Here since 2013, this blog has grown and evolved with me, becoming a space for community, humor, puppies, sex, and everything in between. While this is very much an NSFW blog (within reason), I also have a side blog for the even more NSFW content.
I’m a switch, and my mood determines what side of me you’ll encounter here. For some, I’m a playful companion; for others, a guide or a challenge, depending on our dynamic. For the right person, all sides come out. As a middle-aged man, I’ve spent much of my later life reflecting on, challenging, and at times struggling with societal norms and expectations. From questioning traditional masculinity to rejecting rigid definitions of self-expression, this blog has become my platform for exploring those challenges and sharing alternative perspectives on life.
I have a deep appreciation for lingerie on myself and others. Like many, I struggle to find clothes that not only fit but also reflect who I am, limited by the narrow constraints of societal norms and the body shapes they’re often designed around.
My sexuality is closest to gynesexual—a term describing attraction to femininity or women, regardless of their gender identity. It’s a label that resonates deeply with me and has provided clarity, though no single term can fully define who I am. This clarity was only possible through the power of the modern computer era.
A Bit About Me:
Life circumstances led to years of solo chastity and unhealthy sexual fantasies. Through time, reflection, and friends, I’ve embraced diversity and representation, which you’ll see reflected in the content I share and repost. And I will be the first to admit that even my shares are not representative of everyone, as, in the end, the content resonates with me and my desires. However, supporting alternate views of life matters.
I’ve also developed an appreciation for monster kink, short prose, and discussions about what defines submission, dominance, and sexuality. Sex acts and clothing don’t inherently carry meaning; it’s intent that shapes everything.
When it comes to clothing, I’ve struggled to express myself, often battling societal expectations that limit how a man 'should' look or dress. As a masculine-presenting man, society often labels my love of colors, textures, and styles as "feminine." For me, these choices represent sanctuary and gentleness in a world that often feels harsh. This is not about being a sissy or crossdresser; it’s about rejecting societal labels and simply being me. I’ve fought against these norms and the boundaries often self-imposed on me, but finding ways to express myself while navigating these constructs remains a challenge as I discovered this part of myself very late in life.
In my daily life, I’m tasked with decisions that impact hundreds or even thousands of people. Amidst that pressure, these clothing choices provide a moment of softness and a personal retreat, reconnecting me with parts of myself that life’s struggles often wear down.
I’m also a caring Daddy when it comes to my partners; a guide, a provider, a source of safety, and someone who can be a bit of a sadist when the need arises in my partner.
A Few Ground Rules:
This is an adult space. You must be 18+ (or the age of majority in your country) to engage here.
I welcome discussions and questions, but know that this is my blog. If you don’t like what you see, you’re free to leave.
Bots, scammers, and those who believe their way of life is the only “true” way are not welcome here. Feel free to explore concepts like misogyny or patriarchy in kink or your fantasies, but if you believe they’re the “correct” way to live, this isn’t the space for you.
To the rest of my community: Welcome. Let’s share, laugh, explore, and connect.
My Other Writings - (Update: 2025/12/24)
I have collect a short list of my curated words for you to enjoy. Some are deeply personal, while others are simply fiction.
Pride, Later in Life:
What Queerness Means to Me Now That I Have the Language
I didn’t grow up thinking of myself as queer. I didn’t have that word. What I had were feelings I couldn’t explain and stories that stirred something I didn’t understand—something that didn’t fit in the version of manhood I was given. And for a long time, I fit inside it without question. I conformed—not out of resistance to queerness, but because I didn’t know there was anything else to reach for—no language for the desires that hadn’t fully formed, no model for the questions I hadn’t yet learned to ask.
It took me decades to realize that queerness isn’t just about who you sleep with. It’s about how you relate to desire, identity, gender, softness, power, and expression. It’s about the places you’ve had to hide, and the parts of yourself you’re only just beginning to show.
This is not a coming-out story in the traditional sense. This is a naming story—a slow, honest reckoning with the parts of myself that didn’t make sense until I had language for them. Acknowledging my queerness doesn’t mean I’ve changed. It means I’ve stopped avoiding the contradictions—and started letting myself be seen, even by my own eyes, more truthfully.
For me, queerness arrived quietly. Not through rebellion or rejection, but through reflection. It crept in through questions I didn’t know how to ask out loud. Through noticing what stirred me—and what didn’t. Through the realization that what felt like 'normal' desire wasn’t mine, just borrowed.
The version of manhood I was given had no room for softness, no room for fabrics that comfort, for colors that soothe, or for stillness that doesn’t serve productivity. I didn’t know that wanting those things could mean something more profound. I didn’t realize that there were other ways to be whole. And so I wore the cloak of masculinity, responsibility, and control. It made me functional—but not always whole.
Looking back, I realize how many of those early stories—even the ones found in secret, even the ones wrapped in fantasy or labeled as 'wrong'—carried clues. Some were novels I wasn’t supposed to read. Some were late-night searches that left me feeling more confused than satisfied. Some were porn. Not just because of what was shown, but because of what was hidden beneath it: the yearning, the power shifts, the longing to be seen in ways I couldn’t name yet.
They weren’t just outlets. They were early mirrors. They reflected desires and connections that didn’t fit what I was taught to want. They hinted at a different kind of longing—a deeper connection to identity, embodiment, and power. They didn’t give me answers, but they left me breadcrumbs. And I’m still following them, slowly, toward something more honest.
With that, honesty has come with a new language. I’ve come to understand myself as gynosexual—drawn to femininity in its many forms, across identity and expression. It wasn’t one person or moment that clarified this—it was noticing how drawn I was to softness itself. Not just in others, but in how femininity carries both vulnerability and strength. What aroused me wasn’t always gender—it was energy, expression, nuance. Gynosexual isn’t a term many people know, but it fits. It means my attraction isn’t about identity boxes—it’s about what feels emotionally and aesthetically aligned. And that’s how I’ve always moved, even before I had the words.
And I’ve started recognizing that I likely live somewhere along the demisexual or asexual spectrum. But I want to be clear: I am a very sexual person. What I didn’t realize until later in life is how differently I connect. I had words, but not connection. I engaged with desire in theory and fantasy, but rarely in ways that reached my heart. I didn’t start slower because I lacked interest—I started slower because I lacked safety. I needed the kind of emotional resonance I wasn’t getting earlier in life. Not because I lacked desire, but because mine has always needed emotional gravity—safety, connection, narrative—to take shape. It’s not about performance—it’s about presence. Intimacy. Meaning. I wasn’t lacking sexuality—I was missing space to breathe freely.
Submission is a part of me. But so is strength, guidance, and care. I don’t live in one mode or identity—I live as a constellation of selves that hold each other. I am Daddy. I am Me. I am someone who once sought to erase the parts of myself that felt unworthy or contradictory—who tried to quiet the conflict through pain, because I didn’t know how to hold all the contradictions at once. Now, I seek understanding. And what I’ve come to understand more recently is that my queerness also includes being a switch. That I can take and give, hold and be held. That the yin and the yang are not roles I play—they are parts of how I exist.
Pride didn’t come to me through celebration. It came through survival. Through silence. Through slow shifts in understanding. Through language that arrived late, yet arrived nonetheless. For a long time, I stood at Pride as an ally—grateful to support, but unsure if I belonged inside the circle. I felt welcome. I just hadn’t seen myself in it yet. Now, I do. Not because something changed, but because I’ve started to see myself more clearly.
This is what queerness looks like for me: not a single revelation, but a slow layering of truths. It isn’t a rejection of the life I built or the love I’ve known. It’s an acknowledgment that I’ve always been more than one thing—and that discovering new language for myself doesn’t erase the parts of my past that were real, or meaningful, or loved. Not a rejection of who I was, but a fuller understanding of it. Every part of me—what I’ve been, what I am, what I’m becoming—deserves to be seen as part of the whole.
And maybe what moved me most, recently, was watching others live out their truths—quietly, courageously, without apology. Seeing them made something in me ache. Not just out of admiration, but envy. Because I still feel constrained by the structure I accepted from youth, by the life I built, and by not knowing how to integrate all of it. But that ache is also a signal—a sign that something inside me wants to be more honest, freer. And I’m listening.
I’m in my fifties now. I carry responsibilities, relationships, and commitments that matter deeply to me. I’m not trying to undo what I’ve built—instead, I am learning how to honor the parts of myself that have never seen the sun. I look with envy at those who are discovering this language earlier, who are reshaping their lives with clarity that I have only recently found. The world is still cruel in many ways, but there’s more space now to speak, to name, to be.
I think of a friend, recently divorced, newly out as bisexual. Something about that shift, that moment of reevaluation and honesty, opened a door for him. And in his vulnerability, I felt something stir in me, too. Not attraction in the way I might have once defined it, but a deep desire to care for him. To witness and support him. Maybe it wasn’t sexual. Perhaps it was something more intimate than that. These are the moments that remind me what queerness really is—not just who we want, but how we want to show up. That care and fluidity, that openness to be seen and held as we are—that is what I see in my coworkers and students who express themselves with a freedom I never felt I had. And that is what I ache toward, even now.
I still don’t live all of this out loud. Not every part of me fits easily into daily life. Some of that is fear—some of it is care for those I love. But even in quiet, I’m learning how to show up more truthfully.
And that, for me, is what Pride looks like—not just celebration, but recognition. Not just visibility, but integration. Not just a flag, but a mirror. Not for others. For myself.
There’s a kind of fight I’ve been in for years. Quiet. Constant. Largely invisible to the world.
Some of that fight has been about desire. What I want. Why I want it. And where those wants even come from.
For a long time, I lived inside a marriage that left me small. My sexuality, my softness, even my sense of worth, became part of how I degraded myself. Not because I wanted to, but because I had absorbed the belief that pain was what I deserved. I used those parts of me against myself and called it control, because admitting how lost I was felt worse than clinging to punishment.
I built a life of compromises because I had convinced myself that’s what I deserved. I let outside voices chip away at me until I couldn’t tell where their judgment ended and my self-worth began. And when I finally started naming what I wanted—gentleness, beauty, care—I didn’t trust any of it.
I thought maybe those wants were just scars reshaped into cravings. Some were. I fought them hard. Because some of them weren’t born from joy or freedom, they were built in the face of survival and shaped by harm. Some may stick with me forever, etched too deeply into my psyche to fully shed.
But instead of rejecting them outright, I’m learning to see them clearly. To ask whether they’re still hurting me, or whether I can reclaim them as part of something healthier, something mine. I don’t need to throw everything away. I need to know what still belongs. Over the last six months, I’ve been quietly testing that through the smallest of things. In doing so, I’ve begun to feel something shifting. Not abruptly. But undeniably.
Not all at once. Not loudly. But in those small choices, I’ve started to see just how deep the conflict runs—and how much I still long for softness in a world that has always rewarded hardness.
This story isn’t a confession or a revelation, it’s a slow, deliberate reclamation, not from others, but within myself.
The earbuds came first. And they shouldn’t have mattered.
But they did.
Because by the time I sat staring at that Amazon page, something inside me was already unraveling. Years of self-denial, masked desire, and learned restraint were beginning to loosen their hold. I wasn’t just choosing a color. I was confronting a wall I’d built brick by brick over the years. The typical choices were black and white. And the safe choice, the one I would’ve made without thinking, was black. There was a third option. A light blue. Not quite sky blue, but soft, subtle, and shiny. The color I was drawn to felt honest in a way I couldn’t explain.
The anxiety wasn’t rational. It crept in as hesitation, shallow breath, the urge to click black and move on. Safe. Invisible. Normal.
I asked myself questions I didn’t want to answer. Is this too much? Am I trying to be something I’m not? Will people see this and assume something about me, I’m not ready to face myself? Will they be right? And underneath all that, one question lingered. Am I allowed to want this?
The hardest part wasn’t choosing the light blue. It was daring to believe I could choose at all.
Next were my nails.
Matte Ash lavender. Not bold. Not flashy. A quiet shift on the surface, but a quiet storm within.
The truth is, I never had the desire to paint my nails until long after I had become deeply entrenched in a cycle of self-erasure. That desire didn’t grow from freedom or playfulness. It was seeded in humiliation. In the media I consumed when I was at my lowest, the fantasies were meant to emasculate and degrade. I internalized it. I made it part of how I endured inside a broken life. I told myself I liked it because it hurt. Because I deserved it.
Was I reclaiming something, or was I just repeating harm? Was this self-expression or another echo of self-erasure? I fought with them in silence, circling around shame and survival and something that looked like want. But when the polish dried, those questions didn’t matter the same way. They had already done their work.
And now, I don’t ask them anymore.
Only one person has asked me about them. A friend in his late seventies. I told him I painted them to go to Pride, and because I envied the ease with which others seemed to move in their own expression. He just nodded and said, “Cool.” That was it. And somehow, it meant everything. He asked if I did them myself or had them done. I said I paid someone. That was the end of it.
But I still find myself waiting. Waiting for someone to make a big deal. Waiting for the judgment I’ve trained myself to expect. And at the same time, I’m amazed I didn’t back out. I found a thread of confidence in myself and followed it. That I didn’t make a public declaration or post a picture:I didn’t tell anyone the day I did it. Because it wasn’t for them; it was for me.
What helped most came before. A friend reminded me of the Dao. She called me Pooh in the gentlest, most grounding way, referencing The Tao of Pooh. Maybe, she said, I didn’t need to fight every question. Perhaps I could just be.
So I’m trying.
Trying to let the struggle quiet itself. Trying to live what feels right.
But I have kept them painted. Because it was the first time I felt a hint of choice inside a story I used to believe had already been written for me.
That feeling has quieted. As I settle into the Dao, I’ve stopped questioning the desire. I have it. It doesn’t cause harm. And more often than not, it feels good. Some days, there’s still a hum of doubt in the background. But mostly, I’m just living it now.
Then came the wallet.
By then, the quiet had settled into my bones. Just last night, I bought a burgundy leather wallet. It hasn’t even arrived yet, and still, I know exactly why I chose it.
For the last week, I had been researching wallets—scrolling past minimalist designs made of plastic, webbing, and metal. Cold. Hard. EDC-style things that looked tactical and sharp. Wallets made to feel rugged, impersonal, even aggressive. And I couldn’t picture enjoying a single one of them.
Then I stumbled on leather wallets made in Arizona by Lost Dutchman Leather. Suddenly, something shifted. These weren’t soft in a traditionally feminine way, but they carried a warmth that still felt grounded. I could already picture the feel of it. Supple leather, molded over time by the shape of my body and touched by the patina of daily use. I could smell it. Its warmth lived in my imagination. And I hadn’t even received it yet.
It settled over me like breath returning. The world isn’t black and white. And neither are my desires. I don’t have to categorize every choice as hard or soft, feminine or masculine, safe or deviant.
The wallet reminded me of that.
It brought relief. Because I’m learning a new language. Back then, my mind felt knotted, tangled in binaries of feminine or masculine, soft or hard. I didn’t know there was another way to be. But with time, I’m beginning to understand that I can be soft and still be me. That not every choice is about pushing the envelope. The wallet is an excellent example of that. It wasn’t about making a statement. It was about choosing what felt right for me.
These three small things… they’re not small at all, not to me.
What parts of me have I buried to be acceptable? How much of my past was performance? What do I actually want—and why was I so afraid of wanting it?
I used to define myself by opposites. Feminine or masculine. Soft or hard. Never both. The Dao has taught me better. That duality isn’t the only language. That the world moves in harmony, not opposition. That I can be soft and still carry strength. What feels right doesn’t have to be justified. It only has to be lived.
I used to look at people who moved freely in their expression and feel a pulse of envy. Not because I wanted to copy them, but because I wanted to feel that free in my own skin. I still feel that sometimes. But I also know I’m closer now than I’ve ever been.
What I do know is that each of these small choices helped me breathe a little easier, even through the anxiety and self-doubt. They didn’t silence the internal war, but they reminded me that I can choose. I don’t have to keep carrying everything I once believed made me strong.
Softness isn’t the opposite of strength. It’s the strength I didn’t know I was allowed to have.
These three small things are the start of something bigger. Not a transformation, but a return. A remembering. A reclamation of the parts of me I thought I had to leave behind.
And the fight to get here is the proof that it matters.
I don’t have to push. I don’t have to arrive. The Dao isn’t about conquering or defining. It’s about letting go of the struggle to control what already wants to flow.
And I’m starting to believe I can move through the world in a way that feels open, steady, and real. Not all at once. Not perfectly. But that’s the way of it, isn’t it?
There’s a post online.
There are two genders: dragon or cumdump. Which are you?
Most people say dragon.
And why wouldn’t they? Dragons are strength. Majesty. Power. They burn bright, take up space, and command attention. We all want to be that; Untouchable and Impressive. Something no one dares to fuck with.
I didn’t say dragon.
I said cumdump.
Not as a joke. Not as a punchline.
Because that’s what I felt.
And then I started thinking about why.
It’s easy to reach for the image that makes you feel big. It’s harder to sit with the parts of yourself that feel small, or dirty, or shameful. But here’s something I’ve learned. Slowly. Painfully. With help from people who love me enough to keep me anchored.
There’s power in owning who you are.
Not in degrading yourself. Not in saying “I’m stupid” or “I’m broken.”
But in looking at the parts you’ve hidden. Even the ones you don’t want to admit exist, and saying: that’s mine. I see it. I own it.
Owning the soft. The strong.
The rigid. The flexible.
The parts that want to kneel. The ones that burn to be in control.
The fantasies you’re scared to say out loud.
The ones you thought you had to live to feel whole.
Even the parts you almost destroyed yourself to reach.
I’ve been there. I’ve stood at the edge of decisions I can’t believe I considered. Things that felt like the only path forward when I didn’t have a way to name what was hurting. I tried to Dom myself into submission. No safeword. No pause. Just me, trying to disappear into an identity I didn’t fully understand.
And then someone came along who saw me.
Helped me pause.
Helped me come back to myself.
That’s where real strength is.
Not in being a dragon. Not in being a cumdump.
In being both. Or neither. Or something else entirely.
It’s in choosing to face yourself completely.
Because once you do, you can grow. You can heal.
You don’t have to live in fantasy to feel real.
You’ve knelt for me.
Not in the same room. Not where I can see.
But I’ve felt it—
in your messages,
in your voice,
in the way you wear my collar—
one I’ve never touched—
with devotion that makes it real.
You kneel in spirit already.
And that means everything.
My chest tightens at the thought of you dropping—
finally, fully, for me.
This time with skin I can touch,
breath I can feel,
your scent filling my senses.
The moment when your knees meet the ground,
not from command,
but from devotion.
I feel my hands in your hair
as I place the collar around your neck—
a seal of presence,
Final. Unshakable.
And I know what comes after.
When I claim you fully—
not with words,
but with everything I am.
When I mark you,
and you let me.
Not because I ask.
Because we both know it’s time.
Because you’ve been mine
even before your body had the chance to wear it—
to feel it settle inside you like something long-awaited.
This guide explores the deeper meanings and symbolism within 'The Ship and the Lion.' The poem is a personal reflection of identity, devotion, and guidance within a connection. It draws from symbols commonly associated with the names of the figures involved, using imagery that intertwines strength, resilience, and chosen bonds.
Symbolic Elements
The Lion and the Lighthouse
The lion is a universal symbol of strength, guardianship, and unwavering presence. In this poem, the lion stands as both protector and guide, much like the lighthouse—a constant beacon through chaos, offering direction but never forcing control. This figure represents a person who is steadfast in their devotion, waiting and guiding without demanding change.
The Ship and the Storm
The ship is symbolic of a soul navigating uncertainty, drawn to yet resisting the lighthouse’s call. At the same time, the storm represents the ship’s restless spirit—wild, free, and sometimes lost. The storm is not an enemy to be conquered but a force to be understood and embraced. This duality reflects an individual who is both strong in their own right yet finds comfort in the steadiness of the lighthouse’s presence.
The Color Purple
Purple serves as a bridge between turmoil and resolution. It is the color of storms, symbolizing passion, struggle, and transformation. At the same time, it is historically linked to regality and identity. As the poem progresses, the storm 'bleeds violet into flame,' a transition from chaos into golden certainty, reinforcing the journey from doubt to reassurance.
The Silver Band
A crucial symbol in the poem is the band worn by the ship. It is not a chain or restraint, but a mark of identity—an intentional connection that remains even through the storm. It represents a chosen bond, not ownership, but something deeply personal and enduring.
Themes and Interpretation
Guidance Without Control
One of the poem’s core themes is the balance of strength and freedom. The lion and lighthouse do not command the ship’s return; instead, they offer a steady presence. Similarly, the ship does not lose its identity but rather chooses to return to its guiding home. This reflects a relationship where one person provides unwavering support without seeking to change the other’s fundamental nature.
Belonging and Identity
The poem explores how identity is not erased by connection, but rather reinforced. The storm still roars even as the ship finds its way home, emphasizing that belonging does not require conformity, only understanding and acceptance.
The Journey, Not the Destination
Rather than a traditional ‘ending’ where the storm disappears, the poem concludes with the idea that the ship returns, though the storm still roars. This suggests that life’s turbulence never truly vanishes, but in the right place, it is not something to be feared or battled—it is simply part of the journey.
Conclusion
The Ship and the Lion is a deeply personal and symbolic poem about devotion, trust, and identity. Its imagery conveys the balance between strength and surrender, guidance and freedom, certainty and chaos. It speaks to those who find comfort in steadfast presence, yet still embrace the wildness of their own nature. This guide provides a framework for understanding its meaning, but ultimately, every reader will bring their own interpretation, shaped by their own journey.
