What sets me apart:

I’m readily going to admit some stuff here; stuff that is usually hidden or unspoken. This maybe the two jack and diet cokes I consumed on my last flight speaking but alcohol usually serves to lower inhibitions:

That daddy over there? He’s in much better shape than I am. The one off to the left? He’s got a bigger dick. The guy in the middle? He’s a hell of a lot cuter than I was as a baby. Oh, and lest we forget, the dude in the pinstripe jacket has an accent that’s a spot on clone of the 9th Doctors accent. I’m straight(ish) and even that makes me weak in the knees.

So, what, exactly, you’re asking, do I have to offer that they don’t?

All I can offer is the whole of me, everything that combined to produce me, the faster sperm that time my parents were *full stop* okay, imma stop there because I’m not the type of pervert who enjoys thinking that his parents had sex to have him *happily onward*. Who am I?

Am I my job? My family? My friends? My car?My grandfather who everyone who knew him and knows me says I’m remarkably alike (though he passed when I was 6)?

Nope. I am Matt.

I’m 41, although age doesn’t define me. There’s no list I began following when I turned 41. Some days, especially when I cut myself while cooking and realize I have real band-aids (or sticky plasters, if you prefer) in my honest to jeebus medicine cabinet. Some days I wonder when the fuck I’m going to grow up.

So, back to me, one of my formerly least favorite subjects.

I am a DD, with hidden semi-sadistic tendencies that I’m only just coming to grips with.

Why semi-sadistic? Because while I really wanna hit someone until they’re bruised and possibly bloody, I only want to do so if they’re looking forward to it. I’ve been catch by myself looking at the paltry array of implements I own and finding myself desiring more. My shiny new riding crop needs a butt to play with. Looking at the wooden spoon that I broke across someone’s fanny has led me to perusing a nice wooden paddle made by a lovely gentleman on FetLife (soon!). I’ve got plans for a cat5 of nine tails – should be nicely stingy, probably won’t leave marks, unfortunately. Maybe if I knotted the ends… hmm… Alas, I digress…

I want to fuck someone’s face until they’re gasping for breath, makeup ruined, then, depending on their limits and an agreed upon agenda, do other fun and dirty things with them. I want to scratch and bite and hurt and fuck and call them names… When we’ve both reached our utmost limits, I want to hold them while they come back down from the highs we’ve shared.

What I give is the entirety of my attention. I fucking listen. I listen with the whole of my mind, quietly and not already formulating my response. I like to exercise my ears, my brain, my empathy. If you come to me asking for my help to remember to take your vitamins, you can be pretty darn sure you’re gonna get a call/text/Skype/whatever message to take your vitamins.

You’ll get my support, in it’s entirety. I’ll try and steer you away from stuff we both know you’re not going to accomplish (i.e.: if you wanna sing at the New York Met and you’ve never had lessons – I am going to encourage you to try and take some lessons first.) If you’re stressed because you’ve a paper or thesis due, I’ll stay up with you and help you finish. I’m a damn good proof reader and am usually conversant in almost anything… if I’m not conversant: I’ll learn I have read a book just to help someone with a paper more than once.

You’ll get my love, my devotion and if I happen to die I feel comfortable saying my last words will be directed to you, saying “You. Can. Do. It.”

Now that I’ve said all this, I realize how much bullshit it sounds like; like a dude, sitting on an airplane,slightly tipsy (I have a low alcohol tolerance so I’m an incredibly cheap date) drunkenly conversing with his increasingly uncomfortable seat mate. However, I feel comfortable in saying there are a few out there who will back me up when I say: “I ain’t lying.”