🌶️ Sue’s After-Dark Diaries: The Date Who Skipped the Warm-Up

Reader Intro

Welcome back, darlings, to another entry from Sue’s After-Dark Diaries. Tonight’s tale is all about a man who thought foreplay was optional, a tragic error in Sue’s rulebook. Pour yourself a glass of wine, slip into something sinful, and settle in for Sue’s After-Dark Diaries: The Date Who Skipped the Warm-Up.

Trouble in Red

There are moments in a woman’s life when she knows she’s walking into trouble. But some days, you do your makeup anyway, put on the red dress, and say, “Sod it. Let’s see how bad it gets.”

This was one of those days.

It started in my bedroom, as many of my poor decisions tend to. I’d arranged to meet a man named Liam. He seemed decent, quite fit, flirty, articulate, and he didn’t open with “Hey sexy,” which these days puts him in the top 10% of humanity.

The plan was simple: dinner, drinks, perhaps a cheeky snog if the mood struck. And so, I began the sacred ritual of Getting Ready.

The Knicker Crisis

Now, the red dress. You know the one.

Tight enough to inspire curiosity. Loose enough to suggest you’re still technically moral. It hugs in all the right places, but it also requires support. Namely, what I lovingly refer to as my granny kickers, or, if we’re being posh, my Bridget Jones knickers.

They’re high-waisted, firm-hugging, utterly unsexy… and completely essential for smoothing out any unexpected snack-based curves. Without them, the dress transforms from “Come and get me” to “Not tonight, Josephine.” You get the picture.

So there I was, arse in the air, digging through my knicker drawer like a woman possessed, whispering, “Come on, don’t fail me now,” as I tossed aside lacy scraps and thongs with less material than a napkin.

But what caught my eye, or rather, offended it, was his bare ankles.
No socks.
Just brogues and breeze.

I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he’d just come from a coastal photoshoot? Or maybe his ankles were in some kind of minimalist cult?

“Wow, Sue,” he said, looking me up and down. “You clean up nice.”

“I do my best,” I smiled. “You’re looking very… sockless.”

He laughed. “It’s all about breathability.”

I nodded. “For your ankles?”

Until Liam ordered a vodka soda with lime… and then pulled a sachet of protein powder from his jacket pocket and poured it in.

I blinked.

The waiter blinked.

Even the candle looked confused.

“Sorry,” I said, “are we pre- or post-workout?”

“It’s just part of my routine,” Liam said casually. “Can’t let the macros slip.”

Right. Because nothing says aphrodisiac like gritty whey foam in a martini glass.

He spent the next twenty minutes telling me – unprompted – about his fitness regimen.

The Bombshell

Just as I was about to steer the conversation to something more human – like films, books, or socks – he leaned in, gave me a knowing look and said:

“Quick one. Just to get it out there. I don’t really do foreplay.”

Silence.

I tilted my head.

“You don’t… do foreplay?”

“Nah,” he said, swirling his protein-polluted vodka. “It’s kind of overrated, right? If you’re good at the main event, you don’t need all the extras. You know?”

Oh. My. God.

This man had just compared my clitoris to a salad garnish.

“Interesting philosophy,” I said, delicately placing my fork down. “So you just skip the starters and go straight to the meat?”

“Exactly!” he grinned, like I’d just validated him.

“Well,” I said sweetly, “let’s hope your steak’s not overcooked.”

Keeping It Classy

Now, I’m not a monster. I didn’t storm out. I didn’t throw my wine. (Although I did briefly consider baptising his no-sock feet in Merlot.)

Instead, I leaned back, looked him in the eye, and said:

“Foreplay isn’t optional. It’s the introduction, the mood music, the electricity. It’s like stretching before a workout and if you skip it, you pull something. And darling, you seem like the kind of man who doesn’t want anything pulled.”

To his credit, he didn’t argue. He laughed, slightly sheepishly, and muttered, “You’re funny. And kind of intense.”

I smiled. “Only when provoked.”

The Equal Rights Split

The bill came. He glanced at it, then nudged it towards me and said, “Wanna split?”

Now normally, I’m all for modern equality. I’ll split bills with grace and gusto. But something about being asked to pay for a dinner I spent defending my anatomy and dodging whey fumes rubbed me the wrong way.

Still, I paid. Not because he asked.
But because it meant I got to say, “I bought this experience. I’m claiming it as a tax deduction.”

The Wine That Saved Me

I got home, poured a glass of actual, untainted wine, curled up on the sofa (in a fluffy robe, naturally), and reflected.

My date didn’t end in fireworks, but it did remind me of this:

Foreplay isn’t a favour. It’s a language.
And some men are fluent, while others… well, they barely know the alphabet.

Liam wasn’t evil. He wasn’t cruel. He was simply… uninformed. A man who thought passion came with an express option, like Amazon Prime.

But pleasure isn’t delivered. It’s explored. Slowly. With intention. And ideally… with socks.

💌 Sue’s Final Thoughts

To all the Liams out there:

If you’re skipping foreplay, you’re skipping her.

You’re missing the chance to:

• make her laugh breathlessly,

• melt her with a kiss before anything comes off,

• and leave her wondering why the hell she didn’t meet you sooner.

And to my fellow women, my sensual queens:

If you find yourself facing a protein-shaker Romeo with no interest in your pleasure – remember this:
You are not a warm-up act. You are the bloody headliner

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