Mike m. luster

Without further delay, I drove into the motel. The attendant signaled me toward a vacant garage. I didn’t look at Lani, wondering if she would protest or refuse to get out, but she just sat there in a heavy, stony silence.

I got out first, and after a long moment, she followed. “It’s going to be alright, Lani,” I told her, trying to bridge the gap.

She shot me a sharp, skeptical look. “Yeah, right.”

We walked up to the room. The atmosphere was cold, so I tried to lighten the mood by turning on the TV. A Tagalog comedy show was on, and I noticed a faint smile touch her lips as she watched. I set out the food. “Let’s eat,” I said.

She didn’t reply at first, focused on the screen, but then her phone rang. I listened closely as she answered. It was her boyfriend. After a brief, tense conversation, she hung up and looked at me with urgency.

“Mike, I need to go. My boyfriend is looking for me; he wants to head to the mall. I’m really sorry. Maybe another time.”

I felt a surge of disappointment. My plans for a long, quiet afternoon had evaporated in an instant. I stayed quiet, finishing my meal while my mind raced. I told myself to be patient—that building real trust takes time, and today just wasn’t the day.

“Eat something first, Lani,” I said, dialing room service to settle the bill.

As she hurried through her meal, I tried to keep the conversation going. “Lani, I’m sorry if I complicated your day.”

“It’s okay, Mike,” she replied, her guard finally dropping a little.

“Can I ask you something? You’ve been with him for two years… I assume you two are very close? That you’ve shared… everything?”

She let out a sudden, sweet laugh. The tension that had filled the room since we arrived finally seemed to vanish. I had managed to make her feel at ease again, even in this awkward setting.

“What do you mean by that?” she asked, still giggling.

“You know… if you’ve truly made love.”

She looked down, shyly sliding her hand through her hair. “Yes,” she whispered.

We locked eyes for a moment. The air in the room felt thick and warm. I reached out and gently touched her hand, feeling the heat in her skin. But before the moment could go any further, a knock at the door interrupted us. The bill had arrived.

I drove her to her destination, my mind still reeling from the “what-ifs.” As I watched her walk away—striking in her black shorts and fitted top—I knew I couldn’t just go back to the office with this much restless energy. I needed to clear my head.

I found myself driving down A.S. Fortuna street until I saw another spa. I went inside, paid for a standard massage, and was led to a quiet, dimly lit room on the second floor.

The therapist who arrived was professional but had a different energy than Lani. As the session progressed, the atmosphere became more relaxed and conversational. I found myself opening up about the stress of my day. By the end of the hour, I felt a sense of relief—a physical and mental decompression that I desperately needed after the emotional rollercoaster with Lani.

I left the spa feeling a bit embarrassed by how much I had let my impulses drive my day, but I was finally calm. I knew the journey with Lani was going to be a long one, and I had to learn to balance my desires with the reality of the complicated life she lived.

Early one morning, Lani and I were texting again.

“Hi, Lani! Belated Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas, Mike.”

“How was your holiday? Did you have to work?”

“The spa was closed,” she replied. “I spent the day at home, taking care of my father.”

“I’d still love to treat you to that meal,” I suggested, my heart racing a bit. “Can we meet today?”

We agreed to meet at a gas station near her workplace at 10:00 AM so she could be back in time to help her mother with chores. I arrived ten minutes early, sitting in my car, a mixture of excitement and nervous energy pulsing through me.

Nearly an hour passed before I saw her. Even from a distance, she was captivating. With her long hair catching the light as she walked gracefully toward the car, I couldn’t help but think how striking she was.

“Hi, Lani! Get in,” I said as she approached. “You look beautiful today.”

“Hahaha! Have you been waiting long?” she asked, looking a bit flustered. “I’m so sorry. My mom had a last-minute errand for me. I wanted to text you, but I was rushing—and honestly, I’m a bit paranoid. I actually had my previous phone snatched while I was on a jeepney recently.”

“That’s awful,” I said, concerned. “You have to be so careful this time of year. There are people looking for any opportunity.”

“I know,” she sighed. “Anyway, where are we going to eat, Mike?”

I felt a pang of nerves as I pulled out of the station. “Let’s just grab something from a drive-thru,” I said.

“Are we eating in the car?” she asked with a playful, knowing look. “Is it because you’re worried someone might see you? Worried your wife will find out?”

I forced a laugh. “You caught me. It’s better to keep things low-key.”

After we picked up our food, I began driving toward a quieter part of town. When she noticed the road leading toward a well-known local inn, her expression changed instantly. Her voice took on a sharp tone of concern.

“Mike! Where are we going?”

“Lani, listen,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm and gentle. “It’s hard to eat and really talk in the car. I thought if we got a private room, we could actually sit down and have a good conversation without worrying about who is looking through the windows.”

“You’re something else, Mike,” she said, her disappointment evident. “I thought we were just going to eat. I agreed to come with you because you seemed like a kind person. I don’t want to betray my boyfriend. Even if things are rocky with him, it doesn’t mean I should just go anywhere with any guy.”

A wave of guilt hit me. Seeing her stand up for her principles made me realize how much I was risking her trust.

“Lani, I promise, we are just going to eat,” I said softly, trying to reassure her. “I give you my word. I just want some quiet time to get to know you.”

She fell silent, staring out the window. She didn’t ask me to turn around, but the look of disappointment on her face spoke louder than any words could.

It was Christmas Eve, and all I could think about was Lani. Even as I sat with my three children, her memory felt like a silhouette standing between us. When my wife spoke to me, I found myself staring blankly at the wall, my mind miles away.

Our home was a whirlwind of activity. Relatives were coming for lunch, gifts were being wrapped, and the kitchen was a hive of preparation for Nochebuena.

I sat outside, lost in a daydream. I wondered what Lani was doing at that exact moment. Was she still at the spa, working the final hours of the holiday shift? Was she at home, helping her mother care for her father? Or was she out with her boyfriend, enjoying the holiday in a way I wished she was with me?

My wife’s voice suddenly cut through my thoughts, sharp and upset. “Hey! What are you doing out here? You haven’t helped with anything all morning!”

I blinked, trying to snap back to reality. “Sorry, hon,” I said reflexively.

“Sorry? What is wrong with you?” she countered. “You’ve been in a trance all week. Are you daydreaming about the past? Where is your head?”

The guilt of my secret thoughts turned into a sudden, defensive anger. “Lower your voice,” I snapped, standing up. “It’s Christmas. Why are you yelling?”

“Because you’re physically here, but you’re not present!” she cried out.

The pressure of the last few days—the obsession with Lani, the secrecy, the exhaustion at work—all came to a boiling point. I grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the house, my voice low and shaking with frustration. “I said lower your voice! Can’t I have a moment of peace? Work has been a pressure cooker, and I come home to more nagging!”

“Stop it! You’re being too rough!” she resisted, her eyes wide with shock.

Our children started to cry, their voices rising in a panicked wail. “Dad! Mom! What’s happening?”

“Go to your room! Now!” I commanded, my adrenaline red-lining. They scrambled away, terrified by the rare sight of my temper.

I led my wife upstairs to our room, the air thick with years of unspoken tension and my own internal conflict. We were both breathing hard, the argument reaching a fever pitch. In the heat of that chaotic, angry moment, the friction between us turned into a desperate, volatile kind of energy.

It wasn’t a moment of tenderness; it was a collision of frustration and suppressed emotion. I pulled her close, the anger and the longing for someone else blurring together into a rushed, intense encounter. In the dark of our room, I closed my eyes tight. As the world outside continued with the sounds of Christmas carols and family laughter, I lost myself in a frantic, silent fantasy, using the intensity of the moment to escape the reality of my own guilt.

When it was over, I was drenched in sweat, the silence of the room feeling heavier than the shouting had been. It was a wild, unexpected release—a dangerously exciting surge of adrenaline that left me feeling more confused than ever.

Several days passed without a word from her. I had sent a few texts just asking how she was doing and if she might be free to grab a meal on her day off, but the silence was discouraging. Then, late one night, my phone finally buzzed.

“Hi, sir! Sorry for the late reply. I just managed to get some load for my phone.”

I felt a rush of relief. I immediately typed back, “No worries! I’m just glad you replied. How are you, Lani?”

“I’m okay, sir. And you?”

“I’m good. By the way, you can just call me Mike, okay?”

“Okay, Mike.”

We texted back and forth for a bit. I found out her day off was coming up this Tuesday. I asked if she could meet me around 10 PM, and she told me she’d have to see. Eager to hear her voice, I asked if I could call her. She agreed.

When she picked up on the first ring, her voice was just as soft and sweet as I remembered. We laughed a little about her accidentally calling me “sir” again, but then the conversation turned a bit more serious.

“Lani, can I ask you something personal?” I hesitated. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Yes, I do,” she admitted.

“Is he working tonight?”

“Yes, he works at a fast-food restaurant. But honestly, Mike, things are difficult. I have a feeling he’s seeing someone else. He’s always claiming he has to work overtime.”

“Maybe it’s just the holiday rush?” I offered, trying to be fair. “Christmas is coming, after all.”

“Maybe,” she sighed. “But even when we are together, his attention is always elsewhere. He looks at every other girl that passes by. When I call him out on it, he just says it’s ‘normal’ for men to appreciate beauty. It’s frustrating.”

She went on to tell me how they met—he was a dancer in a group that performed at their local fiesta. She admitted she was initially won over by his charm and good looks, but the reality of the relationship had become a burden.

“What’s the use of being handsome if he can’t be trusted?” she asked, her voice sounding tired. “I’ve caught him cheating several times. He always asks for forgiveness, and I feel sorry for him, but I don’t know how much more I can tolerate.”

“That’s a lot to carry, Lani,” I said softly. “I’d really like to treat you to a meal on Tuesday. If you need someone to just listen, I’m here.”

“Text me Tuesday morning, Mike. I usually spend my mornings taking care of my father, so I’ll know my schedule better then.”

“I will. And thank you for talking to me.”

“It’s okay. I have to go now; a customer just requested me,” she said, her voice trailing off. “I just hope it’s a respectful one. It’s so draining having to constantly fend off people who don’t respect boundaries.”

“Take care of yourself, Lani. I’ll text you soon.”

I tried to tell myself that Lani was just another therapist who had turned me down, but I couldn’t get her out of my head. Her face, the way she carried herself, and the innocence in her voice dominated my thoughts all night. I couldn’t sleep. The more I tried to push the memory of her away, the more persistent it became. It felt as though she were standing right there in the room with me.

The following day at work, I was a mess. I couldn’t concentrate on a single task. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her smile. I was so distracted that my coworkers started to notice my restless energy. I felt like a teenager with a crush, but it was deeper than that—it was an intense, magnetic pull I couldn’t explain.

I glanced at my watch. It was finally my lunch break. I told myself, “I have to see her again. If she’s not there, I’ll take it as a sign to move on. But if she is… then maybe fate has something in store for us.”

I drove across the city of Cebu with a sense of urgency I hadn’t felt in years. I didn’t have a plan; I just knew I had to see her.

When I arrived at the spa, I immediately asked for her. The receptionist told me she was currently with a client. I waited for nearly an hour, pacing the lobby, until it was finally my turn. When she came out to greet me, a wave of genuine joy washed over me. Just her presence felt like a “fountain of youth.”

“Hi, Lani! How are you?” I asked, my voice filled with enthusiasm.

She looked surprised. “You came back, sir!”

“I came back for you,” I whispered, keeping my voice low so the receptionist wouldn’t overhear.

Once we were in the privacy of the massage room, I immediately tried to clear the air. “Lani, I’m so sorry again about yesterday. I really didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

She softened. “Forget about that, sir. Honestly, I’ve had customers who were much worse. One man the other day wouldn’t take no for an answer when asking for… inappropriate things. He even offered a lot of money, but I refused.”

“And he kept pushing?” I asked, feeling a protective spark.

“I just walked out,” she said firmly. “I didn’t finish the session.”

I realized then how much she was dealing with. “Lani, I have so many questions. How old are you? Where did you work before this?”

“I’m nineteen,” she replied. “This is my first job. I had to stop going to college because my father had a stroke. My mother worked here as a therapist too, and she’s the one who got me the job so we could pay the bills.”

My heart sank. She wasn’t just a “pretty girl”; she was a daughter carrying the weight of her family on her shoulders.

“With your beauty, I’m sure you have a lot of regular customers,” I said quietly.

“Yes,” she sighed, “but it’s becoming too much. I’m tired of constantly having to defend myself. I’ve actually applied for a job as a sales lady at the mall. I’m just trying to save up enough money for all the pre-employment requirements.”

Without thinking, I pulled out 500 pesos. “Here, Lani. Please take this. It’s not for a massage—think of it as a contribution to your new job requirements.”

“Sir, we haven’t even started,” she protested.

“It’s okay. I actually have to get back to work anyway. But… can I ask for your number?”

She hesitated for a second, then took her phone and showed me her number. “Sir, please don’t share this with anyone.”

“You can trust me,” I promised.

Before I left, I leaned in and gently kissed her forehead, resting my hands on her shoulders for a brief moment. She seemed caught off guard, and for a few seconds, we just looked at each other. I saw a profound sadness in her eyes, a look that told me there was so much more she wanted to say.

“I have to go, Lani. I hope we can meet again soon. Is that okay?”

She gave me that same shy, half-smile, saying everything without uttering a single word.

It was December of 2017.

I still vividly remember returning to this particular spa because their therapists are undeniably skilled at acupressure. I needed the relief; my office is constantly chilled by air conditioning that never seems to hit the right balance, leaving my back and shoulders in knots.

At that point, I had almost given up on my “mission.” For a long time, I’d been searching for a therapist who wasn’t just skilled, but someone I could truly connect with—a permanent personal therapist who might become something more. I was trying to be realistic. In my experience, it felt like many people in the industry were only focused on the financial gain, moving from one client to the next like a business transaction. I didn’t blame them; everyone is struggling to pay bills and support loved ones in this world. I actually respected their hustle, but it made finding a genuine connection feel impossible.

When I entered the spa, I paid the usual 350 for an hour of Swedish massage. While waiting, I flipped through a magazine. Then, she walked in, carrying a towel and a pitcher of water. My heart skipped a beat. She was striking—naturally beautiful with a grace that seemed out of place.

After she washed my feet, she said softly, “Sir, just follow me to your room.”

Her voice sounded incredibly innocent. I was struck by her natural kayumanggi beauty—long, straight black hair that complemented her slender frame. As I followed her, I thought to myself: In a decade of visiting different spas in Cebu, I’ve never seen anyone like her. I felt a sudden, urgent need to make a good impression. I didn’t want to let this chance pass me by.

Once inside the room, I prepared for the massage, but I felt a wave of nervous energy. I told myself to slow down. I wanted to be a gentleman. I didn’t want her to think I was just another entitled customer. I wanted to captivate her, but my mind was racing with questions: Should I ask for her number? Should I invite her to dinner? What if she says no?

She knocked gently on the door. “Are you ready, sir?”

“I’m ready,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Sir, let’s start with your back,” she said as she entered.

The massage began, and I noticed her hands were shaking slightly. I realized we were both nervous. She was clearly a new recruit. Her technique was conservative and professional, keeping a respectful distance. As she worked, I decided to break the silence.

“Miss, are you new here?”

“Yes, sir. Just a week.”

“Really? What’s your name?”

“Lani.”

“That’s a beautiful name,” I said, offering a warm smile.

She remained professional, asking, “Is the pressure okay, sir?”

“It’s fine. Honestly, it doesn’t matter—you’re doing great.”

In a moment of poor judgment, I reached out to touch her hand as a gesture of appreciation, but she flinched and pulled back. “Sir, please don’t do that.”

I froze, embarrassed. “I… I just meant to be friendly. Is something wrong?”

“Sir, it’s not allowed here,” she said firmly.

“I am so sorry. Truly. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” I stammered.

The rest of the session was silent. I felt a deep pang of regret. I had wanted to impress her, but instead, I had let my eagerness overstep her boundaries. I felt small.

When she finished, she asked, “Water or tea, sir?”

“Just water, thank you. And Lani… I really am sorry about earlier.”

She didn’t say anything, she just nodded and walked out. I sat there for a moment, taking a deep breath. Mike, what are you doing? I scolded myself. You have to learn to lead with respect, not just impulse.

I dressed quickly and prepared a 500-peso tip. It was the only way I knew how to apologize for the awkwardness I’d caused. When I left the room, I found her, discreetly handed her the tip, and lowered my eyes. I couldn’t even bring myself to drink the water; I just needed to head out into the fresh air and think about how to do better next time.

(What you just read is the clean version of The Carnal Man. The explicit version is on Amazon.)