Mike m. luster

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.)