• 14 Dec, 2025 *

I don’t know if I’ve ever written about this, even in my own journals. It seems like such a teenage feeling to me. It’s been a long time since I despaired about the way my chromosomes ended up. I feel as though there’s no way to talk about dysphoria without sounding cringe. Fully just a semi explicit sexual fantasy after the cut.

I watch movies about gay men and I read fanfiction about gay men and I wonder what it would be like. To have grown up as a boy into a man. I envy them. I have a massive cavern in my chest where the experience of playing boys soccer, doing boys swim, walking around with my shirt off, being raised to be a husband, walking amongst the world with broad shoulders and forearm veins and a jawline, exist. I don’t just want to be a chef like Marco Pierre White. I want to be him.

And God, I’d be so hot. I’d wear the clothes I want because I wouldn’t have g cup tits smashed in a binder under every shirt. I’d wear v-necks that showed the divot between my pecs, and I’d fill out the gap in my jeans. My thighs wouldn’t chafe because there wouldn’t be all this empty space in my boxers. I’d go to the gay clubs and dance with men and I’d get pressed against walls and I’d fight back and it would be violent and it would be masculine. I would go to the gym and feel comfortable because I wouldn’t have been pushed out of the weight room during middle school wrestling for being a girl. I’d be a real fag instead of the poor imitation I am now.

I’d walk into a new job and be part of the crew without proving why I deserve to be there. I’d play beer pong shirtless and I’d be loud without feeling bad about it. I’d make noise. I’d take up space and not be aware. I’d wear a suit and the cut would fit me and flatter me. I’d take pictures where my shirt is riding up a little so you can see where my V-line disappears into my boxers. I’d punch walls.

I’d go to fetish nights at the gay club in a tight t shirt and camo pants with my hair freshly buzzed. I’d find an older guy in his 30s and know he’s into what I’m packing. He’d be wearing old leather boots that still shine. I’d lean into his space and smile or something. He’d tell me I don’t know what I’m getting into. I’d smile and say "I might not, but I know I’d like to find out" and call him daddy (or sir, or whatever he wants me to.) We’d go back to his place in the industrial district, one of those old factory buildings with a freight elevator that takes us to the 5th floor. I’d walk in behind him, and I wouldn’t be nervous because this would be another regular Tuesday night for me.

He’d lead me in and not say anything, because this is a regular Tuesday night for him. He’d go into the living room and sit down in a chair, point at the floor and say "get to it, boy."

I’d follow him and get on my knees with my head down, staring at the boots and lick my lips. He’d take one boot and slowly press my face down onto the other. I’d know what to do, sticking my tongue all the way out and worship it. Worship him. He’d tell me I was good. He’d tell me I look good down there, like I belong on my knees for him. I’d have been hard since we got in the elevator, but I wouldn’t touch myself because he hasn’t told me if I’m allowed. He’d move his boot from my head and spread his legs, and tell me I’ve earned a reward.

I’d look him dead in the eyes and say "thank you."

He’d slap me and say "thank you...?"

And I’d reply, "thank you daddy."