*** I went to college to be a writer. I have two degrees that specialize in putting words to paper. And recently, a friend of mine has challenged me to use that talent to write about myself. Something not only do I find horrifying, but torturing to soul who wishes nothing more than to be unseen. But I figure I will give it a try. In an attempt to find a kind soul. Bare with me. ***
I’m not the kind of man who walks into a room and demands attention. More often than not, I’m the one people overlook—the quiet figure in the corner, the presence they don’t think twice about. My body, worn by age and shaped by disability, no longer commands space the way it once did. Like Quasimodo, I’ve learned to seek the shadows—not out of shame, but for shelter. Reality, after all, is unkind and unyielding.
But beneath that quiet exterior lives a different kind of power. A sensual intelligence. A capacity for intimacy that doesn’t shout—it listens, it learns, it lingers. I am a man who builds slowly, deliberately. What I offer isn’t visible at first glance. It’s felt in the way I pay attention, in the way I touch without haste, in the way I make someone feel seen.
Most people think domination is about arrogance, aggression and control. About force. About taking. But that’s not how I move. I don’t dominate like a shotgun blast—I do it with precision. With knowledge. With patience.
I study her. Not just her body, but her rhythms. The way she breathes when she’s nervous. The way her voice shifts when she’s unsure. I learn her tells, her silences, her contradictions. And when I touch her, it’s not to claim—it’s to affirm. To say: I see you. I know what you need, even when you don’t.
That’s the kind of dominance I offer. Not a performance. Not a power trip. Something quieter. Something earned.
The trouble is, most people don’t recognize this kind of dominance. They’re used to louder men—men who lead with swagger, who stake their claim before they’ve earned it. Men who mistake confidence for connection.
So when I stand back, when I listen first, when I choose not to perform—I’m often dismissed. Misread. Overlooked. They don’t see the precision. They don’t feel the weight of my attention. They don’t realize that my restraint isn’t weakness—it’s calibration.
I don’t rush in because I’m shy, yes. But also because I’m deliberate. I protect myself. I protect her. I wait until I know what’s real. And when I move, it’s with purpose. With care. With the kind of presence that doesn’t need to be announced.
Imagine being with someone on a cold winter’s night. Snow stacks against the windows like a siege, held back only by glass and will. Inside, the fire crackles—flames dancing like mischievous spirits, casting light into the corners where shadows wait. You’re curled near the hearth, wrapped in the blanket I tucked around you, its warmth pressing into your skin like a promise.
I sit nearby, legs propped, your head resting in my lap. My fingers stroke your hair slowly, rhythmically. I’ve watched you all day—watched the effort, the tension, the quiet fatigue you carry without complaint. I’ve wanted to touch you for hours. But I waited. I always wait. Because I know the difference between impulse and impact.
You make a soft sound, half sigh, half surrender. That’s my cue. I rise, and you grumble—playfully, but I hear the truth in it. You were comfortable. You were held. I retrieve the oil, kneel at your feet, and begin. My hands are strong, deliberate. I work from heel to toe, coaxing tension out like secrets. I feel your body soften beneath me, and inside, something in me exhales.
This is the part no one sees—the patience. The hours of restraint. The quiet ache of wanting, held in check until the moment is right. I suffer for it, in silence. But it’s worth it. Because now, you’re mine. Not because I took you, but because you gave.
I move up your legs, following the map your body draws for me. I touch where you respond. I linger where you smile. I’m not guessing—I’m reading. I’m maneuvering. Not with force, but with fluency. And as you slip deeper into pleasure, into trust, into openness—I feel the shift. The door opens. My desires step through.
This is my dominion. Not loud. Not cruel. But earned. And in this moment, as you melt beneath my hands, I feel the dividends of patience. The thrill of guiding you where I need you to go. The joy of knowing that what we share isn’t taken—it’s built.
There’s a loneliness to being this kind of man.
Not because I lack connection, but because I offer something most don’t know how to receive. I don’t perform masculinity the way they expect. I don’t bark orders or flash bravado. I wait. I watch. I build. And in that waiting, I’m often passed over—for louder men, simpler men, men who make their intentions known before they’ve earned the right to touch.
I suffer in silence sometimes. Not because I’m weak, but because I’m patient. Because I know that real intimacy isn’t found in declarations—it’s found in the quiet moments when someone finally sees you. And until that moment comes, I live in the shadows. I protect myself. I endure the ache of being unseen.
It costs me. It costs me time. It costs me chances. It costs me the kind of easy affection that others seem to stumble into. But I don’t want easy. I want real. I want the kind of connection that’s built on knowing—not guessing. On trust—not performance.
So I wait. And when she finally sees me—not the quiet man in the corner, but the one who’s been reading her all along—I move. And when I do, it’s with everything I’ve held back. Everything I’ve studied. Everything I’ve felt.
That’s the reward. That’s the dividend. That’s the thrill.