We are the dead. Maybe you know the line? It's from novel where the future consists of a boot stamping on a human face, forever. If you are who I think you are, this stirs you in ways you can't mention in public.
For reasons known to both of us, we've had to play dead all our lives. That's why we're here and not on Tinder, making shareholders rich by running our desires through the algorithm. This post is a ouija board, a séance, an act of automatic writing; it is my thoughts finding yours from beyond the grave.
What's the grave, you ask? Your relationship, your perversion, the crack in your nature that you cannot help but fill with dirt. It doesn't matter; the fact is that it's there and you cannot refuse it. Just like me. The question is, what do we do about it?
The answer depends on who we are. I'm a 46 year old successful professional who is charismatic, conversationally compelling and in excellent physical shape. If you're a woman between 25 and (say) 36 who is attractive, petite, and intelligent, and craves the impress of a powerful will, we have business to conclude with each other. What you want more than anything is be elevated by the desire of another, and to secure that you will surrender everything––so along as the elevation is commensurate to the surrender.
There is no low for which I cannot provide the commensurate high. We are the dead, remember? And the dead ascend. Message me––there is a life post mortem.
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