You would text me on a Thursday asking what I have planned for the weekend, and I would tell you nothing, which is exactly the point. No plans does not mean nothing happens. It means I get to decide, hour by hour, and you get to find out.
I teach my own classes and I keep my own hours, so two days with me do not start when somebody else lets me go. They start when I open the door, and they do not really finish until Sunday night, when you are standing in my hallway patting your pockets and trying to remember where you left your keys.
Friday night starts slower than you expect
You would get here late, jacket still cold from the street, and I would take it off your shoulders before you had finished your first sentence. No music. One lamp in the corner. I like a room that makes a man slow down without being told to.
I would put something warm in your hands and lean back against the counter while you drank it. Most men talk to fill a room. You would do it too for the first twenty minutes, telling me about the drive, the week, the thing your boss said on Wednesday, and I would let you, because I am not in a hurry and because I like watching a man work out that he does not have to perform for me.
Somewhere in there you would notice I had not moved. Same place against the counter, same look, arms folded, patient in a way that is not polite. That is usually the moment the talking gets quieter.
An hour on the floor with my hand on your neck
We would end up on the floor, backs against the sofa, mugs going cold on the boards beside us. I would ask about your week properly and then wait for the whole answer, which is rarer than it should be and does something to a man on its own.
My hand would find the back of your neck somewhere in the middle of it. Thumb moving slow, right at the base of your skull, the spot that makes shoulders drop whether they want to or not. You would keep talking for a while. Then you would lose the thread of your own sentence and laugh at yourself, and I would not help you find it again.
That is where you would look up to check what I want. Men always do. I would let you look. I would hold it long enough that the room gets small and warm, long enough that you feel your own pulse in your throat, and I would not say a single thing to make it easier for you.
The moment the calm turns deliberate
Here is what men never see coming from someone this still. The stillness is not softness. It is me deciding when.
My grip closes at the back of your neck, I pull you across the floor into me, and every gentle thing about that evening goes hard in one second. No question. No asking twice. You would find out fast that I have never once been unsure of what I want, in a room or anywhere else, and that I take my time because I can, not because I have to.
By then you would be breathing at my pace and you would not be able to say when that started. That is the part I like most. Not the noise, not the hurry, just the moment a man stops steering and lets me have the wheel because it is obviously where it belongs.
Saturday morning, two mats and the light on the sheets
You would wake late and I would already be up, because I always am, and the first thing you would feel is my hand back on your hip before your eyes were properly open. No rush in it. Just a reminder of who set the pace last night and who is going to set it again.
Then I would roll out two mats by the window and put you on one of them. This is the part people misread about a yoga teacher. It is not a wellness morning. It is me giving you a count and watching you try to hold it while the light comes across the floor and the room warms up.
I would come round behind you and put a hand flat on your lower back to move your hips where I want them. A teacher holds that for a second. I would hold it a good deal longer, and you would know exactly what the extra seconds were, and your breath would go and give you away completely.
The afternoon that goes nowhere on purpose
Saturday afternoon with me has no shape at all. Coffee that goes cold twice. A long shower with the door open. You in one of my shirts because you did not bring enough, half dressed, wandering my flat like you live here.
The heat does not come back in some big cinematic way. It comes back while you are reaching past me for a glass and I take my time getting out of the way, or when I catch your wrist in the kitchen for no reason at all and hold it a beat too long before letting go.
And then I would let go. That is deliberate too. I like making a man wait. I like watching him realise, somewhere around four in the afternoon, that he has been thinking about nothing else for an hour and that I knew that the whole time.
Sunday, the slowest day I own
Sunday would be rain on the window and neither of us dressed before noon. The kind of day where the whole flat smells of coffee and skin and nobody has anywhere to be, and every hour stretches out because I refuse to let it move faster.
You would be looser by then. Easier in your own body, quieter, watching me cross the room the way men watch me in the second half of a weekend, which is very different from how they watch me on the Friday. By Sunday you are not wondering what I am like. You know. That is the problem.
Late in the afternoon you would check the time, and I would see you do it, and I would take my time with you once more precisely because the clock had started to matter. Then the hallway. Keys. That look men give me at my front door when they are already working out what excuse gets them back here next weekend.
What you would take home with you
By Sunday night you would still be finding the marks and smiling at them on the train. You would replay the hour on the floor more than the rest of it, because the turn is always the part that stays.
And you would still not know the half of what I am like. This is the version of me that fits on a public page, calm, dressed, telling you a story about a weekend. There is more of me, unfiltered, on OnlyFans.