Manufactured romance

A man and a woman are in the backseat of his car. They finished dinner and drove for a while before pulling over in the parking lot of a city park. They start kissing and she stops him.

"This feels really trashy," she says. She wants romance, she tells him. 

"You want romance? Use your imagination."

She rebuffs him.

He doubles down. "I'm serious. Imagine you're my mistress. We're in a lonely mansion, lit only by the moon and the occasional flash of lightning," he takes a break from the story to begin to pull her shoulder strap down. "We can't see one another, only feel light touches. You are the object of my affection. I desire only to have you, even though we can't. That's us right now, only a different setting," and he smiles at her.

She frowns. "That's not funny, I'm being serious." 

"So am I," he says. 

"Why can't this be romantic? Because we're in a car? Because we're not in a bed? I live with my parents, I can't bring you home." 

She feels bad. Or rather, she doesn't know how to feel. She begins to acquiese. 

He sits up and pulls back from the story.

"Wait. Don't undress. How about this?"

He launches into another diatribe "You're a hardworking, breadwinning woman. Head of your field. You come home after a long day and sit in your favorite chair. I stroll up, place a cup of tea on the side table, drop your book into your lap. You sigh as I begin rubbing your shoulders, your neck. Then I quickly pivot to the foot rest. You put your feet in my lap. Without a word I take off your shoes and rub them until your head goes back in relaxation. This romance intensifies as I move up your leg, massaging you into ecstasy" he's enacting the gestures of his story on her body the whole time.

Spastically, he switches topics.

"We can be that. We can be anything. I am striving for your affection. Wooing you. I am a poet. Your eyes pierce me. Daggerish. No, much kinder, full of life. The way the sunlight pierces our atmosphere to warm us. The way an elegant swan pierces the surface of a lake to wash itself. Your face a vision of beauty. Not biblical, not angelic. Real, magnificent. As if sculpted by a man tasked with creating beauty itself."

He sits back. "Romance isn't rose petals leading to the bed, or candles lit around the tub, or soft music playing, or kissing under the moon. Romance is ever present when we're together because it's present in me. I am romance."

This worked and the woman he was with lunged into their sexual activities with delight.

A few days later a friend of his was asking how his date went. 

"Great dude she let me fuck. I'm not really interested in a relationship though, so I had to ghost her."

Men are pigs, don't fall for it.