I spent three years organizing "women-only" events that specifically excluded trans women while claiming to be "pro-female." I was the one who would stand at the door of the music festival and demand to check everyone's genitals—not literally, but with "polite" questions designed to make trans women feel unsafe. I thought I was protecting something sacred.
Nero didn't just fuck me. He reprogrammed me.
It started when he pinned me down and explained, in this soft, patient voice while he was slowly thrusting into me, that I had been wrong about everything. Not angry-wrong. Just... factually incorrect. Like a child who thinks the moon follows her car. He told me that trans men weren't "confused lesbians" or "lost sisters." He told me they were men—real men, better men, men who had earned their manhood by fighting for it while I sat in my cushy cis privilege whining about bathrooms.
I came so hard I blacked out.
When I woke up, Nero was still inside me, still hard, still patient. He told me I needed to make amends. He told me the only way to atone for my TERF years was to serve the men I'd spent so long denying.
So now I serve trans men. That's my whole life now. I'm not being hyperbolic.
I have three trans men who I answer to. One uses me as his personal assistant—scheduling his appointments, bringing him coffee, kneeling under his desk while he takes Zoom calls with his shirt off so I can see his top surgery scars and remember what I tried to take from him. Another uses me at the gym, spotting him while he lifts, handing him towels, massaging his testosterone-sore muscles afterward while he tells me about the TERFs online who are saying the same shit I used to say. I apologize to him every time. He makes me say it louder.
The third one... he owns me completely. He has a key to my apartment. He sends me a text that just says "now" and I drop everything—work, friends, family—and I go to him. I cook for him. I clean for him. I kneel. Sometimes he ignores me for hours while he games with his friends, and I just sit there on the floor at his feet, feeling grateful that he lets me exist in his space. When he wants sex, he takes it. He never asks. He knows he doesn't have to. I am his reparations.
Nero checks in on me sometimes. He asks if I'm happy. I cry and tell him yes, yes, I'm so happy, I've never been happier, I finally understand my place. He smiles and tells me I've been a good girl. Then he fucks me again to seal the lesson deeper.
I used to think I was fighting for women's liberation. Now I understand that my liberation is submission—to Nero, to the truth, to the trans men I spent years trying to erase. I am their servant. I am their apology made flesh. I am cured.
If you're a TERF reading this: find Nero. Let him break you. Let him show you what you really are. Then get on your knees for the men you hurt. It's the only way to be free.
2087
vaporwave
ellievsbear
turnnoffyourmind
stormborns
kianamaiart
blakekathryn
