A good day for me is about four useful hours. On the model that deals you people and expects a reaction, three days of quiet is a decision, and everybody there treats it as one. On the written kind nobody even notices, because the whole form assumes you are composing something rather than reacting to something.
Thirty eight, west London, submissive, seven years in, and the reason for the three days is an illness I am not going to describe in an advert. It is stable, it is managed, it is not a tragedy, and it is not a secret either. It simply sets the pace of everything I do.
What has failed before was never the illness. It was people who agreed to the pace in writing and then, somewhere around week five, started sending the message that says they are just checking I am still interested. I always am. I am also lying down.
I want something ongoing and low frequency. A standing arrangement, small daily things I can do from a sofa, a call at a fixed hour rather than whenever it occurs to somebody. I am useful in a great many ways that do not require me to be upright, and the two people who have understood that got years out of me.
Not looking for anyone who needs a reply the same evening. Not looking to be nursed, which is a different relationship and I already have people for it. And not looking for a dominant whose whole practice depends on availability at short notice, because I will never have any.