Mental Foreplay: The games we play

silent banter

I went on a date last night. Came home wired. Eyes wide, brain buzzing. You know that post-date insomniac spiral?
Yeah, writing is the only way to shut it up.

Technically, this was Date #2.
Date #1 was more of a “vibe check.” The let’s see if this man is human, interesting, and not a walking red flag with a charming smile kind of thing.
Surprisingly, he passed. Funny, grounded, fluent in banter. A miracle.

Thank God he’s not on Substack, because I’d never post this if he were.(Or maybe I would. Hi.)

Anyway, last night was a date. I know this because I gave a damn what I looked like.
I did the whole subtle-flex thing: glam without trying too hard. Bougie boho chic, because I live in San Miguel, Mexico now, where everyone looks like they just floated out of a curated adobe Pinterest board.

Once upon a time in L.A., I might’ve shown up in silky onesie couture with a pair of Valentinos and three layers of unresolved trauma. Growth.

He wore a linen shirt, Oaxacan leather belt, and perfectly frayed jeans. Not too curated. Confident with swagger.
The kind of outfit that says, Yeah, I read. But also, I f**.*

But I’m not here to report on his outfit—or the food—or the drinks.
Let’s talk about the look.

We were deep in conversation, I was mid-ramble about something I’m sure was profound-slash-overshared- and I caught him staring. Not in the “your mascara is smudged” kind of way. In the I’m undressing your entire essence with my mind and maybe also your outfit kind of way.

His gaze hit me like a rogue wave.
Suddenly, the room went quiet, and I was in his head, or wanted to be.
Wanted to curl up on his cerebral couch, flip the remote through the channels of his thoughts.
What are you thinking?
Because whatever it was, it wasn’t safe.

Meanwhile, I kept eating our shared chocolate cake—slowly. Not seductively.
Just... slowly. It was rich. Decadent. Dangerous.

And somewhere between the cake and the conversation, I realized:
this is foreplay.
But not the physical kind—the delicious, maddening, brain-first kind.The best kind.

Later, in my bed (alone, thank you), I imagined what our conversation could have been like, if we could both drop the filter, un-muzzle the brain, and say the real things. Maybe it would have gone like:

Me: I wonder if I have chocolate all over my mouth.
Him: I wonder what she looks like under that shawl thing. Maybe if I just… glance. Quick. Not creepy. Strategic.

Me: His lips look soft. Wonder if he knows how to use them.
Him: I want to pull her hair back. See what she does.

Me: If he can kiss, he can probably do everything else right.
Him: I wonder if she can cook. I’m tired of eating out. Well… not figuratively.

Me: If he can dance, we’re in trouble.
Him: She’s eating that cake so slow. Is that on purpose? Jesus.

Me: Reel it in, girl. Last time you had sex, it turned into a five-year one-night stand with someone you ended up loathing.

Him: I should get the check. Maybe she’ll come back with me.
Me: Why is he getting the check already? Am I boring him? Shit.

—
He flags down the waiter who brings the check.
I offer to pay, habit.
He shakes his head, handing over his card. A small gesture. But telling.

Me: Good. He didn’t want to split it. Maybe he likes me.
Him: Good. She offered. She passed that test.

Me: I want to finish the cake, but that’s like a thousand calories. And I can’t have sex until I lose five pounds.
Him: I need breath mints. A stellar kiss could tip the scales.

Me: God, I hope he just kisses me. That’s it. I wore granny panties. This isn’t happening tonight.

---

And that, my friends, is my current state of affairs.

Mental foreplay: where nothing happens, yet everything does.

So, what's playing in your head?

🖤 Love and spirals
Cyn the Bougie Hippie

☕ Buy me a latte for an E‑book of my memoir Escape to Mexico.