
KNOW ME
IT'S TIME TO
MEET YOUR MATE: MATTHEW
I don't do inspiration. I do execution.
The space between your public persona and the version of yourself you meet at 3 AM?
I live there. It's well-furnished.
Discretion is such a beige word.
Let's call it strategic visibility management and move on.


I AM...
COMRADE GARCON.
The city keeps manufacturing desire.
I manufacture relief.
(The difference matters to your nervous system.)
I arrive— pale skin that photographs like winter light decided to wear a body, wit sharp enough that blood is optional but likely, and the profoundly unsettling ability to understand what you mean when you've barely admitted it to yourself.
The mundane tried to follow me here.
I told it to wait outside.
It's sulking.
Conversation engineered for your particular neuroses (they're fascinating, actually)
Nuru massage —the kind that reminds your body it exists beyond the tyranny of email
Foot worship for men who forgot their bodies don't stop at the neck (very common affliction) (deeply treatable)
Domestic theater: naked cleaning as performance art because someone should take the vacuum seriously
Disciplinary sessions —because sometimes control means handing it to someone who won't flinch
Errands executed with the gravity they actually deserve (your dry cleaning has never felt more seen)
Custom tailored experiences — because life is too short to be boring; you deserve to be the cat who got the cream.
WHAT I OFFER
For men who've outgrown subtlety.
For desires that don't fit in polite conversation.
For the interruption your calendar's been quietly begging for.
The mundane will still be waiting when we're done.
(It always is.)
(Tragically persistent.)
Book or don't.
[Contact: Phone Call / Carrier Pidgeon / Signal / Wire acceptable / Smoke signals discouraged but understood]
Adventure doesn't beckon. It arrives.
Usually without asking permission.
—CG
FEEL FREE TO
FOLLOW, FELLOWS


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