You are ambitious, intelligent, and beautiful. Probably you're in a relationship with a nice young man who worships you like a pagan idol. You love him, but then again, so does his mother. And that's a problem, because you want to be able to hate him, just a little. You want something darker, older, more elemental than he can offer––a necromantic ritual, not a vanilla romance. Because somewhere in you is that atavistic impulse that demands a bigger spirit consumes you whole in all your pert prettiness.
Which is to say, you want me. It suits you that I have my own commitments, because we're not looking to set up a breeding pen. What we want is to grab nature by the scruff of the neck and it make it work for us. (And let's be fair: we both know breaking the rules is part of the attraction.) My words are the signal of how my mind works; my body is no less precise and measured in its proportions. Talk to me, and we'll exchange pictures to see if what we have works for each other. And all that social status stuff? Yes, yes, all there––who really cares?
What matters is that we'll carve out a space together where we can descend into the carnal sublime. We'll map more emotional extremes than most people experience in a lifetime. We will, for a little while defy death, the devil, and entropy with the scale of our pleasures. In the end we'll die––everyone does. But we're not dead yet.
So message me while it still matters.
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