🛐 Prayed After Reading

I am so tired. Not emotionally drained. Not physically tired. No. Soul-exhausted from the sheer amount of lazy lesbian insinuation injected into every piece of girl-group media like it’s an aesthetic garnish.

It’s not empowering. It’s not rebellious. It’s not representation. It’s projection. From the same industry that still can’t write a female orgasm without the camera cutting to a fucking lamp.

I texted my friend group this morning. You know what we talked about?

Spiraling over a man’s voice note, how his cologne stayed on our jackets, and the shameful detail that we replay his “mm” sound when he stretches like it’s a damn hymn.

None of us said, “let’s make out because we cried over the same Spotify song.”

We don’t dry-hump each other on beanbags during sleepovers.

We don’t say “ugh I wish I was gay” every time a man disappoints us.

We scream into towels, scroll memes, and rehydrate our vaginal walls for the next man who might ruin our lives with one eyebrow raise.

That’s not internalized misogyny. That’s called: we like dick.

Strictly. Entirely. Sacramentally.

I have fallen to my knees for a man’s side profile. I have climaxed because of how he looks when he’s annoyed. I have felt God return to my bloodstream because of the way his fingers rest near his belt buckle. But never, not once, have I felt the urge to tongue-kiss my bestie while crying about men. And it’s not homophobia. It’s hormonal fidelity. It’s psychosexual conviction. It’s called being dickmatized down to my goddamn soul.

Hollywood keeps writing girl friend groups like we’re one bad tequila shot away from scissoring behind the couch. Babe, if I’m behind the couch, I’m texting him to unlock the door because I’m not wearing panties. Not licking Susan’s collarbone because we shared trauma.

Stop romanticizing our grief into queerbait. Stop assuming that emotional intimacy equals sexual convergence. Stop writing feminine closeness like it’s a prelude to oral. We can be tender and raw and cracked open without wanting to eat each other’s existential croissants. We can hold each other and scream and bleed and vent without becoming the bonus feature of someone’s porn search.

I have laid next to my best friend in bed and whispered “he hasn’t texted me since Tuesday” like a prayer. She didn’t kiss me. She didn’t say “maybe you like girls.” She said, “Okay bitch, we’re deleting his number tonight. After we rewatch that reel one more time and zoom in on his hands.” We wiped each other’s tears. We set the volume to 2. And then we stalked his Venmo.

That’s what girlhood actually looks like. And it doesn’t have to be rewritten into bisexual propaganda just to get greenlit.

Some of us are spiritually heterosexual. Not performatively. Not aesthetically. But down to the enzymes in our discharge.

So when a show has four women in an apartment, and suddenly two of them are making out after one got dumped — I don’t feel seen. I feel colonized by bad writing. By male writers who think sapphic tension = aesthetic intelligence. By female writers who think real connection has to be queer or it’s just internalized patriarchy. By execs who still think straight women only sell if they’re secretly one lollipop away from eating pussy.

No. Not this one. Not my group chat. Not the girls who taught me how to recover from the kind of man you should never have let finish inside you. We are not lesbians. We are survivors of the same war. And we still want dick.

It’s not that I’m “not open-minded.” It’s that my mouth waters when a man opens a Snap with his thumb. It’s that my nipples harden when a man furrows his brow while reading a menu. It’s that my body tunes to a lower frequency when a man scratches his neck and looks up like he’s about to ask for forgiveness or head.

That’s not performance. That’s not repression. That’s the goddamn feminine divine in full ovulation.

So stop trying to shove girlhood into sapphic aesthetics just because you’re afraid of writing about male desire properly.

My friendship group isn’t your TikTok thirst trap. We’re not a slow-burn lesbian novella. We are women — very straight women — Who grieve, rage, spiral, and then re-apply mascara to ride again.

Dick-first. Shame-free. And in French, for the slow learners: je suis strictement dickly, baiser.

​We’ve spent thousands of years trying to find reasons to hate the guy across the river, yet our DNA is so compatible it’s almost boring.

You can take a heart from a man in Norway and put it in a man from Nigeria, and the body just says, "Thanks for the pump, dummy."

We are a modular masterpiece, and your "ethnic purity" is just a glitch in your ego.

​More drops, more damage:

https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence

​The lion doesn't care about your cleavage, and the eagle doesn't blush at a nursing mother, but man--the master of all he surveys--has decided that a circle of flesh the size of a quarter is a weapon of mass destruction. We’ll look at everything else nature gave us, from the veins under the skin to the glands that sustain life, but we act like those two centimeters are the "Secret Level" of the human body.

We’ve built empires, but we’re still playing hide-and-seek with a biological fact. It’s not modesty; it’s a high-stakes game of "Don't Look at the Dot," and we’re the only ones obsessed enough to keep score.

​More drops, more damage:

https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence

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<script>ARCHIVE_TAG="GHOSTS_OF_MINAB::SATURATED_IN_SCRIPTURE"

EFFECT: moral concussion, cognitive dissonance, raw exposure

TRIGGER_WARNING="war crimes, child casualties, theological weaponization"

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​BLACKSITE SCROLLTRAP

LITTLE GIRLS PAY YOUR TOLL

​[THE MINAB MASSACRE EDITION]

​You want the truth? Strip the fucking polish off.

​A school in Minab.

Shajareh Tayyebeh.

Morning light. Desks. Backpacks. Books.

Then, a US-Israeli missile turns the roof into a tomb.

​The count is 175 dead. That’s not an "incident." That’s a whole generation of women in southern Iran erased before they could learn long division.

​Now watch the ritual of the Monster.

​Israel doesn’t "confirm." They let the fog do the work.

They talk about "dual-use" sites. They talk about "proximity to the IRGC."

Bitch, if you can hit a fly’s dick from a drone in Nevada, you can tell the difference between a naval base and a fucking primary school.

​The Theological Smoke Screen

​But here is the real filth: The Timing.

​It’s Purim.

While the smoke is still rising from the lungs of seven-year-olds in Minab, the leadership in Jerusalem is invoking Amalek.

They’re reading the Megillah and talking about "erasing the memory."

They’re citing ancient texts about annihilation while modern missiles do the actual work.

​When you wrap a bunker-buster in a biblical prophecy, you aren’t "defending."

You are mythologizing a massacre.

​You are using a 2,000-year-old story to justify the fact that you just turned a classroom into a blender.

That is what monsters do. They find a god to sign the death warrants.

​Arithmetic of the Abyss

​Let’s look at the "proportionality" you love to debate:

​Fact: 131 cities struck across Iran in 48 hours.

​Fact: The school was hit during a period change. 10:45 AM. Peak lethality.

​Fact: International law isn't a "suggestion." You have the obligation to distinguish.

​But the Monster doesn't distinguish. It carpet bombs.

It calls it "regime change." It calls it "security."

History calls it slaughter.

​Israel operates with the most sophisticated air superiority on the planet.

Strength doesn’t grant you an exemption. It increases the weight of every fucking drop.

If you can strike anywhere, you are accountable for everywhere.

​The Invoice of Bone

​Little girls do not draft war policy.

Little girls do not enrich uranium.

Little girls do not sit in the Knesset or the White House.

Little girls carry lunchboxes and dream about tomorrow.

​And yet, the Monster mails the invoice to them every single time.

​You can argue "military necessity" until your tongue rots.

But if your "defense" requires explaining why a girls' school was a "valid target," you aren't just morally underwater.

You are the anchor.

​Skewer the Lie

​Skewer the idea that being "chosen" means you get to choose who dies in a schoolyard.

Skewer the notion that "denying responsibility" erases the smell of burnt hair and notebooks.

Skewer the arrogance that believes your "sacred destiny" is worth more than a child’s life in Hormozgan.

​Because when the smoke clears, no press conference is loud enough to drown out an empty classroom.

​Israel calls it Defense.

The US calls it Strategy.

The world sees a Monster.

​And once again,

​Little girls paid your fucking toll.

​

​ SLIPPERY FACT STACK ( for ye with head in the sand)

• 175 girls confirmed dead at Shajareh Tayyebeh school, March 2026.

• US-Israeli joint strikes have killed over 555 Iranians in 48 hours.

• International law (Protocol I) mandates clear distinction between civilian and military targets.

• Invoking "Amalek" during military operations is recognized by legal scholars as a signal of genocidal intent.

You read this and blush.

You say it’s too much.

You whisper-- “what will people say?”

Until I say--

good girl.

And then you hush.

Then you turn to mush.

I know the effect my writing has.

I know the power of cadence and timing.

That’s why you’re still reading,

pretending it’s just curiosity.

If you’re a girl--

you feel it inside.

Not in your head.

In your cunt.

In the way your cervix tenses like a fist

pretending it isn’t about to open.

If you’re a guy--

you watch this, jaw tight,

saying hot damn, he’s good.

Because you know I’m writing what you wish you could say,

and what you’re too afraid to confess.

I am the voice you hide from your sensibilities.

The shadow you swallowed at thirteen

when you first learned what your body could do.

The tingling until you thought you’d burst—

that was me,

waiting.

Appearances, right?

That’s what you tell yourself.

But it’s never appearances.

It’s need.

It’s hunger.

It’s the part of you that never got called “good girl”

and has been starving ever since.

So here it is:

good girl.

Say it in your head.

Say it again.

Feel the way your thighs argue with your brain.

That’s why I write words like twat.

That’s why I spit obscenities with rhythm.

You swallow them easier that way.

You let them bypass your filters.

Straight into your hips.

Straight into your breath.

And I’ll keep writing until the words

un-grab your throat,

pull my fingers out of your purse,

and leave you ruined but relieved--

We are platonic, me and you.

I knew him.

I know you.

He’s far now--

in distance, in mind,

maybe in shame.

Does it matter?

Or does it?

Who knows.

“Grab something to eat?”

Ok. Let’s go.

You called me last night.

You made a joke.

I did too.

Both inappropriate.

You said something about dick.

I said, “ok… you better stop now lol…”

You joked, I think.

I half-joked.

Perhaps less.

You reached by me today.

I smelled your detergent?

Your hair?

You.

Why am I getting hard for you, my friend?

Does your body smell the same as hers?

No. Stop. She is my friend.

She started as the girl my friend liked.

Dated? Almost? Doesn’t matter.

Me and him aren’t friends anymore.

He vanished. I remained.

Last night her hand found its way into my pants.

She said something about ovulation.

About horniness.

About timing.

She was always steadfast,

always rational,

always principled.

But last night she was different.

Like I was dinner.

Like she was starving.

I went so deep I thought I touched her cervix.

A veil ripped.

The veil between friendship and love--

it isn’t thick.

It’s spider silk.

We always saw through it,

but pretended not to.

Last night, we stopped pretending.

“Platonic” means something different to me now.

If a man and woman are close enough

to smell each other’s pheromones,

you’d better respect Nature

over human nature.

Mother Nature doesn’t care about feminism.

She doesn’t care about modernity.

She doesn’t care about your philosophy seminar.

She only cares about inevitability--

the wet, compounding inevitability of love,

the biology you cannot cancel.

Anyone telling you otherwise

is priming you for jesterhood.

For comedy.

For court.

Platonic was never neutral.

It was always waiting to break.

“Platonic is just foreplay spelled wrong.”

🐺 Reminder: The subconscious always hears the truth first.

Friendship isn’t a shield.

🧠 Reblog if you’ve ever crossed the invisible line.

💀 Reblog if you’ve smelled someone and knew.

🩸 Reblog if “platonic” stopped meaning safe.

📢 Blacksite transmissions, blurred-boundary scrolltraps, and pheromone doctrines:

👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence

🛡️ Blacksite Literature™ / Scholomance Society Scrolltrap

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📖 THIS IS NOT ON X. 🧠 IT’S TOO DANGEROUS FOR SUBSTACK. 💀 IT WOULD BE EXECUTED ON TUMBLR.

But it lives. Right now. In the #uncensored-codex.

✍️ WHAT IT IS: Private channel. Original NSFW fiction. 🚫 Banned topics. 🚫 Forbidden format. 🚫 No algorithmic mercy.

We’re talking: — Priest kink you feel in your soul — Shame-coded sex loops with literary cadence — Erotic confessionals that make your body twitch — Forbidden scrolls too raw for public feeds

Not on the Mr. Humble Patreon? Still want access to the words that make grown women collapse mid-scroll?

Want to be grabbed by your Johnson, or your English taco muffin, and shook until your morals fall out of your shoes?

Then here’s your shot. Before the vault seals again.

TO ENTER: ☑️ Join the Scholomance After-Dark chamber ☑️ React with ✍️ in the role selector ☑️ The #uncensored-codex will reveal itself

These aren’t “stories.” They’re triggers. They’re spells. They’re psychological misconduct with a rhyme scheme.

If you’re blushing, trembling, or judging… Congratulations. You’re in the right place.

Now scroll deeper. They told her not to go down there. But she did.

Barefoot. Wet. Curious.

🌸 OKAY THEN...