I put one clear sentence into a mainstream profile explaining what I am and what I am not, and in an entire year I do not believe a single person read it before writing to me. What arrived instead was a steady procession of men who had seen a photograph, guessed at a fantasy and were disappointed to find an actual woman with terms. That is not a complaint about men. It is a complaint about a model in which the text is decoration.
Thirty four, Manhattan, dominant, seven years in. On the specialist platforms that same sentence gets read, occasionally argued with, and generally understood. The pool is a hundredth of the size and I have had four times the result.
What I run is domestic and ongoing. Standing rules that operate on weekdays, tasks, correction that is spoken, a rhythm that survives a bad week rather than requiring a good one. Nothing here is for sale and none of it is a performance.
I would like a submissive man who has read something and thought rather more, and who can talk about his own life for ten minutes without steering it back.
Not interested in anybody who opens with what he wants done to him. Not interested in being anybody's fantasy of authority. And not interested in explaining the vocabulary from scratch again.