The best way to describe me is probably a fun combination of Tina Belcher, Daria, and Morticia Addams.
I’m a tall bitch with great tits, but unfortunately, the height did not come with grace. I’m spectacularly clumsy and awkward as fuck. Corners of walls and furniture are basically my mortal enemies, and I lose those battles with embarrassing frequency.
If you’re into women with tan, fit bodies, you’re looking at the wrong profile, my guy. I’m so pale I look like I was raised by vampires and haven’t seen the sun since 1998. The upside? I’m easy to find in the dark. Aesthetically, I’m somewhere between goth librarian, mildly feral academic, and woman with an unhealthy fascination for the macabre. I’m curvy in all the right places, but those curves are soft, warm, and proudly sponsored by my love of cooking and food.
I like dark humor, strange things, and people who can hold a conversation no matter how weird it gets. I fucking hate small talk. I would rather gouge my own eyes out with a spoon than spend my time discussing the weather or whatever other surface-level bullshit people use to avoid actually revealing who they are.
An engaging mind is infinitely more attractive to me than a pretty face. Make me laugh. Challenge my brain. Tell me about that cringe moment in middle school that still haunts you. I’m fairly open-minded and find genuine honesty, self-awareness, and accountability considerably sexier than pretending you’ve never been wrong in your life.
I’m in the market for a real Dom who can make me submit. (The real ones know who they are. The rest of you can go practice your insecure masculinity somewhere else.)
I’m affectionate, loyal, empathetic, cynically upbeat, goofy as fuck, and ridiculously easy to get along with. I give grace. I communicate like an adult and I believe in mutual respect.
Disrespect me, play stupid games, try to control me outside the bedroom, or confuse my kindness with compliance, and I will quietly vanish like the pale Victorian ghost that I am.
I consider myself a Porsche, but like the one Paul Walker was driving, and expect to be treated as such.
If you’re still reading this, I have to assume either you’re intrigued, deeply concerned, or lack basic survival instincts.