I am going to tell you about my week instead, and hope that works

I am going to write to you about nothing that marks me out as this sort of man, because everything else I could say has been said to you four hundred times this month by people who mean it exactly as much as I do and are therefore indistinguishable from me.

So. Thirty one, east London, sound engineer, I work evenings, my week runs Tuesday to Saturday and I am free when nobody else is. I keep a sourdough starter I have never named, I swim badly twice a week, and the family below me play the same record every Sunday morning and I have decided to find it charming.

Here is the part that belongs on a board like this, stated once and then left alone. I want a relationship where she decides. Not a scene, not a menu, and not an arrangement that I am secretly directing while pretending to be led. Decisions, over years, made by her, with me putting my case first and then doing as I am told.

I have been in one dynamic, two years, ended when she moved abroad, and we are still friends. So I know roughly what I am like inside one, which is cheerful, punctual, occasionally sulky about being wrong and quick to say so afterwards.

Not looking to be assessed on how fast I will obey a stranger. Not looking for a woman who would prefer a man with no opinions, since I have several and I will offer each of them once. Not looking for something that must stay entirely hidden forever, although I understand exactly why plenty of women need that.