What the Wine Decided on Our First Date

“You write really well. I wanted to ask whether what you’re telling is real or fantasy.”

That’s how it began, as so many conversations begin behind a screen. A simple sentence, almost harmless, and yet it opens a door. Then usually comes the classic: “So, shall we meet for a drink? I’d like to get to know you.” And then, without my even realizing it, the game begins.

The conversation drags on, spreads out, sometimes breaks off and is reborn days later as if nothing had happened. Only a few make it through the filter: those capable of sensing something different, something that isn’t shown or written, but is felt between the lines.

Everyone gives compliments. Some from the soul, others from sex. In the end, everyone wants a piece of me. Not my body, necessarily, but that reflection they think they see and that stirs their desire or their curiosity. Every message carries its own tone, its own intention, a barely disguised promise.

I’ve always wondered what truly brings people together. In real life I know it well: the look, the gesture, the energy. But here, in this digital world where there are no distances, where everything is said and nothing is touched, the rules change. Everything gets more complicated or, perhaps, everything becomes easier. Even courtship.

The lines blur. What’s real and what’s imagined intertwine with an almost dangerous naturalness. Words replace hands, emojis replace looks. And still we feel, or we believe we feel. Maybe today is one of those days when I understand there are no limits, and that, precisely that, is what makes it so fascinating.

That’s why I feel like telling this story from the nakedness of my room. A new confession. A bedroom confession, of sweat, saliva, and fire.

***

Marina and Adrián had met almost by chance. A comment on a post, a witty reply, and then another. He wrote to her with a brief, almost careless message, but with a calm that threw her off. He wasn’t trying to impress her, just to talk. And that, in a place full of noise, was enough to spark Marina’s curiosity.

What began as a light exchange gradually turned into longer and more honest conversations. At first they talked about simple things—music, films, anecdotes from the day—but little by little they let their guard down. They told each other the things they usually never told anyone: disappointments, fears, desires they had kept hidden for years.

From then on, their nights began to fill with words. Promises written without meaning to, confessions that came out with racing pulses, silences heavier than any sentence. For weeks they sought each other without quite seeking each other, with a tension neither of them wanted to name.

Marina caught herself smiling at her phone, replaying every message, imagining the tone of voice with which he must have said it. Sometimes she felt Adrián knew her better than he should, as if he had learned to read her in the spaces between her words. And in a way, that was true.

Desire grew slow and steady. They didn’t need to talk about it: the pauses, the half-written phrases, that complicity built when two people recognize each other without really knowing how, were enough. When they finally talked about meeting, neither of them pretended to be indifferent. They wanted to see whether the connection could survive real air, skin, movement.

To keep themselves from being carried away by the pressure, Adrián suggested a game, a code.

—If we order beer —he said— it means it was a pleasure to meet you, but that’s where it ends.

—Okay —Marina replied, laughing—. And if we order wine?

—Then we keep going. We stay, no rush.

—And a cocktail?

—That’ll be up to the night.

The deal was made. Simple, clear, and loaded with everything they didn’t say.

***

Adrián arrived at the bar first. It was small, with warm lights and the smell of wood. He chose a table by the window, more out of habit than strategy. He was idly toying with the rim of his water glass when she came in.

Marina was wearing a light coat and her hair down. She wasn’t exactly like her photos: she was more alive, more true, more real. He recognized her before she looked at him, and when she did, he felt a strange mix of nerves, anticipation, and foregone desire.

They greeted each other with a brief, awkward hug, the kind of gesture people give when they’re trying to hide how moved they are. The waiter appeared right away.

—What can I get you?

Adrián looked at her. She held the menu for a second and then said:

—Wine.

—For me too —he replied.

The silence that followed was almost a shared sigh. They toasted without looking away from each other.

—So… wine —he said.

—Wine —she repeated with a smile—. The night is long.

The first sip broke the tension. They talked about small things: books, trips, silly nonsense. But every word was charged with electricity, with promise. Sometimes they laughed for no reason; other times they fell silent longer than necessary.

When their glasses were empty, Marina gestured to the waiter.

—Can you bring the menu so we can have a little something to nibble on?

Adrián watched her, amused.

—So the wine wasn’t just curiosity.

—Let’s say I was hungry for conversation —she replied.

They ordered something light, unhurried. The place gradually fell quiet around them, and every pause between them seemed to have its own echo. Their looks began to linger longer. Their gestures became more intimate.

Halfway through dinner, Adrián leaned slightly over the table.

—I can’t stop looking at you —he said, almost in a whisper.

Marina lowered her gaze, but didn’t let go of her smile.

—Then look at me properly.

The line floated between them like a soft provocation. When the waiter came back, Adrián asked for the check. Outside, the night was waiting for them with a warm breeze, the kind that doesn’t invite goodbyes.

***

They walked aimlessly, speaking little. The silence was already saying everything that needed saying.

—I’ve got a bottle at my place —he said as they passed a taxi—. We could open it and keep talking.

Marina looked at him without answering right away. Then she nodded.

Adrián’s apartment was simple, with warm light and music playing from somewhere in the room, the result of having left it on before he went out. Marina stopped in front of the bookshelf, looking at the books.

—You have too many —she said—. Either you read a lot, or you find it hard to let go.

—Both —he replied, coming closer slowly.

There was a moment when the distance between them stopped mattering. He raised his hand and rested it gently on her waist, just the lightest touch. Marina didn’t move. The air grew thick and both their breathing filled the silence.

There was something inevitable about that approach, something that had to do not only with desire but with recognition: the premonition that, from that point on, nothing would ever be the same. Adrián’s hand slid beneath the fabric. Marina drew a deep breath, not sure whether what she felt was calm or vertigo.

The bottle was still untouched on the table when she took his hand and guided him to the sofa. Adrián sat down and looked at her as if he wanted to memorize her, and that look was enough to say what neither of them dared put into words.

Marina took advantage of the music in the background and began to dance, soft and suggestive, just for him. She was nervous, but she felt that at last she could let herself go, be herself without filters, without limits. As she swayed, she began to strip off her clothes without ever taking her eyes off him. He could only watch her, his arousal growing by the second.

When she was completely naked, fully exposed before him, she felt powerful, pleased with herself. Adrián could no longer exercise any self-control. He ran his hands and lips over her, slowly at first, urgently after. It was happening in the living room of his home, exactly as he had imagined so many times.

He got up from the sofa and held her from behind. He wanted to feel her close, breathe her in slowly, make her his in every way he had dreamed of.

The ones in which every one of the perversions they had shared in writing would finally become reality.

He whispered in her ear if he could give free rein to his imagination. She nodded between sighs, his hands tangled in her body. Her breasts rose and fell with each breath, her nipples hardening at the touch of his fingers, and every caress made her tremble in his arms.

—I brought you a gift —Marina confessed, coyly—. Something we talked about.

Adrián looked at her, curious. She reached into her bag and handed him a small box. He unwrapped it unhurriedly, and when he saw the brand he knew immediately what it was. They had talked many times about games and toys, part of those shared confessions that had turned them both on so much at a distance.

Marina had decided that night would be, for her, a test to pass. She knew Adrián’s tastes and wanted to make them real. Maybe with someone else she wouldn’t even have considered it, but here, with him, she felt she could let herself be handled and enjoy herself without reservation, without limits.

Adrián took the gift and washed it calmly. Then he went to get the lubricant he kept in the bedroom drawer and came back to where she was waiting for him. He had told her how much he enjoyed drawing out pleasure, stretching the wait until it became unbearable. Marina watched him expectantly, her pulse racing, anticipating every gesture.

—Trust me —he told her, brushing her back with his fingertips—. We’ll go slow.

—I don’t want you to go slow —she replied, biting her lip—. I want there to be nothing left untried.

There were no promises or conclusions. Only one certainty: something had opened between them, and the rest of the night—and perhaps something more—would depend on what they chose to do with all that had existed only on their screens for weeks.

To be continued…