Just bein me

For people like me, who are so afraid of being vulnerable in front of others, this is such a lovely thing to read.

You are so very welcome 🥰

Learning how to be loved.. can sometimes be harder than learning to love.

You don't have to hold anything of yourself back. You don't have to censor or tone yourself down.

You can just love. Unapologetically.. unabashedly.. messy, vulnerable, intimate love.

Like.. fully allowed.

A Fertile December

I hear this question repeatedly, and estoy harto. I am tired of the implication that I am less than a father because I share no biology with our younger children. It is stupid, and it is insulting.

There is an old Spanish saying: *Padre es quien cría, no quien engendra.* Parent is not the person who gives life, but the person who raises you. Our children do not see me as different from any other parent in this house. I am their father in every way that matters, and mi familia knows it.

Yes, I had a vasectomy. Yes, the reversal failed. Yes, IVF could allow me to breed my wives through medical intervention. We discussed it—all of us, G included. Both my wives were willing, supportive, ready to undergo the procedures. I decided against it. Why subject them, subject myself, to invasive medical intervention simply to produce a biological child? Our family extends beautifully as it is. I am happy. I am whole. Basta.

I care for both my pregnant wives. I support them through every pregnancy, every birth. I raise our children with love and consistency like any other parent here. I do not feel less than. I do not need saving.

Stop assuming I am miserable. Stop asking my partners why they would do this to me. I have two beautiful, sexual, pregnant wives. I am intimate more than most who pity me. I receive more love from my children than any stranger assuming my inadequacy could comprehend. I live a life others envy, a life that is someone's goal. I do not need your sympathy, your pity, or your help.

**Made in USA.**

Came to this country a teenager with an accent and a dream. Now I carry his babies—American by birthright, made in this body, this heat, this paradise we call home.

The irony is not lost on me. The European who became the vessel for American-made. The foreigner who found her purpose here, breeding, building, belonging.

G likes the costume. Likes the stars and stripes against skin that has known other flags. Likes reminding me that I am his now, that what I make is made here, claimed here, owned here.

I appreciate you asking, but I need to pause here.

This question assumes Mr. P's value to our family is solely his ability to impregnate me. That assumption is offensive and reductive.

Mr. P contributes financially, emotionally, and practically. He is a father to our children, a husband to me and Mrs. E, a steady presence. The vasectomy was a medical decision, not a diminishment of his masculinity or his role.

G breeds. Mr. P supports. Both are essential. Both are loved.

One such case would be a cosplayer who had become extremely friendly with an alien that sought her assistance. Though not romantic in nature, Liza had a good enough relationship and was fond enough of her companion to indulge their request to carry their brood. While Liza did not know that her body would swell into a sphere filled with young, she did not seem to mind. There was a clear sexual aspect to her enjoyment but overall she was glad to help someone who had become rather close to her.

She made no attempt to hide her condition, still cosplaying but never appearing in person at any conventions after her transformation. While she attracted many who would take advantage of her, several of whom wanted to use her as a way of spreading alien impregnation, she was thankfully kept safe by her alien companion. ACC agents were able to quickly arrive and attempted to contain her but were met with resistance by the alien. While their name is not able to be pronounced by humans, Liza had taken to calling them Bekka. The alien did seem to respond to this name and as such agents referred to them as such.

There were long hours of negotiations, Bekka refusing to accept ACC help as they feared what may happen in containment. It wasn't hard to understand given the typical methods of containing any given alien or their offspring. Researchers conducted several onsite tests to make sure that Liza was clearheaded enough to consent as well as comprehend her situation. It was taken to directors, who tentatively agreed to allow Liza and Bekka to maintain their lifestyle under some conditions. Firstly, they couldn't post about Liza's pregnancies freely. It attracted too much attention and they understood the risks it put them in. Secondly, Bekka could not leave the home they were staying in. Thankfully their home was in a sizable house that accommodated Liza's massive body. ACC agents would tend to any needs and acquire anything they needed, from food to personal items. Lastly, while Bekka was hesitant to accept, they agreed to allow researchers to study their young so long as the tests were non invasive.

Received an ask from an account claiming to be a pregnant 17-year-old from Pakistan, abandoned by family and the father, terrified of labor, seeking maternal support.

Upon review: The blog contains adult fetish content (BNWO/BBC themes, "property" terminology) while claiming minor status. The narrative includes specific claims (Pakistani law prevents child support if unmarried, pregnancy = legal adult status, conservative family abandonment) that do not align with actual Pakistani law. Simultaneously, the blog posts content revering the father with fetish terminology—contradicting the "scared abandoned victim" framing.

This appears to be constructed roleplay using real-world issues (restrictive abortion laws, teen pregnancy stigma) to create an emotionally manipulative persona.

My dearest, after decades of kneeling in sacred spaces and cradling precious souls in my arms, I've arrived at a truth that has settled deep in my bones: the Divine entrusted these children to me—not to an institution, not to doctrine, not to the judgment of others. My sacred obligation is to love them, not to surrender them.

When my child gathered the courage to reveal the truth of their heart, I beheld no crisis of faith—only faith made manifest. For what is belief if not the courage to love without reservation? When my time comes to account for this life, no celestial tribunal will inquire whether I enforced conformity to earthly proclamations. They will ask only one thing: Did you love them? Completely? Unconditionally? Without caveat or compromise?

I have chosen to give my children roots, not rules. Roots anchor and nourish; they do not constrain. Roots reach deep into the earth and draw sustenance from ancient sources, allowing a soul to stand resilient against any tempest. Rules are but temporary constructs—fences built by human hands, often raised more from fear than wisdom. I have no sanctuary for fences where my family is concerned. My children's hearts are sovereign territories, and my love is their birthright, not a conditional grant.

I still find myself drawn to worship, to the comfort of ritual, to the profound peace found in ancient hymns. Yet when the pulpit offers condemnation rather than compassion, I become still within myself. Sometimes I remain, a silent witness to a different path. Sometimes I depart, my spirit unshaken. For I carry within me the evidence of eighteenfold blessings—living, breathing, radiant proof that the universe delights in infinite variety. My family is my devotion. These souls, exactly as they were created, are the most exquisite expression of divine artistry I shall ever encounter.

The Creator does not err. Each child was fashioned with intention, with purpose, with love that preceded their very existence. Who am I—who are any of us—to gaze upon such sacred handiwork and declare it flawed? That is not faith. That is merely fear masquerading in vestments of righteousness.

My ex-wife arrived yesterday for a special family gathering—the entire extended family assembled under our roof. She entered with her usual flourish of disapproval, that particular Karen blend of judgmental commentary and performative helplessness that had once exhausted me daily. Surrounded by relatives who tolerated her out of obligation, she positioned herself as center of attention, loud and impossible to please, a storm of dissatisfaction in our peaceful home.

So I instructed my beautiful wife to make her presence known. She emerged parading through our living room in a bra that scarcely contained her swollen, milk-heavy breasts, paired with underwear designed for full coverage that strained helplessly against her pregnant form, barely concealing what was mine. I watched my ex-wife's face transform in real time—jealousy darkening her eyes, envy tightening her jaw, utter disbelief that the man she had discarded, now in his fifties possessed all this. A pregnant goddess, luminous and leaking, glowing with purpose, belonging to me completely, while my ex sat there with her nothing, her emptiness, her choices.

The wine flowed, and she drank deeply, attempting to drown her awareness of Mrs. P's radiance. By evening's end, she had collapsed onto our couch, claiming exhaustion, too intoxicated to drive home. Which is precisely how she came to witness, feigning sleep with eyes squeezed too tightly shut to be convincing, as my naked wife descended the stairs for a midnight snack. I took Mrs. P there in the kitchen, within full view of the couch, my hands gripping her hips, thrusting into her roughly, drawing out her moans of genuine pleasure until I spent myself deep inside her, marking her as mine again. I caught the discomfort flickering across my ex-wife's face in the dim light, the tension in her pretending body, the knowledge that she could not escape what she had thrown away.

But nothing—nothing—prepared me for her expression this morning when Mrs. P descended in her sheer morning top and delicate underwear, every curve visible, everything I had ever desired on full display. My ex had always known about my pregnancy fetish. She had understood my love of generous breasts, particularly heavy with milk, particularly ripe with life. Yet despite bearing my children, she had denied me this, had shamed me for wanting it, had made me feel deviant for my desires.

Here I stand, finally living everything I ever wanted. She appeared so diminished watching Mrs. P pour her coffee, milk staining through the thin fabric, her belly swaying with each movement, utterly unashamed of her function and her beauty. And just when my ex believed she could sink no lower, my second wife emerged in her bikini, sleek and rounded, preparing for morning laps in the pool before the children awakened to splash and play. Two magnificent pregnant women, both eager, both available, both belonging to me.

A big Happy Pride Month from me! Wanted to make a lil something to celebrate Pride Month, featuring some of the queer characters I’ve drawn and written!