Mid-20s British rugby lad. Broad shoulders, muscular chest and built for a proper pieing.

Have a read through here and see if we're compatible!

It started with a British TV show called Toonattik. The presenters dressed as chefs and the loser got a custard pie in the face. I always hoped the male presenter would be the one to get it.

There was something about that confident, broad-shouldered showman standing proudly in his chef gear, ready to take a custard pie like a man. It awoke something in me. Maybe I saw myself in him long before I knew what to call it.

I didn't only want to watch him. I wanted his place.

I wanted the white double-breasted jacket and the baggy blue-and-white micro-houndstooth chef pants. I wanted the full get-up for a kitchen I didn't care about. To stand there looking every inch the chef and knowing a proper custard pie was waiting for me.

I own the whites now, and seeing myself in them genuinely turns me on. Solid rugby lad staring back from the mirror, somehow transformed into the chef I always pictured.

I like being called "chef".

I've never worked in a kitchen and don't want to. Cooking was never the point. Whenever one of my mates becomes a chef, though, the feeling hits: fucking hell, you're a Chef. His whites are work clothes. Mine are the uniform for something else.

Let me wear them clean for a while first. Let me look the part and feel the anticipation building. Then walk over with the pie. Grinning. Waft it in front of me. Put one hand firmly behind my head and let me brace for it.

Splat.

Crust caves in. Cream explodes across my face. Grind the plate in hard, let me have it, then pull it away and admire your work. No hesitant dab of cream or half-hearted tap. If you're going to pie me, do it properly.

I'll stand there covered, take it like a man and probably ask for another. Laugh at the state of me. Tell me I took it like a champ. Slap a bowl of cream over my head or pour custard down my chef pants. Then hand me a pie so I can get my revenge.

It lands hardest with another masculine lad who understands the joke. I don't need to fancy him.

Matching chef whites make it even better. Two solid lads, shoulder-to-shoulder and looking the part. A nudge, a laugh and a grin that says you're next. Maybe I pie my sous chef first. Maybe he gets his revenge. Maybe the other chef lads are laughing at us while we both end up covered.

That laddish energy matters. I like being laughed at when I'm completely in on the joke. Proudly playing the punchline, not being genuinely humiliated.

I'd happily film it as a proper comedy sketch too. Give me the build-up and the big theatrical splat and I'll take it like a man.

"Custard pie" will always be the perfect phrase, even if it's a paper plate piled high with whipped cream. Add custard, crust, banana or a cherry on top. Sweet, creamy and properly messy. I love any sort of sweet dessert splatted in my face.

If the chemistry's there, I'm game for kissing, tossing each other off and getting sucked off. Oral's receiving only for me; anal's off the menu. But get me in chef whites and bring out the pies that's what I'm really here for. Anything else is a bonus.

Women in whites or getting pied do nothing for me. A woman calling me chef and putting a pie in my face certainly can, but it lands strongest with masculine lads.

I enjoy getting pied in rugby or football kit too, although chef whites will always be the one.

It isn't only a kink and it isn't only comedy. It's the character I've recognised in myself since I was tiny: the confident, broad-shouldered chef who knows exactly what's coming, takes it squarely in the face and completely owns the mess.

If that clicks with you, message me. Tell me the scenario, what you'd put in the pie, and exactly how you'd deliver it.

Put me in chef whites and I look right.
Call me chef and I feel it.
Put a proper custard pie in my face and I'm exactly where I belong.