I find it rare — almost impossible — to come across others like me. (Well now I just sound like a narcissist.)
Sometimes I wonder if something is wrong with me.
I ask for too much... and yet it never feels like enough.
Is it truly too much to ask that you not speak in lazy slang?
That you speak with purpose?
That you know what you're saying — and why you say it?
Why must you babble about TikTok trends or the Kardashians’ latest tantrums?
Why can’t you just feel?
Once in a while, I come across others.
And what do I see?
Men and women who want hordes of slaves, multiple bodies beneath their roofs.
Greedy, gluttonous, shallow.
They demand a 24/7 slave — yet still chase casual play.
They command titles like "Master" while begging for nude photos like common fools.
I have my tastes, sharpened and unapologetic.
I am not charmed by bright colors.
Muted tones draw me in — they whisper instead of scream.
Heavy nail polish, garish makeup, fluorescent hair... repels me.
Facial piercings, loud tattoos — unless delicate, simple — feel alien.
I crave floral scents that breathe quietly, not cloying perfumes that choke.
I dislike colorful outfits, ripped jeans, fake lips, plastic curves, perfect teeth.
Give me the real.
Let me see the yellowed edges of your teeth, the weariness in your eyes.
Let me feel the roughness of your skin beneath my touch.
When you drink tea — quietly, unaware of any audience —
when the wind moves through your hair and you're not performing for the feed —
then you are beautiful to me.
See? Perhaps I'm too picky.
I do not hunger for the manicured modern.
I crave the wild, the worn, the lived-in lust.