Why the metaphor?
Meeting me feels a bit like stepping into a living poem- layered, a little dangerous, and meant to be experienced rather than explained. If you follow me on X, you already know literature isn’t just a passion of mine, it’s the lens through which I move in the world. I’m in the process of writing a book (!!), and in many ways, this is where “pro’s” and prose begin to blur (sorry, I’ll never resist a good pun). I offer the obvious physical benefits, which build through connection but, maybe more importantly, a space to just be. To feel free and be seen, where the demands of career, family and community are nonexistent… or put more eloquently:
Touch and taste serve as entrance fee,
but the real value is to simply be,
no need for show, improved display,
just presence, where guarded walls give way
The Penthouse
He poured me a drink and handed the fee,
A folded-up promise, placed carefully.
“You’re way too stunning,” he said with a grin,
“For a guy like me, this feels like a sin.”
We laughed on the couch, the skyline in view,
That curved glass staircase, the ocean in blue.
I wore my sundress, my go-to by day,
He never asked why, I lived life this way.
We touched for an hour, the clock ticking slow,
And just as I stood, he said, “Please don’t go.”
“How long?” I asked, with a tilt of my head,
“All night,” he replied, “till we both drop dead.”
He wired the rest, made dinner plans quick,
While I fixed my makeup and red lipstick.
When I returned, he pulled me with grace,
And I lost my dress in his perfect embrace.
We fucked like we meant it, no need to pretend,
Like two lonely strangers who didn’t want it to end.
We laid there in silence, our breath slow and deep,
The kind of stillness you hope you can keep.
“Come see the view,” he said without shame,
Still naked, still wild, whispering my fake name.
We curled on the chair while the sunset burned red,
A movie scene I keep replaying in my head…
Rare Occasion
He flew me in like contraband,
black car, black card, glass in hand.
Penthouse high, Manhattan lit,
a view like that? You pose with it.
He poured the cognac slow and neat,
Said, “Women like you don’t come cheap.”
Tailored suit, Italian cut,
He knew the price, and paid it up.
I’m not common. I am rare.
A limited release. Exclusive fair.
Like something stored in velvet case,
Something to savor, not to waste.
I didn’t flinch. I crossed my stems.
I watched him melt then come again.
He said, “You’re like heaven to taste,
a mind of mystery, an angel’s face”.
What good is passion if not for poetry?
This work is more than connection, it feeds something deeper in me, something almost insatiable: the need to write. Every experience becomes material, every moment a line waiting to be remembered. This life takes me places I once only imagined, and with each memory comes a kind of alchemy- turning feeling into language, sensation into story.
The men I meet are never just men. They become mentors in unexpected ways, and often, muses. Fragments of them, of you, live on in what I create, not as replicas, but as echoes. This space we step into together exists somewhere between fantasy and reality, where the rules soften and something more honest can emerge.
There’s an electricity here… Do you feel it? Excitement, tension, a kind of rare openness. Most people never follow their desires far enough to feel it fully. They stop short of the edge, never quite reaching that place where connection becomes consuming, where presence turns into something unforgettable.
And yet, within all of this, there is absolute discretion. What we share remains ours, always. My lovers are never exposed, never reduced, never made into something public or uncomfortable. The poetry I offer isn’t documentation- it’s transformation. An atmosphere, a feeling, a trace of something real without ever betraying it.
That’s what makes this different. That’s what makes it rare.
And that’s why we should meet.
