Just a place for my stupid thoughts and yearning.

The tone was disguised.

The slight rasp of exhaustion cushioning the syllables.

But I knew.

I knew it deep down and immediately broke under the weight of it.

I wept, for the first time, with joy... Over a lie.

I want to send you that stupid message that I've been contemplating for far too long and offer open answers to every question you may have ever had over the past few years.

I want to submit fully to your judgment of me even though I know it's incorrect and that it's not deserved.

I want to make amends in the form of penance, through tears and bruised flesh, of raw throat and an aching body.

And yet every single sign and signal that I see tells me that I shouldn't. It's a bad idea.

That wanting such things will only lead to a worse future, for me or for you? I don't know.

So I sit in these feelings and I rot and rot and rot and rot but not in the way that worthless decay takes the body on a slab of pavement.

It's mulch and fertilizer.

It's nourishing the gardens. The seeds I planted can finally grow in your absence.

I can water the flower beds with the full knowledge and understanding that you will never lay in mine, and I can be content with that.

But I'd be a liar if I said that the yearning didn't consume me.

That the unhealthy need didn't burn and burn and burn me.

I'd be the most dishonest type of person if I said that if you reached out first, I wouldn't reply in a heartbeat.

I want to sink my teeth into a large man's chest and listen to him whine about it.

I want out.

I want to run and run and run and leave everything behind without looking back or regretting it.

I want

I just want

It's an old habit, body checking, a holdover from back when I avoided food like the plague, a sign of lingering vanity that still grips at my mind in the early morning hours of each day I wake.

Not defined and poking, as they were back then, but visible, unintended, witnessable.

A sign that my work and unintentional lack of meals have been taking their hold and shrinking pieces of me, though not all of my body.

I know I shouldn't feel pride in that, that I should feel concern that my bodies bones are slowly surfacing and becoming more known to the unsearching eye, but as I pulled it further up to my chest and rested a hand against them I couldn't help but want to smile.

I am not built ruggedly, not made strong in the way a man should be considered, but there is strength in my limbs and steadiness in my hands.

Not so cut and hard in their lines as a body builder, but layered and padded out with fats to sustain them.

A dad bod if you're overly generous, a mom bod if you see curvature as exclusively a woman's trait ( a false idea if ever I've heard one.)

That softness is almost exaggerated in its shape now, more of an hourglass, akin to the one my mother always used to weep about wanting; gripping at her stomach and shouting at me to stop lying when I promised her she was still beautiful and worthy of love.

It haunts me sometimes, this shape, but not today.

Today I saw the smallest lingering of muscle, today I saw the cut of rib bones, today I traced my fingers over their infinitesimal lines and felt a moment of unhalting and unhating breath leave me in a little puff of relief.

Definition, though only just, and for all the wrong reasons, meeting my fingerprints.

I know it's wrong, I know it's a sign I need to be more careful, and I won't ever go back to those days of skipped meals and tally taking...

but for just a moment, I felt good in my body, almost desirable.

For just a moment, I felt like other hands might feel satisfied touching this same body and counting the same lines; be they soft and gentle, or firm and calloused.

For just a moment, my body felt right.

Just as stupid and probably pretentious sounding as all the previous.

But what else is this blog for if not a journal for my stupidity and idle chatter?

I hate getting multiple message notifications.

I know it's not really the biggest deal in the world but something about it drives me up a wall.

I love having conversations with people over chats and texts, it's nice, safe, and is kept at a distance that doesn't make me feel afraid of what could happen, but a really dumb pet peeve of mine is when a paragraph is cut down into multiple spaced sentences and sent one after the other.

It's not because of the person messaging, nor is it about being spammed really, that's fine, it means excitement for the topic usually; I love when others are excited about things, it's genuinely sweet to see, but the constant buzzing and flashes of "____ has sent you a new message", one after the other, over and over and over, within the span of seconds, exhausts me so quickly.

For some weird reason it makes me want to pull back from the conversation at light speed and need to recharge and recover. Like the notification version of being shouted down.

It's not the sender's fault, it's my own for feeling so easily overstimulated by it, I just sometimes wish I could ask them to try and keep it to one long message, rather than a billion, without risking hurting people's feelings.

It's not fair to stifle the natural flow of someone's ability to communicate, and I won't ever make mention of it to anyone, but it's hard to be able to handle when I'm already so overwhelmed by everything outside of my screen.

I have work, chores, tasks to manage on my own, and I never get enough sleep or food to handle it all.

It's hard to commit the energy to such a tidal wave, especially when I know that not responding means they'll think I'm suddenly not interested or don't care.

I genuinely wish I knew how to rewire my brain and not be so easily overloaded.

Maybe it's a resilience thing, or something like that?

Putting the weird thoughts in my head down somewhere kind of emptied out my brain and now I'm just... Relaxed?

Happy?

It's odd.

Normally I feel tense all the time, just below the surface, but now that I've just written some stuff out I actually feel good.

I think I finally understand why people recommend journaling.

Pauses mid stacking.

Me: "Where the actual fuck did that come from?"

Brain: "You're tired, overworked, horny, and crave validation that comes from actually putting in effort that feels fulfilling and desirable rather than required to survive. Try to keep up sweetheart."

Me: "Well. Fuck you too."

For the record, no, I don't want to be nor do I enjoy it when someone tries; I've cut people off for that exact reason in the past.

But I think I like the idea.

I grew up in a home that constantly had mind games being played.

Pitiful ones, intricate ones, annoying ones, damaging ones.

Recognizable after years of being subjected to them, and learning the way to navigate being around people who think they're smart enough to hold that same candle to me, after gaining the knowledge of how to not be burned by the flame.

It's a hell I never want to revisit... But it's familiar to me.

The issue with being abused in your formative years is that it shapes what feels familiar or normal.

It makes it so the things that should be comforting are not, and the things that are abnormal and wrong feel right to the mind and body.

Sure, you know it's a bad thing, you know it isn't what you want, and God help you you'll fight with every breath to never relive it; but the craving for that sense of old normal has a bad habit of creeping up and lying to you.

And sometimes I do crave it.

That mild and gentle condescending and conditioning that feels like care.

Those platitudes and lies that slowly steer me away from what I really want and into their 'loving' arms.

The small and easy to disguise punishments that I don't realize have turned me away from an action that I would normally take.

A slow and steady dance where I once had the lead, once knew the cadence, and in increments shifts until I'm following a pattern I don't recognize but follow as easily as breathing.

The sharp slam of a hand on a surface that distracts my rational thoughts and forces my focus on nothing but the physical thing in front of me.

That subtle feeling of fulfillment, that makes me nauseous yet at ease, as I figure out the rules and play by them perfectly.

Being "good", and acknowledged as such, because survival demanded it of me.

I know why I want to taste that feeling sometimes, it's not hard to figure out.

I spent years in an environment that required hyper vigilance, awareness, and recognizing of intentions both spoken and not.

I had to almost always know when someone is aiming to rework me into a tool for whatever end goal they have in mind, no matter how big or small.

I came to know when to pull away, cut off, ghost, or pretend to not notice and find my safe exit.

Manipulative people always think they're the smartest person in the room, after all, it makes them give away their intentions; though some take longer to recognize than others, it's always noticeable.

But if I didn't notice? What would that mean?

Well, to a broken brain like mine, it would mean they know me. Not what they think I am, but actually me.

They learned the patterns of my mind, the way my emotions worked, what I pay attention to, what I like and dislike, how I respond.

They would have to be so unbelievably aware and knowledgeable about my every unspoken facet that they can play me like a cheap kazoo instead of a fiddle.

They'd have to be wholly dedicated to me. Fixated and steadfast. As reliable as oxygen. Intelligent. Stable. Consistent. Even caring to a degree.

I never knew those things as a kid, so why wouldn't I crave it now?

They would know everything, maybe even things I never noticed myself, step with my patterns, dance that dance I think I know so well, and then change it in a way that would actually align with both our desires.

Then, over time, solely with their own.

So many things have been assumed about me, so many misconceptions and miscommunications.

And God forbid I contradict those assumptions, because then that leads to the opposing party fighting to reassert their false perceptions.

Arguing things they perceive as truth but are only opinions based on limited interactions; leading to a break in our friendship, or a heavy sigh and pretending to agree just to keep the peace.

But someone who could actually, truly, manipulate me? They wouldn't have the luxury of assuming. They would HAVE to know who I am, otherwise it wouldn't work, or at the very least wouldn't last.

I am, after all, annoyingly stubborn and unwilling to bend. I don't chase, I don't play games, I don't mince words, I often mean what I say literally and don't disguise intentions. You can't navigate that on assumptions and aggressive pressure.

I'd just leave when I catch on, and if I haven't yet it's simply because I at least want to see if I'm right and not just paranoid.

In that framing, I realize that I don't actually want to be manipulated or taken advantage of; I want the unbearable intimacy of being known.

I want to be able to exist within my own mind and body without having to speak my wants or desires or feelings or needs. I just am, and they would know it all.

I want nothing about me to be met with that little look that screams "Oh, I didn't even consider that you thought/felt/experienced things that way."

I want to be as familiar to the person I imagine in those situations as their own mind.

Not because I actually crave being hurt in the old ways I used to be, but because I'd never need to wonder if I made sense to another person again.

Because, if I was truly so well known and perceived, so truly learned and memorized, so unbelievably predictable and acknowledged... would I really mind if they turned me this way and that?

After all, they would know me better than I do, were that the case, so falling into their demands would be easy.

Maybe even safer than someone more kindly and less cruel.

As fucked up as it is, someone that dedicated would actually know what's best for me. They would care in a way that no one else could be capable of.

But that might be more of a hell than heaven.

So I crave it sometimes, like one might crave candy, but I won't go seeking it out.

I may be stupid, selfish, and desperate for someone else to take the lead for a change. (Christ I want to just be able to not think for a day.)

But I know what's healthy and what isn't now.

I'd rather live my life being misunderstood and at least content, than entirely understood and made to live in a false happiness that I'd one day wake up from in a cold sweat.

At least it's nice to fantasize about in the late evening hours, when I'm feeling particularly sleep deprived and stupid.

Wild and idealized imaginings are so much safer than reality. Which is probably why dark romance is such a popular genre.

(⁠-⁠_⁠-⁠;⁠)⁠・⁠・⁠・

Not realistic, purely nonsense, and entirely unobtainable.

But a notion I sometimes wish and wonder about during the moment I slip into the rare space of envy.

A stupid little "build your boy" concept.

My body is too feminine in its shape.

Once compared to the figure of Venus by a fellow man, while drunk, who thought he was complimenting me.

I think he was just trying to pick me up, to be honest.

At the time I didn't know what I was, felt a little flattered, but also off about it.

It wasn't until much later that I understood why.

I adore the Venus comparison because she is beautiful, yes, but I never wanted to be her.

Didn't admire my figures similarly to her.

I wanted to be David.

Strong. Stoney. Untouchable. Not unapproachable, no, just divine in a way that was masculine; even as my mind remained a balance of feminine.

Paradox. Another in a long line.

Soul of a woman.

Body of a man.

A perfect blend.

Me.

Entirely me.

Finally recognized as male, but without the trapping of what it means to be a man.

Yet impossible with the way the world is.

I have no money, no support system, no idea where to even begin.

Stuck as the soft and lovely Venus, and ever wishing for David's sculpted visage.

So I dream sometimes of a savior.

One with money and love in his heart. Or her, I suppose, should that be the case.

Someone who adored me for me, but desired my body to be the same as I do.

Physicality is a reflection, not a definition.

I wouldn't be insulted. I would be excited beyond belief.

Relieved, even.

I dream of him being strong and masculine in frame; not because that's my type, but because that means he works out.

Or perhaps I dream of him being utterly normal but entirely enthralled with the way musculature works; for one, hearing him speak of his interest would be endearing. For two, and more selfishly, he would know where to start on me.

I dream of meal routines, visits to the gym, goofy grin as he laughs at my lack of experience outside of the day to day heavy lifting of my job.

"How are you so bad at this? Here, let me show you."

I imagine him tossing his shirts at my head and telling me to try them on to see how they fit.

Building a wardrobe that matches his own rather than my "teenage boy" style apparel that I have to be stuck with.

All baggy jeans and Ill fitting tops.

Unchanged even after decades.

I have no preference beyond dark colors, I would be thrilled to have the help.

It would be a sign of his love.

I dream of morning jogs that I hate with every fiber of my being.

I'm built for endurance, not speed.

Heavy lifting and strong legs/back that I always searched for an excuse to employ.

Never lythe or nimble with exception of my hands.

But I'd learn for him, because he cares.

I dream of the day that I get my first taste of manhood.

The excitement of knowing I finally will feel the changes.

I dream of the day I get to grow out my facial hair properly and he teaches me how to shave it down in a way that won't leave me patchy or smooth.

I bet I'd look awful with a beard, I've always kept a clean face for vanity reasons, but I'd be so happy to have it.

Happier still to style it in the way he likes most.

I dream of the work outs and routines getting easier as the days pass, getting into the mindset he drills into me and it becoming second nature.

I dream of being HIS ideal man.

HIS David.

Memories of Venus only seen in my behavior and maybe a bit too feminine smile.

I dream of my softness being in nature, not of body.

I don't want to lose the memories and lessons I learned from being seen as too feminine, just want to express them from a face and body that's truly mine.

Truly his.

Defined chest and hips only considered such because of the muscles he helped me work so hard for, and not because of shapeliness.

I dream of walking together as husbands.

His husband.

The one he built from the ground up.

The one he dedicated time to, effort to, devotion to.

And in return I dream of giving absolute loyalty and worship.

Not because of what he gave me, that was just a beautiful gift that showed he cared.

But because it's him.

Because he showed me how to be myself, to be his version of the self, and that self would do anything and everything to express how much that meant, in every way possible.

He would love me for me, build me for him, and I would love everything about it.

I'd be crafted from velvet into marble.

Give all the old physicality up in a heartbeat.

Devote all that I never was meant to be to the goal of becoming what I am.

What he wants.

What I need to feel like myself.

I dream of cooking for him after learning all his favorite meals.

Cleaning up the home we might share.

Taking care of pets or his kid if he had them before me.

I never wanted to be a parent on my own, but I did dream of being a dad.

I'd love him in every way he needed.

I'd change or stay the same as he willed it.

Not because he's controlling, but because I never minded change if it meant improving myself for the better.

I dream of five o'clock shadows and coffee shared in the early morning.

Two chests bare.

One natural, one scarred.

Both as they should be.

Happy. Alive. In love.

Two men.

One born.

One built.

One with a silly smile.

One finally real and that hadn't been given or felt before he came along and coaxed it out of its cage.

I dream of looking at my reflection and knowing I'm his. Really his.

Because he crafted me with a careful and loving hand.

I would treasure him every second he was there, and miss him fondly when he's gone.

And I'd never miss the old me, who once was known as Venus.

Because I'd be his David.

His.

Just his.

His devoted lover.

This is nothing so new or unheard of.

This is a typical fantasy of a typical fool who seeks out recognition from someone who they've come to admire.

A parasocial paradox where I know for a fact that if I ever did meet them, I'd be as easily forgotten as a random video on a social media feed, yet yearn so very pathetically for their admiration that it hurts.

I often dream of a simple hello, or maybe a handshake, a small moment in time that reveals I am alive and breathing the same air.

A moment of introduction going no further than a polite smile, and then ending.

In that moment I am not so simply a face in a crowd.

But a fellow person. And then I am gone.

I often dream of more too.

Coffee in the early morning hours.

Routines that have become a gentle comfort.

Boring shows and bland dinners.

Monotony coming at the heels of whirlwind romance after years of togetherness.

Proving that our time together has been long.

So long that it's almost dull. Yet comfortable. Sweet. Simple.

I dream of being able to acknowledge them not as someone famous, an equally losable face on a sea of notoriety, but as a human being.

Learning the details and intricacies that would never see the light of an FYP.

Not because it would make me special, but because it deserves to be recognized.

They deserve to be known.

I dream of offering care that I've never known before, but wish to truly show to another person.

I so desperately desire to be an open place that they can fall into and find a sense of peace.

Be a someone who can accept the perceived flaws and know in my heart that those same flaws never mattered, nor would chase me away.

But often I wish I didn't have those dreams, as well

Just as they are a complex and deeply consequential being, I am as well.

I am a swirling blend of complications, errors, difficulties, problems.

I am a well of positivity, happiness, and a desire to explore.

They are too, in same and differing ways.

So much room for similarities, and yet...

Those similarities do not mean compatibility.

Fantastical daydreams of whimsy only go so far before you're deluding yourself and screaming at others.

I can want, wish, adore, pretend, but there is nothing that proves my desires have any basis in reality.

And worse yet, I fear I would doubt.

I would overthink and overthink and overthink: "Do I do all this because they have weight to their name?" "Do I give and give and give because I saw them on a screen?" "Do I love them? Or do I love what they are?" "Am I a monster?" "Am I worthy of this?" "Am I the right person, or am I just a delusional fan who got lucky?"

"Is this truly something they deserve to suffer through." "Do they wonder the same things about me?" "Am I just a victim of limerence, or is what I'm feeling real?" "Can someone like me love someone like them without letting the means of our meeting get in the way?"

"Do. I. Deserve. Them?"

At least that last one I have an answer for already. No. No I do not.

I don't "deserve" anyone. Not in the sense that I don't deserve love, but that I am not owed a person to love, let alone a person who is a public figure; or as close to one as they could be.

So the dream changes with the thinking.

I once, and sometimes still do, dream of being their someone.

I dream of coffee and tea and sunrises and smiles and warm arms and routines and support and care and love and comfort and happiness and them and them and them and them...

But now I don't pretend it's just me anymore.

Now I dream of a faceless form.

An unknown person I've never met and never will be.

Someone worthy of those dreams.

Someone they love.

Someone who loves them.

Someone who can provide in all the ways they need.

Someone who can receive in all the ways they hope.

Someone they deserve. Not because they are owed a person to care for and care for them, but because they are truly meant for one another.

I dream of their day to day becoming dull, on the heels of a whirlwind romance, because they've been together so long that the patterns are known and comforting.

I dream of their eccentricities becoming known and accepted by a lover who wants nothing more than to accept them as a person.

I dream of them finding love.

And I don't care if it's with me anymore.

I dream of their dreams, whatever they may be, coming true.

With or without me.

Because if I was in their place, wouldn't I want someone who sees me for me, and not what I am?

Wouldn't I want to be known as a man first, and a recognizable face second?

Wouldn't I deserve the comfort of being certain?

Of course I would.