Did I Just Have Sex With a Narcissist?

M was a stand-out. From the moment I messaged him on Bumble, it was a lovely, enjoyable, comfortable connection. I enjoyed the attention, as I had been celibate for many years and had not been with anyone since the Big N break up many years ago. It took just that much time to recover, feel OK about myself, and learn to enjoy life (and thrive) post-narcissist. I was finally ready to reach out, to put my heart on the line and open myself up to what could be. It was a little scary but oh-so-exciting!

M was nothing like any other man (but aren’t all lovely nascent relationships like that?). He was handsome, smart, confident, mature, kind, compassionate, a great listener, patient… all the things you want from a potential partner. And he was so good at drawing me in. Not too many compliments. Nothing overboard. Just the right amount. And those compliments felt so good. I felt comfortable. I began to understand him, know him, trust him.

The intoxication started one night when I was alone at a jazz club. The music was like warm honey — sultry and slow. Sitting at the bar, a half-finished martini in front of me vibrant in the dim light, I felt good. Confident. Beautiful. Secure.

And then, on a whim—maybe it was the music, maybe it was the gin—I opened the app and messaged him.

He responded almost instantly.

It was late—11:30 p.m.—but our conversation came to life, neither of us waiting for sleep. When he asked if we could switch to texting instead of the app, I didn’t hesitate. I liked the advance. In that moment, I felt bold.

So we texted.

It was a step closer to him, a bridge between words on a screen and the warmth of his presence. And already, despite only talking for a few weeks, I found myself longing to be next to him.

Embracing the moment, I invited him to join me, right there and then! The idea thrilled me. But he had his little boy that weekend, and he couldn’t. Otherwise, it would be great to meet up and have a drink together. His words made my stomach flutter. A missed opportunity, but perhaps there will be another.

He liked that I was spontaneous.

Smiling, I snapped a quick selfie—just me in my cozy winter sweater, bathed in the soft glow of the club, a little tipsy on jazz and martinis. He noticed everything. My smile. My hair. The way I looked in that sweater.

My heart leaped.

It was fun. It was easy. And right then, in that moment, I liked him.

He asked me to call him on my way home.

By the time I stepped out of the jazz club, the neighborhood had settled into the quiet of the night. It was 1 a.m. when I reached my car, slid into the driver’s seat, and hesitated. My fingers hovered over the screen. This would be the first man in years I’d truly talked to like this.

A small wave of nerves hit me. God, please take away my fear.

And then, I hit call.

Instantly, his voice filled the car—deep, smooth, almost too perfect. For a split second, I wondered if it was an act, some well-rehearsed allure to pull me in further. But as we talked, it didn’t feel like an act. It felt easy. Natural.

We talked through the entire drive home, and even then, I wasn’t ready to let go. I sat in my driveway, gripping the steering wheel, lost in our conversation. But the cold crept in, and the night was pulling me away. Finally, I let him know I was tired. We hung up, and I felt hopeful. Silly. High on the music, the attention, and the possibility of something real.

The next day, we talked again. And texted. And talked some more. Each exchange pulled me in deeper, each conversation making me like him more. It felt good. It felt right. It felt easy.

By the end of the weekend, we had plans. Tuesday. Our first meeting.

I could hardly wait.

When we finally met in person, the evening unfolded gently—just a few drinks, easy conversation, a quiet buzz of anticipation between us. It was nice. Simple.

I was nervous at first, but as we talked, the jitters began to fade. And then, at some point, I noticed he had placed his hand on my thigh.

He likes me.

A small but significant moment. A milestone.

Dating apps had been a cycle of fleeting connections—meet, talk, get along… then nothing. Ghosted. Again. And again. And again. I knew it wasn’t always one-sided; there were times I had walked away too, feeling no spark. But this was different.

He leaned in toward me, closing the space between us, reaching for me in small, intentional ways. And even after that night, he didn’t fade away. The next day, he mentioned little things—how I played with my hair, the way I smiled, what I wore, how I asked about his life, his son.

I felt seen.

We texted daily—often, endlessly. Each time my phone buzzed on silent, I reached for it instinctively, hoping, knowing in would be him. He was always so wonderful. Thoughtful. Present.

We met again the following week, another evening of easy conversation and slow-building intimacy over drinks. In the middle of our conversation I stood up and moved into him, wrapping my arms around him in a warm, lingering hug. I couldn’t resist. Later, he told me how much he liked that. He likes touch. After a couple hours, he walked me to my car. By the time I arrived home, my phone buzzed. I had a lovely time tonight. The rhythm of us was forming.

Later that week, he casually suggested, “Maybe Tuesdays could be our date night.” It caught me off guard—but in the best way. He’s making space for me. I liked that. “That sounds great.”

Our daily texts and phone calls grew more intense, more layered with unspoken feelings. Every time we hung up, I fought the urge to call him right back, to say the words circling in my mind.—I’m falling for this guy. How could this be happening so fast?

But he felt it too. After each call, a text from him would appear: I’m always left wanting more of you.

He said what I was thinking.

One morning, I laid in bed, wrapped in warmth, the cold air outside making it impossible to leave. My cat curled up beside me, but my mind was elsewhere. I wished he was here, next to me.

That day, in our texts, I told him how cozy I was, how I didn’t want to leave my bed. He replied, almost wistfully, It would be so nice to be there with you, sharing a cuddle. I knew I wanted him. Not just in my texts, not just in my thoughts—I wanted him with me. In my space. In my bed. But we hadn’t even kissed yet. So I told him the truth.

You’re waking up something inside me that’s been asleep for a long, long time.

For our third date, I invited him to my home. A movie and pizza—something simple and easy. It had been 10 days since I’d seen him, and the anticipation sat heavy in my chest. At first, I kept a little distance, nervous again. But as the night went on, I inched closer to him on the sofa. Eventually, we paused the movie, our conversation shifting, slowing, deepening. And then, he leaned in. Our first kiss. Soft, lingering, tentative but warm. I was still nervous, but I let myself sink into it. His hands explored my back, then moved, slow and deliberate, up my body. When they found my chest, I responded instinctively.

It had been over ten years. And now, here I was—awake again.

He left that night, but I couldn’t stop thinking about him. We texted after he got home, our conversation quickly turning playful, teasing—then downright flirty. The tension between us we felt through the screen. Every message he wrote pulled me deeper into wanting him. Before I knew it, it was 3 a.m., and he had to get up in just three hours!

I could barely think straight. He consumed me. I had to have him.

And this is when it started to change. I don’t know exactly how it happened. Well… maybe I do.

We had tentative plans for Sunday—he had family obligations, but there was a chance we could see each other. On Saturday, he was busy helping a friend at an event. Running on only three hours of sleep, he worked through the day and night, yet still sent me a message checking in and asking about my day.

Then Sunday morning—8 a.m.—a text from him. I’ve had only three hours of sleep in two days. I felt for him, truly. He was exhausted. He mentioned he wouldn’t be getting together with his family that night.

But he made no mention of me. Something in me tightened. Did he forget? The warmth, the certainty I had been feeling just days before—suddenly, it felt fragile. Unsteady. And with that, I retreated.

He texted that night asking what I was up to, but I did not reply. My stomach clenched.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  * *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Like always, we who have been victims of Narcissistic Abuse question ourselves. I should have responded, asked how he was, been more empathetic. Instead, I questioned myself. Why am I feeling like this? Am I not ready for a relationship, still?

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  * *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

And here is where it took a turn…

Stay tuned for part two: Did I just sleep with a narcissist?