Sex-Work

Over the years I’ve become convinced I’m happiest when I’m nasty and dirty. I’m a forty-year-old man whose favorite thing is being buried in a woman’s ass. I like to imagine myself as the throne for a lust queen.

It didn’t happen overnight. In my twenties it was just a thrill; by my thirties it was an ache. I remember the first time a partner settled fully on my face and refused to budge. The world shrank to weight and heat and the sting of her nails in my scalp. That moment rewired something. I stopped pretending this was a side kink and accepted it as my core.

In my twenties I had time to court women on the Internet, and the fetish market felt like a small town. There was no Tinder, no OnlyFans—just message boards, forums, and late-night chats. It wasn’t easy, but it was viable, and being single meant I could show my face without a second thought.

Two decades later everything feels commercial. Domination slid into the same category as Netflix or Photoshop: a subscription, a service, a product. Findom became a paradigm, and the places that used to feel communal—FetLife, Twitter—turned into billboards. Back then social networks were driven by friendship: add someone and they added you back. Now everything runs on one-way follows. I skim their personas; they never see mine.

Back in my twenties I had time to court women online. Fetish spaces were smaller. There was no Tinder, no OnlyFans, and the market felt intimate. I was also single, so putting my face out there, flirting on message boards, chatting on MSN or ICQ—that was normal. It wasn’t easy, but it was viable.

Two decades later everything is different. Domination became a subscription, a polished service packaged like Netflix, Photoshop, or anything else with a monthly fee. Findom turned into a paradigm and the networks I once used to meet people—FetLife, Twitter—became billboards instead of communities. In the first generation of social media friendship was mutual: if I added you, you added me. Nowadays the follow button is one-directional. I consume the persona, but it doesn’t know me.