bigstupidmutt

Leg days have me gasping in between squat reps, exhausted beyond words as sweat threatens to break out even in milder weather. Having hip thrusts be the last workout after an hour straight at least of heavy lifting has me fighting back tears and moshing in near-pain with every thrust.

I can find a partner with whom I can share my wild sexual desires, someone with whom I fully trust my doghood in—who could drug me and muzzle me without me fearing for my own safety—and whom in turn could trust me to stick needles in them or beat them into submission. I could find someone who could be as depraved as I am and love them for it while still keeping a domestic, sweet romantic relationship with. In the same night we push our bodies to the brink for the sake of a scene we could be tender and kind. I could bake sweets for them which they’d barely be able to stop eating and we could take them out on a picnic with us. We could fall asleep in each others’ arms and they could rave to me about their passions with the same earnestly as I do my own. They could be my muse both in the bedroom and in my art. We could read each other just as well in stressful situations as in scenes.

Now, every shot is a borderline erotic experience. I look forward to every Sunday at 11:11 am, a time I chose for its holy nature, a time I dirty with my lustful addiction to testosterone. It’s to the point where I wish I could inject myself everyday. Not just for the beautiful way it affects my body, but also for the arousal I experience every time my needle breaks skin and enters my subcutaneous fat. Who wouldn’t want to experience the erotic sensation of self-love?

These days it’s grown into something much more than just the desire I feel for forcing my body into a more masculine version of itself. It’s the desire for the puncture. Into my skin, into yours, both fill me with excitement.

If I feel so handsome, so turned on by my love piercing my body, giving the thought a feeling, would you not also enjoy it? Would you look forward to me carving your skin into something more than itself? Would you experience the same arousal from being turned from mere man to a breathtaking artwork? A masterpiece so holy it’d be put up in the Vatican?

Imagine how beautiful you’d be, an angel with expansive metal wings, a Jesus-figure dripping blood from your skull, a monster with claws jutting out from your face and arms. People would praise your likeness wherever you went. Though I may be the artist you entrust with your vision, the one you so willingly give your body over to, it would be you the masses would adore for having become something so—so otherworldly!