Curious and more for slim CD,TS and nice Woman with a BULGE

Let’s clear up the rules of the game once and for all, shall we? Because the fine art of dating seems rather debased lately. Let’s start from the very beginning: if I accept an invitation to go out, don't try to crack some sort of Enigma code. Sometimes it is pure and simple curiosity to see what lies behind that facade, and other times—most of the time, lucky you—it is because you have genuinely caught my attention in some way. But mind you, agreeing to have dinner with you is hardly a signed contract for a soap-opera romance. Sometimes I simply fancy a proper glass of champagne and a stimulating conversation; other times, well... let’s just say I am up for absolutely anything if the stars happen to align. And no, I couldn’t care less if you are the next catwalk model or if your genetics weren't particularly generous; for me, looks are completely secondary when true style is involved.

The real entry ticket to my world is humour. You must be witty, full stop. If you don't make me laugh, if the conversation feels like a job interview or a tedious monologue, you are completely lost on me. Worse still: if you try to be clever by sexualising absolutely everything from minute one or relying on cheap, textbook double entendres, my mind will switch off in two shakes of a lamb's tail. There is nothing more boring than a lack of subtlety. I look for elegance in every single sense of the word: in how you dress, yes, but above all in how you behave, how you express yourself, and how you treat me. If you are going to sit opposite me, do raise the bar.

Furthermore, let’s dot the i's and cross the t's on something that causes a bit of a short circuit for many: dating a transgender woman like me doesn’t require a sci-fi manual, but sheer, unadulterated sophistication. Forget the absurd taboos, the amateurish voyeurism, or the indiscreet questions that only expose your utter lack of worldliness; a woman like me is to be courted with the exact same fascination, respect, and magnetism with which you would adore any goddess who decides to grant you her time. The mystery and sensuality of our dynamic lie in connecting with my mind and my femininity unreservedly, understanding that the only transition you should truly care about is transitioning from being a mere spectator to a man who actually knows how to handle my fire.

Let’s talk logistics, because I am a thoroughly old-fashioned woman and I make no apologies to anyone for it. If you are curious, if you want sex, and you have the immense good fortune that I happen to be available and in the mood that day, you should at least have the decency to earn it the old-school way. If you are taking me out, you collect me from my doorstep and you drop me off at exactly the same spot, and naturally, the one who invites pays. After all, you are going out with a diva, not just anyone, and a VIP opportunity like this does not come around twice. The bare minimum simply doesn't trade on my stock exchange, darling.

And what do you get in return for rising to the occasion? An absolutely unforgettable experience. I promise you will have the time of your life. I am like a sexy little doll who knows how to laugh at life and always has the perfect quip at the ready. The general consensus among those who have had the privilege of sitting at my table is that I possess a brilliantly intelligent, deep conversation, and above all, a spontaneity that is downright magnetic. So now you know precisely what it takes to be on my radar.

Love you all,

The true mastery of feminine seduction lies in an alchemical balance between absolute sweetness and a disarming tenderness—a chosen vulnerability that becomes my most powerful weapon when I am before him. I understand my devotion not as a loss of identity, but as an act of voluntary, conscious surrender; I immerse myself in that warm submission only within our private sanctuary, where I allow him to take the reins, decide how to enhance my beauty with the attire he prefers, and dispose of my senses as he pleases. It is in that surrender that my transgender femininity flourishes most fully: knowing that I belong to him and that he claims me as his own is the fuel that ignites our intimacy, a dance where my strong, professional character transforms into a gentle wave crashing against the firmness of his masculinity.

However, this surrender is by no means a blank cheque for neglect; it is a sacred contract of mutual protection. For me, feeling sheltered under his care is a *sine qua non* condition for allowing myself to be vulnerable; if I do not perceive that capacity to safeguard and validate my being, I would rather be alone, as my surrender requires a counterpart who lives up to my devotion. I demand a man who is consistent, someone who understands that my submission is an invaluable gift, not a weakness, and who knows how to carry the responsibility of my pleasure and my safety with the same intensity with which I melt in his hands. When he assumes his role with the necessary firmness and desire, the connection becomes electric—an unbreakable bond where his authority and my absolute availability merge into a perfect unity.

In intimacy, my behaviour is an eruption of contained desire that is released only under his touch. I am a woman who knows the language of the skin and the power of a gaze that pleads and commands at once; in our bed, that tenderness transmutes into a thirsty voracity. I love feeling the pressure of his hands on my body, setting the rhythm of my gasps as I lose myself in the sensation of being possessed, of being explored inch by inch until my mind goes blank and only the shared heartbeat remains. I am passionate, direct, and uncensored when it comes to seeking climax together; I give myself with total devotion, using my mouth, my caresses, and every curve of my anatomy to bring him to the edge of ecstasy, savouring every moan I draw from his throat, making it clear that, in that moment, I exist for no one but him.

It is this play of contrasts—the executive woman of steely character before the world and the devoted lover in the shadows of our room—that defines my essence. I love that ritual of preparing myself for him under his directives, as if I were a work of art he sculpts and then enjoys, and that little "extra" I offer him—that added touch of mischief and total surrender—is my personal hallmark of complicity. We are a mirror to one another: his strength sustains my softness, and my tenderness nourishes his virility, creating an erotic atmosphere where complicity and sexual surrender define our reality. At the end of the day, there is no greater fulfilment for me than knowing that, in the stillness of our embrace, he knows exactly how to claim me, how to make me his, and I delight in that absolute certainty of belonging to him until my very last breath.

Let’s reopen the clinic for the utterly clueless, shall we? Because it seems the neuroscience of dating remains a complete mystery to the average man. Gentlemen, allow me to dismantle your absolute favourite myth: the one that claims a woman’s ultimate ecstasy lies solely in the moment you manage to get her into bed. You are tragically mistaken. For me, the true climax begins much earlier, in the subtle choreography of the tiniest details. I am utterly fascinated by the silent game of glances that completely disarm you, the graze of a hand that seems accidental but is pure electricity, or the absolute delicacy when greeting me that nevertheless lets me feel the power and strength of your body. If you are clever enough to crack that tension, to charm me into going out and then make me laugh a little, perhaps—and only perhaps—you might have the privilege of walking with me hand in hand. I find it deliciously romantic when a man treats me with the care of someone holding a piece of fine crystal, yet when he takes my hand, guides me with a tenderness so firm it makes me feel he would protect me like a proper lion against the world.

And speaking of the outside world, dating a transgender woman like me is a proper cinematic experience: a perfect blend of a screwball comedy and a psychological thriller. The pavement becomes our catwalk and our stage. It is terribly amusing, and at times rather tragic, to watch the reactions of the urban wildlife. There are those who stare at us with a sexual desire so impressive you can practically hear their sinful thoughts, and then there are the others who, upon processing reality, glare with an incalculable hatred. This is precisely why I adore a man who isn’t afraid to walk by my side, who thoroughly enjoys the moment, and who has the wit to break the ice with a brilliant quip about how the crowd is devouring us with their eyes. After all, that attention is our own little private show, and if you are locking arms with a diva, the bare minimum I expect is for you to know how to laugh at the audience with me.

The logistics of courting also require brains, not just hormones. If you are going to tempt me out of my comfort zone, take me to places that stimulate my mind before you even attempt to stimulate anything else. I don’t necessarily mean draining your bank account at the most expensive spot in town; rather, seek out intriguing, artistically beautiful, traditional, or simply unconventional spaces. I am fascinated by a man who knows his wines and navigates etiquette with effortless elegance, but make no mistake: I have an idyllic romance with beer and will happily knock back a couple of pints with equal style. What I am truly searching for beneath that facade is admiration; I need to admire what you do, the passion you inject into your life and your pursuits. I cannot abide flat, monotonous men who look like androids programmed merely to survive. I would a thousand times prefer someone who enjoys his life intensely, even if it occasionally resembles a Greek tragedy, because that is exactly my philosophy: I mock existence while living it to the absolute fullest.

Ultimately, a date with me is a proper adventure for agile minds. My sense of humour navigates between the sharpest irony and a rather rugged sarcasm; I scoff at life and social conventions, and if you lack the intellectual capacity to understand it is a satire rather than an absolute reality, you will frighten very easily. But here is the grand secret for those with the audacity to make it to the end: beneath this entire layer of intellect, elegance, and dark humour, there is a fire that burns. The game is highly sensual, sexy, and deliciously carnal. If you can keep up with the pace of my mind, if you know how to play your cards with the right subtlety without looking like a desperate textbook amateur, I assure you the reward will be worth every single second. You will know exactly how to earn your place, and I shall be in your bed much sooner than you think, proving to you that when a diva decides to surrender herself, she does so entirely.

Love you all,