🏝️ Holidays are over. The post holiday blue is settling in. Azura Blue is back, as promised. Here is my first piece of keep refining myself. 🛬

People say you make a first impression in the first five seconds.

Perfect. In 2026, you do it in five taps.

Because before I see your face, your hands, your posture, your expensive watch, or whatever you think is your personality, I see your phone etiquette. I see your timing. I see your punctuation choices. I see whether you type like a grown man with blood flow to his brain, or like a horny raccoon pawing at a bin.

And yes, I know why you’re here. You’re horny. Congratulations, you’re alive. That’s not a scandal. That’s the starting line.

What I’m interested in is how you behave while you’re horny. That’s the difference between hot and blocked.

Text is a mirror. It is also a confession booth. Men will type things they would never say out loud, because the screen feels like a mask. They forget I’m a person. They treat the chat like it’s a vending machine. Insert coin, receive woman.

Some of you open like you’re ordering sushi.

Hello.
Hi.
Hi babe.
Hi sexy.
Address?
Price?
How much?
Free now?
Free today?

No context. No name. No nothing. Just a human Uber Eats request, except the delivery is a body. It’s almost impressive, in a bleak way. Like watching someone walk confidently into a glass door.

Then there are the ones who dress their message up in a tuxedo. So formal. I feel like an opera diva in first class. It’s charming, honestly. Old school. Adorable.

“Dear Madam, I hope this message finds you well.”

So formal I briefly wondered if a bot wrote it.

Then there are the boundary-testers. The men who throw a line that can be taken two ways, because they want plausible deniability. If I react, it was a joke. If I don’t react, they push harder. It’s like watching someone poke a sleeping tiger with a breadstick and then act surprised when it growls.

Emojis and GIFs are fine. Using them to dodge a real sentence? Not fine.

A winky emoji can be cute. A laughing emoji can soften a line. A GIF can say I’m playful without forcing you to risk an actual personality. And before I sound like a school principal confiscating phones, let me confess something.

I love emojis too. If you’ve read my writing, you already know.

I sprinkle them everywhere. In my blogs. In my messages. Sometimes I use them like seasoning. Sometimes like punctuation. Sometimes like a small wave from across the room. I’m guilty. Proudly.

The difference is I’m not using them as camouflage.

Emojis are great when they add tone to words that are already decent. They’re even charming when they show self-awareness, like you know this is awkward and you’re trying to keep it human. But do not mistake decoration for charm. If your message is rude, a smiley face does not save it. If your request is pushy, a crying laughing emoji does not turn it into flirting. That’s like spraying perfume on a dead fish and calling it dinner.

Sometimes men use emojis the way toddlers use glitter. The more insecure they are, the more they sprinkle. Suddenly I’m reading hieroglyphics. Tongue emoji, eggplant emoji, sweat emoji, devil emoji, devil emoji again. Sir, I’m not decoding your ancient sex scroll. Use words. Like an adult. One who’s met an actual woman.

And then, of course, comes the unsolicited dick pic.

Let me say this with love. I like men. I like sex. I like cock. I just do not like it from strangers I have not met yet, not in pixels, not as a jump scare on my screen while I’m trying to buy toothpaste.

All cocks look the same in pixels without a soul.

If you want me to want yours, give me a person first. Give me a voice. Give me a vibe. Give me five lines that prove you have a brain attached to your appetite.

Sending your penis to a stranger is not confidence. It’s impatience. You think you’re being bold. You’re actually announcing you cannot tolerate the suspense of being wanted.

Selfies are their own category. Some men send them to be transparent, which I respect. Some send them like a sales pitch, which is less sexy. Some send them fishing for validation before they’ve even booked. That last one tells me you’re not trying to see me. You’re trying to be seen. You want me to pat your head through the screen and tell you you’re special while you pretend you’re “just enquiring.” It’s not charming, it’s hungry.

To be fair, this is mostly a stranger problem.

If we’ve met in person, the rules loosen. A regular can text short and it’s not rude, it’s efficient. He can send a quick Free Tuesday? and I know his tone. I know his manners. I know whether he’s direct or demanding. There’s a human file already opened in my brain.

But if you have never met me, your first message is the whole audition. There is no eye contact to soften clumsy. There is no in-person charm to compensate for bad digital manners. The text is the handshake. The tone is the body language. The way you wait is your self-control. The way you push is your entitlement.

Phone calls are my favaurite. A voice is a truth serum. You can’t polish a phone call the way you polish a text. I can hear your tone, your confidence, your natural choice of words. I can hear if you’re respectful or performing respectful. I can hear if you’re calm or pretending to be calm while your brain is doing cartwheels.

And if you’re nervous? I get it. I won’t judge you for that. Sometimes it’s even adorable.

Phone calls cut both ways, which I like. You get a clean read on me too. You can hear my accent. You can hear my broken Engrish. You can hear the wrong grammar that slips out when I’m talking fast, not editing myself into perfection. If I’m not your fit, you’ll know quickly. If I am, you’ll know that too.

A voice gives you away. Real conversation is sexy. It takes confidence to speak like a grown man in the moment, without hiding behind punctuation and emojis like they’re bodyguards.

But I’m not sitting by the phone like I run a call centre. I might be on public transport. I might be in a loud cafe. I might be crossing a street with bags. I might be at an appointment. I might be resting. I might be in a session. I might be asleep. If I don’t pick up, it’s not rejection. It’s logistics. If you take it personally, that’s not passion, that’s fragility.

And sometimes texting is simply smarter. I can see the date, the time, the plan, and your requests in black and white, then read it again when I’m getting ready. That kind of clarity is foreplay. It lets me prepare properly, not guess, not half-remember, not juggle details while I’m standing in a pharmacy line trying to sound polite.

Which brings me to the line that sums it up.

Mirror mirror, I love you, or I rough you.

Two men can want the exact same thing. Heat. Sex. Control. Surrender. A little danger. A little sweetness. A little I shouldn’t with an I absolutely will.

One man wants it and still knows how to behave. He’s direct. He’s clean. He gives the details. He can wait. He can handle the moment between wanting and getting without turning into a negotiator, a brat, or a bully. That man is saying, mirror mirror, I love you. Not romance. Not poems. I mean he knows what he wants is valuable, and he treats it that way. He understands the best version of me is invited, not extracted.

Then there’s the other type. He wants it, but he can’t tolerate wanting. He turns appetite into pressure. He rushes. He bargains. He tests. He tries to dominate the conversation before he’s earned anything. He wants control because control protects him from feeling exposed. That man is saying, mirror mirror, I rough you. Not even always sexually. Rough in the way he reaches. Rough in the way he tries to take before he’s built any trust.

A man doesn’t reveal himself when he’s getting what he wants.

He reveals himself in the moment between wanting and getting.

That’s where the animal shows. That’s where the adult shows. That’s where the future I can’t wait to see you again shows, or the future please do not contact me shows.

And I’m not pretending I’m perfect on my side of the screen. Sometimes I’m brief when I should be warmer. Sometimes I’m busy and my reply comes out clipped. Sometimes I miss a call and forget to circle back. Sometimes I read a message through the lens of the last ten messages I got that day. That’s the other half of the mirror. The way you approach me shapes what you get back. Not in a petty way, in a human way. If you arrive with ease and respect, you get the best of me. If you arrive with pressure, I respond with steel.

I usually give people the benefit of doubt at first. Maybe English isn’t his first language. Maybe he’s socially awkward. Maybe he’s nervous and trying too hard. I often reply with patience. I give it a few chances. I let a clumsy message slide if the intention feels decent. I’m not out here looking for reasons to punish men for being human.

But patterns don’t stay invisible for long. If the same behaviour keeps reappearing, the same pushing, the same bargaining, the same cheap little tests, or my personal favorite, I send you a proper, long, detailed and generous reply and you either ghost or toss back a one-word response like “ok” as if we’re negotiating oxygen, that’s when I stop translating for you. That’s when I stop filling in the gaps with kindness. That’s when I switch to mirror. You bring pressure, you get steel. You bring respect, you get warmth. You bring confusion, you get clarity. It’s not vengeance. It’s calibration.

So if you want to make a good first impression, stop trying to be impressive. Be clean. Be precise. Be direct without being sloppy. If you want to call, call like an adult and accept I might not pick up. If you want to text, text like a person, not a shopper. Use emojis if you want. I do. Just don’t use them as an escape hatch. A smiley face does not turn entitlement into charm.

Ask before you send photos. Do not send a dick pic unless it’s explicitly invited. That’s not prudishness. It’s social intelligence. You’re trying to enter a private world. Act like someone who deserves access to it.

Because I promise you, I will meet the tone you bring.

If you’ve read this and you’re smiling and still want to fuck me, not argue with me or bleeding inside, congratulations. We’re speaking the same language.