparkling with hope. ‘Got a favourite?’

‘Great Expectations,’ I reply smoothly. ‘I really see parts of myself in Pip.’

Lie number two. I haven’t read a single Dickens novel in my life, unless a ChatGPT summary counts.

He chuckles, popping a guac-loaded chip into his mouth. ‘Oh yeah? Who’s got you lovesick?’

I swallow a bite of ceviche. ‘Not lovesick. Just trying to simplify my life.’

He nods like we’ve uncovered a mutual truth. ‘Me too.’

No, we’re not the same. You wear a signet ring, and your bio included the phrase ‘sapiosexual’. But I’m here, aren’t I?

He leans closer, his hand brushing my arm. ‘It’s as if we’re living in a simulation where social capital matters more than actual identity.’

His fingers graze mine on the stem of my glass, and I blink slowly, resisting the urge to scream into the void.

‘Exactly,’ I say without hesitating. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’

I couldn’t care less.

‘Wanna get out of here?’ he asks, eyes flicking to the tiny puddle at the bottom of my martini glass.

I smile, knowing this was the goal all along. ‘Sure.’

I down the rest of my drink in one go. Sweet, syrupy and expensive enough to blur the red flags.

Then comes the ritual: the bill dance. I reach for my wallet, but he intercepts casually. ‘Please. I’ve got this.’

I pause for exactly three seconds – long enough to telegraph mild discomfort, but not long enough to actually protest.

He squeezes my arm like he’s reading from a script. ‘How about I get the bill and you order the Uber?’

‘Deal,’ I say, tucking my wallet away like a good little feminist who’s totally fine letting patriarchy pick up the tab if it comes with a side of ceviche.

He heads towards the bar. Jodie – tiny, tattooed and always smelling faintly of coconut sunscreen – slides in to clear our plates.

‘He’s yummy,’ she says under her breath, smirking.

‘Better than the last one,’ I murmur, watching him lean casually against the counter, all broad shoulders and bedroom eyes.

‘The finance guy?’ she asks.

I nod.

‘Yeah, he was rude. This one looks like he at least fake-listens.’

Jodie knows all my dates because I bring them here. Every single one. Some people would be embarrassed. I am not one of those people. Not when it’s happy hour and I’m one smile away from a free dinner. Fish gotta swim, girl’s gotta eat.

‘I’ll let you know next week,’ I say, grabbing my bag.

He turns as I reach him, his eyes doing another quick scan of my short red dress – what little of it there is.

‘Ready?’ I ask.

He smiles, gesturing towards the door like a gentleman who maybe googled how to be one on the way over. ‘After you.’ His hand lands gently on the small of my back as we step outside.

It’s only called loneliness if it comes from the Loneliness region of France. Otherwise, it’s sparkling independence. That’s what I tell myself as his hand slides into my hair and our mouths fuse like a French porno where he’s got the last baguette and I’ve got the final wheel of . . . camembert?

‘Where’s your bedroom?’ he murmurs, lips grazing mine.

We’re standing in the world’s narrowest hallway, which happens to be the grand entryway to my one-bedroom apartment. My best friend Abbey calls it a shoebox. She’s not wrong. But it’s a shoebox in Clovelly, which means it costs more than a small car and has the floor space of one. I call it broké – a chic way of saying I’m broke in a bougie part of the city. My other best friend, Ella, calls me Bubbles because I have champagne taste on a beer budget. What can I say? We all have our cross to bear. 

I open the door, and we stumble into the bedroom – ‘bedroom’ being a generous term for the rectangular corner that houses my mattress, a single nightstand and a small rack of clothes. My dress and his shirt come off fast. He’s halfway out of his jeans when I pause, breathless.

‘Do you have protection?’

He does the rehearsal. You know the one: fake pat-down, overly hopeful expression, checking non-existent pockets like a magician who misplaced his deck of cards. ‘Shit,’ he says, as if he’s surprised. ‘I thought I had one.’

Uh-huh. I catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth. It’s always the mouth, that micro second of guilt right before the lie comes out. 

I’ve seen this before – once, twice, seventeen times. The first time, I was trying to be the Cool Girl and let it slide. Pun absolutely not intended. The plus side? Skipping the admin of watching him fumble with a condom. The downside? Three minutes of mediocre thrusting followed by a case of chlamydia and a deep, haunting regret.

So, no, we are not doing that again.

I reach towards my nightstand, pull open the drawer and retrieve a little silver packet as though it’s a mic drop.

‘Oh,’ he says.

Yeah. Oh.

Now I feel like a hussy, because he’s seen the whole damn box. But if men actually brought their own, I wouldn’t have to stockpile. Am I right? Or am I right?

Once he’s on his back and I’ve confirmed we won’t be needing a paternity test in nine months, I climb over him, lips tracing his neck.

His hands settle on my thighs and then squeeze my arse. He’s hard. He lifts his hips in search of friction and I’m more than happy to oblige, one hand reaching down to guide him in—

‘Hey,’ he says, voice suddenly sheepish. ‘This might sound weird but . . . would you tie me up?’

I pause. Do I laugh? Say yes? Join a nunnery and finally fulfil my lifelong dream of becoming Julie Andrews singing ‘Do-Re-Mi’? All three responses feel equally valid.

But here’s the thing: when you’ve survived a week of performance reviews and you’re straddling a solid nine with biceps carved by the gods, your brain short circuits and your people-pleaser instinct takes the wheel.

‘Sure,’ I say, pretending to be a woman who has definitely done this before and who is not silently panicking about whether rope burns are covered by renters insurance. The reality? I don’t have any kind of BDSM starter pack. No silk ties, no leather cuffs, not even a blindfold – unless you count my sleep mask that smells faintly of lavender and despair. So, I improvise. Two pairs of Lululemon tights, one pant leg knotted around his wrist, the other tied to the bed frame. Exercise meets Fifty Shades of Budget.

He seems satisfied. So am I – for about twelve seconds. What I really want is something simple. Something perfectly timed and mutually satisfying. Something, dare I say, missionary.

He pulls at the tights, testing their limits. ‘Come here,’ he whispers.

I do, trailing kisses along his jawline, hoping to reignite something that vaguely resembles my libido. He moans, deep and guttural, and I shiver, repositioning myself over him. I’m not dripping wet, but I’m not about to quit before we get to the final boss. I trail my hands over my body, fingers teasing my nipples, then drifting down to my clit. His eyes are locked on my hands like they hold the key to the lost city of Atlantis. He bucks his hips. I start to move on top of him – slow, grinding circles.

‘Fuck,’ he says, his voice strained, hands tugging helplessly at the activewear restraints.

I lean in, hoping he’ll take one of my nipples into his mouth. He does – technically – but it’s wet and disorganised, as if he’s taste-testing a mystery sauce.

I close my eyes, focus on the pressure, fingers working overtime. The tension within me starts to build, coiling, stretching – almost there, almost—

Thwack.

A sharp sting cracks across my face. I jerk sideways, hand flying to my cheek. One of the tights has snapped loose and, in its final act of betrayal, slapped me across the face, leaving my eyes watering.

‘Oh fuck!’ Mr Would-You-Tie-Me-Up sits up, his face torn in anguish as he wrestles with the fact that he’s climaxing while I’m frozen, having been assaulted by my own activewear. When his breaths even out, he tries to pull my hand away from my face. ‘Hey? Are you okay?’  He tries to swallow a laugh, but it leaks out anyway, bubbling like champagne gone flat.

I lower my hand and try to blink back the stray tears, mulling over my life choices.