It always intrigues me when men expect a succinct account of my kinks at the drop of a hat.
Find me on a cosy rooftop terrace or reclined on a sofa, joint in hand, opposite a pair of stunning thighs and captivating eyes then, alright, I’ll divulge my deliciously twisted fantasies. But in the context of a dull grey Grindr chat, the single-syllabic “kinks?” is as vague as “depends”.
I get it. We live in a fast world. Sometimes we don’t want detail. Sometimes all we need is assurance of mutual enjoyment and – voila! – a nameless, no-strings blow-and-go. Pragmatism replacing patience.