I met him at temple.
He wasn’t someone I knew—
a friend of a friend.
Not sure if he was Zoroastrian.
Didn’t matter.
He was in the room,
inside sacred space.
And that was enough to lower my guard.
He messaged me at 12:33 AM.
Said he played the setār.
Invited me to a music performance—
a peace gathering, no less.
He said I’d enjoy it.
And I believed him.
He asked if I sing.
I told him I didn’t.
He said we could “try a partial performance together.”
A little strange,
but I stayed polite.
Careful.
That was Wednesday.
Minutes after our conversation ended,
he posted an Instagram story:
“Honourisms in Kink Academy.”
“Daddy kink.”
Public.
Proud.
Timed to perfection.
He’s 4’11.
Let me repeat that:
Four. Eleven.
And somehow,
he thought he was a dom.
But here’s the thing:
Real dominant men don’t advertise.
They don’t announce themselves in Instagram stories.
They don’t take polite conversation
and turn it into kink theatre
for their followers.
What he lacked in height,
he tried to make up for in performance.
What he lacked in confidence,
he tried to hide behind “Academy” lingo
and badly masked projections.
He didn’t see me as a person.
He saw a fantasy.
A symbol.
The Aryan woman.
The fire-worshipper.
The one he could write a script around—
then call it honour.
So I declined.
Told him I wouldn’t be coming.
And when he invited me again,
I said no—again.
No emotion.
No explanation.
If I see him at temple,
I see him at temple.
But outside those walls,
he has no claim to me.
Not as a musician.
Not as a man.
And definitely not as a dom.
🚩 Red Flags He Embodied:
Wannabe dom energy.
Posting kink content after a simple conversation.
Misusing cultural terms to sound “deep.”
Late-night messages with unclear intent.
Public performance, zero presence.
Mistook his Instagram for intimacy.
🌿 What I Learned:
Height doesn’t matter.
But emotional smallness does.
You can’t fake dominance with a kink chart.
And you don’t get to use culture
to mask your obsession.
I won’t be anyone’s postscript.
Not in your story.
Not in your fetish.
And not in your “academy.”
Final Reflection:
He didn’t scar me.
He didn’t seduce me.
He embarrassed himself—
loudly, publicly, and without an ounce of shame.
And I didn’t flinch.
I didn’t attend.
I didn’t bite.
Because I’ve met real men.
And this one?
He was just 4’11
with a Wi-Fi connection
and a kink he mistook for power.
The Men I Survived.
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