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t’s not about hating myself. It’s not because I have “daddy issues.” And it’s definitely not because I’m broken. I crave being degraded because in that moment—when I’m on my knees, mouth full, body aching—I feel more than I do anywhere else.More wanted. More filthy. More honest.There’s no pretending when I’m being used like a cocksleeve, called a whore, spat on, pinned down, and told I’m nothing but a hole. That’s not shame. That’s freedom. Freedom to be fucked without limits. Freedom to stop performing “pretty.” Freedom to be the dirty, needy little thing I actually am inside. When he laughs at how I am just a little “pussy", I get from the word slut, my hole clenches. When he spits on me and calls it “affection” I melt. When I’m told I’m only good for being bred and ruined, my whole body lights the fuck up. Degradation doesn’t humiliate me—it releases me. It strips away the surface-level niceties and gives me permission to belong to the desire. To him.I don’t want to be worshipped .I want to be wrecked. Feral. Fucked. Forgotten until I’m needed again. And if he makes me cry in the process? Even better. I’ll thank him with my mouth full.

Hello beautiful, A couple of things on my mind tonight. Firstly, I was talking to Suf about my cruising tendencies. He hasn’t really explored that world yet, aside from one experience in a dark room in Amsterdam. He said he’d like to learn more next time we meet—and I’m more than happy to share, hehe. He also mentioned that he’s going to Beefcake tonight, which is a sex event in the city. I was so intrigued I looked it up. It’s basically a DJ club night with go-go dancers, but what really caught my attention was the dark room where sex is permitted. It sounded… very exciting. Phil also mentioned that he’s going out tonight, and it hit me that he’s the type to be out every Friday night. And then I turned inward and realized—since the breakup, I haven’t been invited out on a Friday or Saturday night at all. But here’s the thing: we’ve never really had that kind of friend group, have we? The ones who go clubbing regularly. And even if we were invited… would we even go? We’re the type who prefer silence. We like watching movies with people, playing games, having deep chats—the quieter kinds of connection. So what am I feeling? I don’t feel left out, or jealous that others are out partying. Tonight, I stayed home and practiced piano for three hours, then sat down to write this message to you before bed. That’s about as quiet as a night can get—and honestly, I love it. I just think we’re wired differently from the people who thrive in clubs and crowds. We find magic in stillness. And there’s nothing wrong with that. The world needs both kinds. I’ve also been thinking a lot about what to do with piano and singing moving forward. At first, I wanted to keep both. Lately, I keep flipping back and forth: keep one? keep both? drop one? I do have the budget to maintain both, and I’m honestly getting the hang of managing them. It’s just… I’m not sure they serve the same purpose anymore. I started singing so I could understand how the voice works—so I could really appreciate the art. And now, knowing how pitch works, how a song is meant to be sung, and how much work goes into it—it’s given me confidence. I can pick up a mic now and know I’m doing it somewhat right. That’s huge. Piano, on the other hand, gives me joy. There’s something beautiful about the grind of it. It challenges me in the same way video games do—skill, structure, mastery—and it keeps me company when I’m bored. But what’s the end goal of it? I’m not sure. Maybe it’s just to one day stumble upon a public piano, sit down, and play something beautiful. If I do that, I’ll cross it off my bucket list. That would be incredible. My thoughts are a bit scattered tonight, aren’t they? You know what that means? Bedtime hehe. Sleep well, buddy. Chat soon xx

We talk a lot about degradation. About being used. Dehumanised. Treated like an object. And it sounds brutal, filthy, even disturbing from the outside.But sometimes, being “just a hole” isn’t about being nothing. It’s about finally being enough — exactly as you are. Because in a world where we’re constantly expected to be more — more capable, more composed, more wanted, more worthy — there’s something intoxicating about being reduced to one thing:Use. No pressure to perform. No need to impress. Just skin, heat, wetness — and the raw satisfaction of knowing you’re being used because it feels good for him. It’s not about hating yourself. It’s about being so safe in your submission that you can disappear into it.To be used not in spite of who you are — but because giving him that pleasure makes you feel whole.Because when your body becomes his release… when you’re filled, fucked, dripping, ruined —you’re not worthless. You’re wanted. Intensely. Selfishly. Completely. I want your hand around my throat, your cock buried deep, and your voice in my ear growling that I’m just a hole for you to fuck. Because when you do, I stop thinking. Stop performing. And start feeling everything — raw and real and filthy. If you’ve ever felt this too.. like being used is the only time you stop overthinking — I want to hear it.