I see you.
Not the version you show the world—the job site confidence, the easy masculinity, the girlfriend whose body you genuinely enjoy. I see past that. Past the performance you’ve perfected so thoroughly you almost believe it yourself.
I see the thing underneath. The hunger you can’t name. The search history you clear. The ache that women don’t touch, no matter how good the sex is.
You found your way here because some part of you knows what you need. You’re hoping someone will finally say it out loud so you don’t have to.
I will.
THE HUNGER YOU CAN’T NAME
You’ve felt it for years. Maybe decades.
It doesn’t have a shape, exactly. It’s not as simple as wanting to fuck men—if it were that simple, you’d have dealt with it by now. Come out or stayed closeted, but either way, you’d know what you were working with.
This is more complicated. You like women. You’re attracted to women. That’s real, and I’m not here to tell you it isn’t.
But there’s something else. Something that lives alongside the heterosexuality without canceling it out. A response to male authority that goes deeper than respect. A reaction to dominance that your body understands before your mind can censor it.
You’ve noticed it. In the presence of certain men—not all men, but certain ones—something shifts. Your posture changes. Your voice drops or softens. Your cock stirs in your jeans, and you don’t know why, and you hate that you don’t know why.
You’ve told yourself it’s admiration. Competition. Some primal status-recognition thing that doesn’t mean anything.
It means everything.
What you’re feeling is the pull of submission. Not to authority in the abstract—to male authority specifically. To a man who sees what you are and knows what to do with it.
That’s the hunger. That’s what women can’t touch. That’s what keeps you searching at 2 AM for something you can’t quite name.
I can name it.
You need to kneel.
THE FEAR
Of course you’re afraid. You should be.
Not of Me—though that too, eventually. You’re afraid of what kneeling means. What it says about you. What it does to the identity you’ve spent your whole life constructing.
You’re a man. A straight man. You fuck women, you work with your hands, you perform masculinity so convincingly that no one questions it. Maybe you’ve never questioned it yourself—not seriously, not in daylight.
But you’re questioning it now. And that’s terrifying.
Because if you kneel for a man—if you submit, if you serve, if you let yourself want what you actually want—then who are you? What happens to the construction worker, the boyfriend, the guy who drinks beer with the boys? What happens to the self you’ve built?
I’ll tell you what happens: it cracks open.
Not breaks. Not shatters. Cracks open—like a shell that was never meant to be permanent. What’s inside isn’t destruction. It’s the part of you that’s been waiting.
But you don’t know that yet. Right now, all you feel is the fear. The terror of being seen. The horror of being known.
You’re afraid that if a man really looked at you—looked past the performance, past the defenses, past the story you tell yourself—he’d see something you’re not ready to admit exists.
I already see it.
And I’m not looking away.
THE HUMILIATION
This is the part you can’t explain to anyone. The part that shames you most. The part that makes you hard.
You don’t just want to submit. You want to be humiliated in your submission. You want the degradation. You want to be put in your place so thoroughly that there’s no ambiguity left, no dignity to cling to, no way to pretend this is anything other than what it is.
A straight man. On his knees. For a gay man.
That’s the image that gets you off when nothing else does. Not just the submission—the specific humiliation of submitting across the line you’ve drawn around your identity. The straight guy, broken. The man’s man, serving. The masculine body you’ve built, used for another man’s pleasure.
You want Me to see you as less than. Not as a person with preferences and boundaries and a complex inner life—as a thing. A body. A straight boy who needs to be taught what he’s actually for.
You want Me to laugh at your confusion. To mock the performance you’ve maintained. To strip away the heterosexuality you’ve hidden behind and show you what’s underneath.
And you want to thank Me for it.
That desire—the craving for humiliation—is what scares you most. It’s one thing to want submission. It’s another to want to be degraded in your submission. To want a man to look at you with something like contempt and feel your cock throb in response.
You think that makes you broken. Sick. Wrong.
It doesn’t.
It makes you Mine.
THE LOSS OF CONTROL
You’ve been in control your whole life.
The job site. The relationship. The carefully managed image you present to the world. You make decisions. You handle things. You’re the guy people rely on to have it together.
That control is exhausting. You know it even if you’ve never said it. The weight of maintaining the performance, day after day, year after year. The constant vigilance. The fear of being seen as weak, as soft, as anything less than the man you’re supposed to be.
You’re tired.
And somewhere in that tiredness, a fantasy took root. A fantasy where someone else is in control. Where you don’t have to decide, don’t have to manage, don’t have to perform. Where you just do what you’re told and trust that the man giving orders knows what he’s doing.
That’s not weakness. That’s the deepest kind of strength—the strength to surrender.
But you can’t surrender to just anyone. A woman doesn’t work. You’ve tried to make it work, maybe. Thought about Dominant women, even sought them out. But it didn’t scratch the itch. The fantasy requires a man.
Because what you want isn’t just to lose control. You want to lose control to someone who can take it. Someone whose authority isn’t performed or negotiated but simply is. Someone who looks at you and sees not a partner but a possession.
A man can do that. The right man.
I can do that.
When I give you an order, you won’t have to evaluate whether it’s reasonable. You won’t have to decide whether to comply. You’ll simply obey—because obedience is what you’re for, and I’m the one who showed you that.
The control you’ve carried for so long? I’ll take it. All of it. And what you’ll feel when it’s gone isn’t loss.
It’s relief.
THE POWER OF A MAN
Let’s talk about what I bring to this. What a man brings that no one else can.
It’s not just authority—women can have authority. It’s not just dominance—women can dominate. It’s something more specific. Something that lives in the dynamic between male bodies, male identities, male power.
When you submit to Me, you’re not just submitting to a Dominant. You’re submitting to a man while being a man yourself. You’re surrendering your masculinity to someone who has his own. You’re admitting that in this hierarchy, your manhood ranks below Mine.
That’s the heat. That’s what makes this different from any other power exchange you could seek.
I don’t need you to be less masculine for this to work. I want your masculinity—the construction-worker body, the calloused hands, the rough edges you’ve built through labor and life. I want all of it, kneeling at My feet. The more of a man you are, the more satisfying it is to own you.
You’ve spent your life performing masculinity as a defense. Here, your masculinity is the offering. You bring it to Me, and I take it, and what I give you back is the freedom to stop defending.
A woman can’t do this. Not because women lack power—but because the specific alchemy requires two men. Your straight-boy identity can only be broken by submitting to the thing it’s supposed to exclude. Your masculinity can only be surrendered to someone who can match and exceed it.
That’s Me.
When I stand over you, you feel the weight of male authority in a way you’ve never felt before. Not the camaraderie of equals. Not the competition of rivals. The simple, inarguable fact of hierarchy. I am above. You are below. Your cock understands this before your mind does.
That’s the power of a man.
WHAT I SEE WHEN I LOOK AT YOU
You think you’re hidden. You’re not.
When I look at you, I see the tension between who you present and who you are. The straight guy performance stretched tight over the submissive underneath. The masculinity worn like armor, protecting a vulnerability you’ve never let anyone touch.
I see the way you respond to My voice. The way your body shifts when I give a command—even a small one, even something mundane. The way your eyes drop before you remember to maintain contact. The way your cock thickens in your jeans when I hold your gaze a beat too long.
You think you’re controlling those responses. You’re not. Your body is telling Me everything your mouth won’t say.
I see the hunger. The years of it. The late-night searches, the fantasies you’ve never spoken aloud, the ache that’s grown so familiar you’ve stopped noticing it’s there. I see how long you’ve been waiting for someone to see you—really see you—and not look away.
I see the fear. The terror that this is real, that you actually want this, that the life you’ve built might not survive contact with the truth. I see you hoping I’ll reject you so you don’t have to face what comes next.
I’m not going to reject you.
I see the shame. The way you hate yourself for wanting this. The way you’ve internalized every message about what men are supposed to be and measured yourself against it and found yourself wanting. I see how much it costs you to be here, reading this, admitting even to yourself that it resonates.
And underneath all of it—the tension, the hunger, the fear, the shame—I see the boy.
Not a child. A boy in the way I use the word. A man who needs to serve. A man whose place is on his knees. A man who’s been waiting his whole life for someone to put him there and keep him there.
That’s what I see when I look at you.
That’s what I’m going to use.
THE CRAVING YOU’VE HIDDEN
You want things you’ve never said out loud.
You want to kneel on a hard floor until your knees ache, just because I told you to. You want to feel My hand in your hair, gripping, controlling, reminding you that your body isn’t yours anymore.
You want to put your mouth on My boots. Taste leather and dust and the evidence of where I’ve walked. You want to clean them with your tongue while I watch, while I judge, while I decide whether you’re worthy of what comes next.
You want to be stripped. Inspected. Assessed like property being evaluated for purchase. You want Me to walk around your naked body and see every flaw, every vulnerability, every place where the masculine performance breaks down.
You want to be used. Mouth, hands, hole—whatever I want, however I want it. You want to be the thing that gets Me off, not a partner but an instrument, not a person but a function.
You want to hear Me say “good boy” and feel it land in your chest like a fist.
You want to be owned.
These cravings aren’t new. They’ve been there as long as you can remember, maybe longer. You’ve hidden them, buried them, tried to fuck them out of your system with women who never quite reached the itch.
But the cravings don’t die. They just wait. And the longer they wait, the stronger they get.
I know what you crave because I’ve seen it before. Because every straight boy who finds his way to Me carries the same hunger, wrapped in the same shame, hidden behind the same defenses.
You’re not unique. You’re not broken. You’re not even rare.
You’re exactly what you’re supposed to be. You just haven’t accepted it yet.
WHAT THIS COSTS YOU
Let’s be honest about the price.
If you kneel for Me—really kneel, not as performance but as surrender—the story you’ve told yourself falls apart. The straight guy identity cracks. The carefully maintained separation between who you are and what you want collapses.
You’ll have to face the truth: you’re not who you thought you were.
That’s not a small thing. The identity you’ve built has protected you. It’s given you a place in the world, a way of relating to other men, a sense of who you are when you look in the mirror. Losing that—even if what replaces it is truer—costs something.
You might lose relationships. Friends who can’t handle the shift. A girlfriend who doesn’t understand what you need. Family members who built their image of you on a foundation that no longer exists.
You might lose certainty. The comfort of knowing what box you fit in, what label applies, what story you’re living. Submission to a man doesn’t come with a clean narrative. It’s messy, complicated, hard to explain to anyone who hasn’t felt it.
You might lose the version of masculinity you’ve been performing. The man’s man, the straight guy, the one who has it together. What replaces him might be stronger—probably will be—but the transition is a death. Something ends so something else can begin.
I won’t pretend that’s easy. It’s not.
But here’s what I know: the cost of kneeling is less than the cost of not kneeling.
The cost of not kneeling is a lifetime of hunger. A lifetime of searching for something women can’t give you. A lifetime of performing a version of yourself that was never quite true, and knowing it, and being unable to stop.
The cost of not kneeling is dying with this still inside you. Unspoken. Untouched. Unfulfilled.
I’m not saying you have to kneel for Me. That’s your choice, and it has to be your choice, or it means nothing.
I’m saying the cost is coming either way. You can pay it now, in surrender—or you can pay it later, in regret.
WHAT I OFFER
Not gentleness. Not patience. Not the careful negotiation of limits and preferences and what you’re comfortable with.
I offer clarity.
I see what you are. I know what you need. I’m not confused by your straight-boy identity or deterred by your defenses or fooled by the performance you’ve maintained. I see through all of it to the thing underneath, and that’s the thing I want.
I offer structure.
Rules. Protocols. Expectations. The framework you need to stop floating and start serving. You’ve been unmoored your whole life—not in the ways that show, but in the ways that matter. You’ve been waiting for someone to tell you what you’re for. I’ll tell you. And then I’ll hold you to it.
I offer use.
Your body. Your service. Your submission. I’ll take all of it, use all of it, make it serve My purposes instead of sitting dormant inside you, rotting into resentment and regret. You have something to offer, and I’m the one who knows how to take it.
I offer ownership.
Not play. Not scene. Not a few hours of kink before you go back to your real life and pretend this didn’t happen. Ownership. Ongoing. The kind that restructures your days, your priorities, your sense of who you are.
And underneath all of it, I offer the thing you’ve wanted most and been most afraid to ask for:
I offer to see you.
The real you. The one you’ve hidden. The one you’ve been terrified would be rejected if anyone ever found him.
I see him. And I want him.
THE CHOICE
You’re still here.
You’ve read this far, which means something in you recognized itself in these words. The fear didn’t make you stop. The shame didn’t make you close the browser. The part of you that’s been waiting is louder than the part that’s been hiding.
That’s the beginning.
What happens next is up to you. You can walk away. Clear your history. Go back to the girlfriend, the job site, the performance. Tell yourself this was just curiosity, just a weird phase, just something you stumbled across and won’t think about again.
You’ll think about it again. You’ll be back. Maybe not today, maybe not this year—but you’ll be back. Because the hunger doesn’t die, and now that someone has named it, you can’t un-know what you know.
Or you can stop running.
You can admit—to yourself, if not to anyone else—that the thing you’ve been hiding is the truest thing about you. That the straight-boy identity was never the whole story. That what you need has been waiting inside you, and the only thing standing between you and getting it is your own fear.
I’m not going to chase you. I don’t chase. I make Myself available to the ones who are ready, and I let the rest keep running until they’re tired enough to stop.
But I’ll be here.
When you’re ready to kneel—really kneel, not as fantasy but as surrender—I’ll be here.
When you’re ready to stop performing and start being—I’ll be here.
When you’re ready to let a man see you, take you, own you, and make you into what you’ve always been—
I’ll be here.
The question is whether you’re ready to come find Me.
