As it says in the bit you clicked on: I’m delightful. Read further for a small sample of the many ways in which I am wonderful, and find out how you, yes YOU, can take advantage of the amazing limited time offer. Also, we're social distancing, so I suppose this is a good time for torrid correspondence.

Offer includes:

Wit: I’m funny. Sometimes dry and biting, as when hanging out over drinks and I’m making acerbic sotto-voce comments about the dipshits at the other end of the bar declaiming upon how Democrats are just as bad as Republicans and anyway Hillary is super corrupt. Sometimes absurdly silly, as when we are in bed, and especially in those awful moments during kink when pushing our emotional boundaries has inadvertently shattered the shared intimacy whereby situations that might otherwise be horrifying turn unbearably hot and sexy and intimate; (because you are firmly bound, suspended from a hook in this door-frame, with a ball gag distending your mouth and a large man is selecting amongst his toys for what to hit you with, now that you’ve been worked over with the crop that he’s still using to caress your clit. For example). Talking about the kink is supposed to be further down, but I’m proud of my ability to notice those moments and pull the gag and start improvising a progressively more absurd re-telling of the constitutional convention as a poorly organized swingers convention, using the contents of my pockets to represent the various founding fathers and their outhouse assignations with Jefferson.

Frightening intellect: I’m really, really bright. I read, constantly and voraciously and indiscriminately, at least as far as subject. I pay attention to news and politics and policy and everything else and I’m always glad to spend time with someone else who is as interested in the world as I am. I adore — really, deeply adore— doing kink with terrifically intelligent women; having the kind conversations where I feel like I must be a genius just because I can kind of keep up with you. Kinky sex is by nature pretty intimate, at least when it is something two people are doing together as opposed to some dude who figures kinky girls are easy and thinks being a dom means not caring if she comes and yelling bitch a lot. But I am not that guy. I fucking hate that guy. I spent years being miserable and basically at war with my sexuality because I thought being male and dom meant I had to be that guy and oh my God I think I’d rather just remove the entire apparatus using a rusty spoon from my Swiss Army knife rather than be like that walking indictment of humanity. So I need to like the person I’m performing misogyny at. She needs to be someone I can talk to before and after and not feel like I’m robbing an intellectual cradle. My capacity to be the most amazing dom you’ve ever invited to cross you boundaries — which I can totally be — is tied directly to how much I respect you as an equal making a choice and my assessment of your respect for me in the same way.

Sexy: There is no one true standard of hotness, and I don’t hold myself forth as the platonic ideal of the male form (for one thing? The Greeks were super into tiny penises. I’m serious. Had to do with their ideals of balance, apparently). I’m a big guy, 5’11, white, with a broad-shouldered sort of frame that leads people to think I’m taller than I am. I have a bit of a gut, but not so much that you’d call me fat, walking down the street; I suspect that the gut is something I notice but mostly no one else does. I get more compliments on my ass than I know what to do with.

I’m fit and active, I have nice eyes, a good smile and a better laugh. I’m currently clean shaven, although I’ve been known to grow a beard from time to time. (It is a small, neat Van Dyke sort of thing - I couldn’t grow a hipster lumberjack beard if I wanted to. Something else the Greeks would have had opinions on). Brown eyes, brown hair, and bespectacled. Nerd, but sexy nerd. And admit it: when a dude is tying you up and saying demeaning, degrading, frantically arousing things to you, wouldn’t you rather, when drops the crop and your world collapses to the feeling of his fingers (HOW many fingers? God, can you even tell any more, you are so wet...) moving inside your pussy and his thumb on your clit, when you suddenly feel his free hand up under your hair, right along the scalp, in that good, firm grab that makes you feel small and helpless and sexy and dirty and nasty and so, so good (and HEY! Did I tell you you could do that? If I wanted you to fuck your filthy hole on my fingers I’d have told you to, wouldn’t I? So stop, or I’ll have to take them away) ... in that moment, I have to believe you’d rather have the person whispering sweet, dirty nothings in your ear be one who can use words like “wanton” and “harlot” as well as “skank” and “hoe” or strangely popular “bitch”. Who can capture your imagination even more thoroughly than he’s bound your hands and ankles. I don’t know. I’m not even just a little bit submissive, and even if I was I’d still be a dude. But I have to believe -and user feedback surveys seem to support - that it is better when the violence of action is matched by wickedness of mind and quickness of wit.

Liberal: I’m not imposing a political litmus test. But because I only screw people I like and who I at least believe like me, and because the politics of the moment are centered around such a toxic person leading an even more toxic movement it matters: If you are on board with the current conservative moment in America, just... no. Because while I might get past the stupid policy, maybe. I mean probably not, but I can forgive well-meaning and ignorant, at least in principle. But I could never accept the cruelty.

Feminist: As much as I enjoy deploying the tropes and language of misogyny in bed with a likeminded partner, my enjoyment of that for that performative misogyny hinges on you being in on the joke (if you’ll allow). It isn’t just about “being good”; virtue has nothing to do with it, at least in this context. It is because as a dominant I get off, in large part, on your desire: controlling it, restraining it, heightening it, sustaining it and ultimately satisfying it (or not, as circumstances dictate). If we don’t start from a place where we both see ourselves as peers, I can never be really sure that desire is authentic or authentically mine. And I am egotistical enough, or maybe just have enough self-respect, to demand that I be certain that your desire is for me, specifically, at least in the time we are in “bed”. (although the bed is only the actually relevant piece of furniture at most half the time. Really, beds are actually terribly designed for good sex. Post coital cuddle and bullshit sessions, while we discussed what worked, what really worked, and what needs work? That is a fine use for the bed. For fucking and fucking related program activities? At best a poor second to a good couch or any of a wide variety of chairs.

Stoned-sex: I love the way it affects my physiology, keeping me aroused and in the moment for hours and hours and the way it drops my refractory period down to only a few minutes or a half an hour before I’m in the mood again. And I love the way it slows down my otherwise sometimes too quickly racing mind, so that I can slide effortlessly into the dominant analog of subspace; that mental space where calling a pretty girl who I like and respect and admire a\ lazy no good whore, where yanking her up by her hair, slapping her face and telling her to get her greedy little mouth all the way down my cock or I’ll show her what rough really means... Weed helps me be in that space without quite so much second guessing or worry that I’m going to hurt you. It lets me trust my instincts and you and your ability to safeword out, and that is good for both of us.

Kinky: Obviously. And obviously, this is shot through with examples. But: I like power and control. I like, more than anything, getting to know you and your mind and being able to figure out how to wrap you around my fingers so thoroughly that I hardly have to lift them to have you dancing my tune. I can be rough, and cruel, and I love causing pain, even to the point of tears and balancing that against urgency and a desire to please and an orgasm that I can hold just out of reach until the moment I don’t and just as your are falling off from that peak ratcheting the sexual energy back up so that even though you just came call over my hands or cock or mouth you’d do anything-Anything-ANYTHING for one more caress, one more thrust, one more slide of my tongue (inside: that specific, delightful acid tang of the inside of a cunt that you only taste when you push your tongue deep inside - it never lasts on a finger, for some reason - then out and up and you can feel her tremble, strong and subtle and if it were a song this bit would be almost subsonic and then under the clit and around and there she goes, she’s starting to beg again and now I kinda have a crush on her because she is learning me back, harlot instead of whore, and an under-undercurrent of mirth beneath it all: the power is real and the desire is real but we also both know it is a joke, a shared secret: we can do this and still be friends and isn’t that fucking awesome?).