Just a Girls' Night, Babe
Posted: Tue Jun 17, 2025 8:10 am
Here young couple.
She is the kind of girl who blushed at dirty jokes—the one who crossed her legs when the conversation got too real. I met her at a coffee shop, where she was pretending to read Jane Austen but kept sneaking glances at me over the rim of her chai latte. She was very shy but I bought her first thong, Six months in, she drunkenly confessed she’d masturbated in a dressing room once, terrified someone would hear.
Couple of "incidents" happened last 2 months:
She "accidentally" brushed his fingers when the bartender handed her a drink then held eye contact a second too long. She swore she’d never been to a strip club… until her best friend slipped up and mentioned their girls’ trip to Vegas. Some college fuckboy from her past slid in with a "u still taste like peppermint?" and she didn’t delete it.
Her good girl act is paper-thin
Last Thursday, She promised it would be low-key—just her, her best friend Sophie, and a couple of work girls hitting a lounge in Bronx for cocktails. "No guys, no drama, just us!" she said, kissing me before slipping out in that tight little black dress I didn’t even know she owned.
Around 11 PM, Sophie’s Instagram story popped up, not the cozy wine bar they’d mentioned, but a dimly lit spot deep in Bronx . The kind of place where the bouncers don’t card because they’re too busy patting down weapons.
I texted her, Uh… since when this is a ‘girls’ night’ spot? Her reply took 20 minutes. Sophie’s friend knows the DJ! It’s fine, baby, relax" . An hour later, Sophie posted a blurry group selfie. And there, just behind my girlfriend’s shoulder, a wall of muscle, ink guy. I zoomed in. His hand was resting on the booth behind her, fingers lingering the bare skin of her shoulder. Not touching. But not not touching.
She came home at 2 AM, smelling like sweat, vodka, and someone’s cologne—something dark and expensive that sure as hell wasn’t hers. I asked if she had fun. She said Sophie got drunk and she had fun dancing. I asked who was this guy - some friend of the DJ. He bought them a round.
I reached into her clutch, pulled out her phone. Lock screen lit up with a text notification:
D: U taste like trouble, shorty. When u sneakin’ back out?
She swore nothing happened. And technically? She was right
Him, 1:47 AM: "U ain’t tell ur man u let me feel on u?"
Her, 1:49 AM: "I didn’t let you. U just did."
Him, 1:51 AM: "U pushed back into it tho
Her, 1:53 AM: "…shut up."
She hadn’t deleted his number.
She is the kind of girl who blushed at dirty jokes—the one who crossed her legs when the conversation got too real. I met her at a coffee shop, where she was pretending to read Jane Austen but kept sneaking glances at me over the rim of her chai latte. She was very shy but I bought her first thong, Six months in, she drunkenly confessed she’d masturbated in a dressing room once, terrified someone would hear.
Couple of "incidents" happened last 2 months:
She "accidentally" brushed his fingers when the bartender handed her a drink then held eye contact a second too long. She swore she’d never been to a strip club… until her best friend slipped up and mentioned their girls’ trip to Vegas. Some college fuckboy from her past slid in with a "u still taste like peppermint?" and she didn’t delete it.
Her good girl act is paper-thin
Last Thursday, She promised it would be low-key—just her, her best friend Sophie, and a couple of work girls hitting a lounge in Bronx for cocktails. "No guys, no drama, just us!" she said, kissing me before slipping out in that tight little black dress I didn’t even know she owned.
Around 11 PM, Sophie’s Instagram story popped up, not the cozy wine bar they’d mentioned, but a dimly lit spot deep in Bronx . The kind of place where the bouncers don’t card because they’re too busy patting down weapons.
I texted her, Uh… since when this is a ‘girls’ night’ spot? Her reply took 20 minutes. Sophie’s friend knows the DJ! It’s fine, baby, relax" . An hour later, Sophie posted a blurry group selfie. And there, just behind my girlfriend’s shoulder, a wall of muscle, ink guy. I zoomed in. His hand was resting on the booth behind her, fingers lingering the bare skin of her shoulder. Not touching. But not not touching.
She came home at 2 AM, smelling like sweat, vodka, and someone’s cologne—something dark and expensive that sure as hell wasn’t hers. I asked if she had fun. She said Sophie got drunk and she had fun dancing. I asked who was this guy - some friend of the DJ. He bought them a round.
I reached into her clutch, pulled out her phone. Lock screen lit up with a text notification:
D: U taste like trouble, shorty. When u sneakin’ back out?
She swore nothing happened. And technically? She was right
Him, 1:47 AM: "U ain’t tell ur man u let me feel on u?"
Her, 1:49 AM: "I didn’t let you. U just did."
Him, 1:51 AM: "U pushed back into it tho
Her, 1:53 AM: "…shut up."
She hadn’t deleted his number.