You realised some time ago that earnest young men and thirsty perverts are basically two forms of the same problem. One suffers the narcissism of fear; the other suffers the narcissism of need. Neither can see in your beauty anything other than a reflection of themselves. And then they have the audacity to get angry when you assert––with such gentle circumspection!–– that your desire matters more to you than theirs does.

And what am I tired of? I'm tired of the breeding pen, fine feelings, and artless dullards who expect to be rewarded for merely existing. Don't get me wrong, I like Veuve Clicquot and quail's eggs as much as the next primate, but my thing is mostly saving nothing for tomorrow. Not tiles, not blue bannisters, not pottering in the garden, not cosy nights on the couch. It's Nha Trang for me. That is to say, feelings that burn the nerves they animate; poetry that scorches the soul that articulates it; passion that consumes the bodies that produce it. It's not for everyone, so don't feel bad if you stop reading now. It's good that you know your limits.

But if you crave what I crave, I can offer a lot to the project. I am male in every sense that the term means anything good. Competent, capable, intelligent, charismatic––all that shit. I'm in excellent physical shape so forget all the dad-bod cope; think Palaeolithic hunter-gatherer with several graduate degrees. I will see you like you've never been seen; it will be harrowing, but cathartic, too. Together, we will turn you into something wonderful. Together, we'll also put a stake through my heart, but I won't die.

For this happy event to occur, you will be beautiful and cynical (if I can achieve this, you can too). You will be in excellent physical shape (ditto) and willing to push across every line of transgression we can throw ourselves at. We'll exchange pictures early and meet in person in London if we vibe. Which we will.

Oh the fun we'll have! In thirty years time we'll look back on our beautiful monstrosity and weep.

​