“Not interested in a personal trainer, a dom or a one night stand,” my profile declared defiantly in the face of no one in particular.
I’d been dominated before. Beaten and bruised in horrific ways that I wouldn’t wish on anyone, even if they liked the pain. He bit huge chunks of flesh on my thighs that stayed a midnight purple for 2 weeks after. I felt my BONES bending under his weight, as he bent me backwards, threatening to snap my femur in two pieces over the back of his couch…
“No. No, I don’t want a dom,” I said again with absolute certainty.
Then one day, a few weeks ago, I matched with G. on a dating app. I liked his sense of humor. His profile said, “Sick and perverted.” His only photo showed a man in his early 40s, shaved head, sheepish blue eyes and a barely there smile, sitting in front of a dartboard wearing a t-shirt that said, “The liver is evil, it must be punished.” He was cute in a familiar way but I didn’t recognize him.