I Sell Fantasies, Not Girl Scout Cookies

I’ve always needed sex. Not in the frantic, can’t-function-unless-I’m-getting-railed way, but more like it’s oxygen. I can hold my breath for a while and pretend I’m above it, but eventually I need to exhale and go hunting again. Sometimes it’s for cock, sometimes for intimacy, and sometimes just for the weight of another body pressing into mine until the itch is quiet for a while.

I’ve spent more hours in parks, bathrooms, and alleys than most priests, and unlike them, I’ve never walked away thinking I’d wasted my time. It has never just been about the orgasm. It’s about the exchange, the look, that silent contract in the dark under a tree or behind a gas station, when two people wordlessly agree to be real with each other for a minute.

My recent article on Cruising for Sex talks in detail on the hunt for cock.

This Is How I Survive

I write gay erotica because I need it. Because the world tells us to be clean and polite while it quietly jerks off in shame behind closed doors. I don’t do shame. I write the things people pretend they’re not thinking about. The men who break eye contact too quickly. The ones who look at your mouth when you talk. The ones who live in your head for days.

That’s what drives everything I write.

Join The Horny Journey

On my Substack, that need lives and breathes. It’s where I put the stories that crawl out of me when I can’t sleep, the ones where construction workers bend instead of break, where cops pull out more than their badge, where men lie to their girlfriends then cry in my mouth while they come.

Patreon is still alive for the loyal foxes who want to binge it all. Some of my erotica is now also in my shop if you prefer owning your filth outright. I’ve even started writing custom erotica and recording audio versions on request, because if you whisper your darkest fantasy into my inbox, I’ll turn it into something you can cum to more than once.

This is not a side hustle anymore. It’s an ecosystem that I’m building.

And payment processors hate it. They clutch their pearls every time someone buys a story about glory holes or confesses that they got off three times to my construction boys. Stripe reviews my account like I’m laundering gold bullion, while PayPal looks like it wants to call the police. They can all choke because I’m still here.

The Other Monster I’m Building

While I’m writing about men with rough hands and hungry eyes, I’m also digging through the wreckage of my past and reshaping it into something sharp. The memoir series Good Luck Getting Rid of Me is coming to its own Substack soon, a place for the trauma files that shaped me. That one’s been hard to unpack. The guy is finally going to get what he deserves. This heart-breaking story centres around psychopathy, heartbreak and survival, all the ways this narcissistic psychopath tried to kill me and how he made it look like foreplay instead.

There’s already interest in dramatizing it, which is hilarious, because I still sometimes eat cereal for dinner, but apparently my life needs actors, cameras, and mood lighting now. While that simmers, I’ve been recording a new podcast with a major podcaster who wants to help me burn the whole thing wide open. My voice and the entire fucked up story.

And if you want the uncut version, start at the beginning. The early chapters of my memoir are already in the store, sitting next to the erotica that paid for my therapy.

Sex Is Survival

Sex has never been just sex to me. It’s memory, control and often it’s surrender. Like the moment someone looks at you like you’re more than an outline and you believe them for five whole minutes. It’s how I pray, and how I grieve. It’s how I remind myself I’m still made of something worth living for.

The world tells us to stay clean and respectable, like anyone’s browser history is full of Bible verses. I don’t buy it because I don’t want to be respectable. I want to be real.

I’m not trying to be a slut. I just am one, with taste.

And if my fantasies pay the bills, I’ll keep writing them.