If you’re now singing a great song from the 80s, you’re welcome. Now try getting rid of it before Monday.

So, it is Friday and my ass hurts.

I would love to tell you it was because of 4B, or The Mailman, or even Josh, Logan, Scott, or Andy.

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A nurse, red eyes, big grin on her face as her lips quivered, bent me over a sterile bed and jabbed me with a fucking needle. There was no anesthetic, or any warning, no bedside manner, none of that little bullshit “it’s just a scratch” when you know they mean they’re about to drive a nail into your butt with a hammer.

Just a merciless jab.

I was so unprepared for the blinding jolt that shot through my body that I reached out and grabbed the wall, realizing far too late it was one of those wheelie bladder-carrier things, whatever they’re called. It came crashing down on me. It had little kidney-shaped bowls hanging off it filled with things.

Those things went everywhere.

Then the pole hit her.

The same nurse who’d just stabbed me in the ass.

I watched it happen and immediately felt better.

The universe had clearly just finished reading The Farmhand and was on my side.

Pete keeps insisting I have an evil streak. Personally, I think that’s unfair.

Having said that, the nurse who stabbed me in the ass this morning is almost certainly ending up in a future story and I have absolutely no intention of portraying her favorably.

So, with my incredibly lacking Spanish skills, I went off to the clinic pretty sure I told them I had the black plague, was spreading it via text message, or that a plane had landed on my ass. Whatever I said worked, because they shoved a Q-tip down my shaft, another up my ass, took blood, injected me, and generally behaved as though they were determined to leave no stone, crevice, or bodily fluid unturned.

By the time I left, I felt less like a patient and more like a crime scene.

Anyway, all this because someone who looked suspiciously like 4B, and who I met a couple of weeks ago, messaged me to let me know he may or may not have an STD.

He was incredibly polite about it.

He even told me that once I’d had treatment, I should message him so we could meet up again.

Yeah. Thanks.

I’m curious what the loyalty rewards program looks like.

If you want to know how my brain works, 4B is a pretty good example.

Michael ended up in there, Roger ended up in there, and a guy I’m reasonably sure was called Juan ended up in there too. Somewhere along the way Russell became one guy, which is fortunate because reading a story called The Guy in 4B Featuring Michael, Roger and Possibly Juan would’ve been confusing. Or the start of a series called The Gangbang. Which may have just sparked an idea…

If I tried to pull apart what really happened with the guy in 4B, it would mostly be snippets. He was very real, but some of that story came from three different hookups that somehow fused together into one neighbor with a lot of confidence and a memorable cock. The weird thing is, Russell now feels completely real to me.

Then there was The Mailman, which I’m blaming entirely on Grant.

Random comments sometimes become stories. You tell me you’re criss-crossing the lawn, manicuring your gardenias while waiting for the mailman, and days later there’s an entire story about it.

Somewhere in the world, Grant is probably reading this wondering whether he should stop commenting.

All these stories appeared the way most of my stories appear.

I had absolutely no intention of writing any of them.

Then my brain spotted something shiny and three days later there was a neighbor in 4B and a mailman getting railed over a kitchen counter.

Speaking of chaotic, let’s talk about Simon.

Yeah, if you’d asked me three months ago whether I’d write a lamb into a gay erotic fiction story, I’d have laughed.

Hell, if you’d even suggested I’d write a farm story, I’d have rolled my eyes.

Yet here we are.

Nine chapters in and I’m starting to think The Farmhand is my favorite story. Somewhere along the way, I stopped worrying about Levi and started worrying about Simon, which is concerning because Simon is a lamb. A real lamb once upon a time, but still a lamb, yet here I am nine chapters later wondering whether he’s okay.

Somewhere out there is the original Simon, blissfully unaware that strangers on the internet might be emotionally invested in his wellbeing.

Based on a real lamb, Simon was chaotic, genius, scheming, loving, and an animal that sometimes felt like the great equalizer for one particular relationship.

I had no idea all of this was floating around in the back of my imagination until I sat down one day and started fantasizing about Levi. I wondered what would happen if a young farmer inheriting his family’s expectations, his family’s farm, and his family’s plans for grandchildren got completely derailed because he preferred the farmhand.

Nine chapters in, the world feels increasingly real. Maybe that’s why I’m enjoying it so much. Or maybe it’s because I accidentally became emotionally invested in a sheep.

I want to thank so many people for pushing me. For being open, upfront and honest about their own experiences, and encouraging me to do the same.

This is why I’ve now spread my legs so wide I probably got an STD.

There are two things I did this week that I never thought I would.

I wrote Wrong, a true sexual encounter with Ben Jamin. I went to Atlanta to remote work for a month, a guy knocked on a door at 7:03 a.m.

2 years later I’m writing about why I wish I hadn’t opened the door and invited him in.

Somewhere between those two moments came Good Luck Getting Rid of Me, a podcast, more tears than I’d care to admit, and enough material to keep me talking about the man well into retirement.

Good Luck Getting Rid of Me

Darkly funny blogs and a true story of digital obsession, narcissistic abuse, and survival. Based on terrifying real events. Gritty, dark, unsafe, and painfully real.

By Fox Emerson

That’s the strange thing about life.

Sometimes the moments that change everything don’t feel important at the time.

They just feel like a Thursday.

Then there’s Podcast Episode 12, Richard Part 1.

Another true story from my much earlier coming-out days.

Part 2 has been sitting open on my desktop while I decide how honest I want to be. I’ve probably spent more time deciding how much of Richard’s story to tell than actually recording the damn thing, which is usually a sign I’m avoiding something.

I’ll decide today as I finish Part 2 and upload it. Or maybe I’ll just skip it for this week and go into a story about Steve I recalled recently.

That’s the week wrapped up.

I got stabbed in the ass, Simon now sleeps in Levi’s old pram, Richard is staring at me from my desktop demanding I make an adult decision, Ben remains responsible for far more of my life than he probably realizes, and 4B can keep his loyalty rewards program.

As I stand here reminiscing about the days I could sit down comfortably to write Pantless Friday, I’m grateful for two things.

I’m still pantless.

And I’m still standing.

Fox G.H.K.® x

Fun fact, my sweaty, dusty, horny foxes. I live in Madrid these days. I know some of you already know this, but for a long time, especially after Fuckstickle McVoldemort tried to torch my life to the ground last year, I became very private. And insecure. For a long time, I mostly told people I lived somewhere in Europe and left it at that.

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Because I blew the door open with my writing about the incredible story behind Good Luck Getting Rid of Me, and before anyone gets too excited, that's not the kind of blowing I mean. I’m slowly opening up a little more.

Again. Emotionally this time.

FYI to those following along: chapter 16 dropped this morning. I’m really sorry this took so long, but these chapters are intense and difficult to write. Plus, the incredibly talented Fontana LePoint, who creates all the covers, is also very busy building her fempire.

Speaking of intense. I happened to chat to someone on my Bluesky recently. It turns out he's a really cool American guy called Mark Alan who lives in Seville, Spain. Very good-looking, articulate, intelligent, and creative. We got to talking about some of his art.

I looked through his website The Male Muse, and was struck by so much of the photography. There are hot men, yes, but it’s also the composition of the images, the lighting, the poses, and the way he portrays them.

So naturally, I went deep.

Mark happened to be in Madrid last week, so we went for drinks and went even deeper. Thanks to Mark, I’m now going to be using some of his images in various posts going forward.

You should take a look. Some of these guys are just… yeah.

There’s one guy who struck me immediately, pictured in the main image of this post and below. His name is Anders. Coincidentally, some of you already know that’s a name I love and use in my stories.

I may or may not be inspired to write a story soon with Anders as the main character. Poor Anders. If only he knew what I was about to do to him.

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Some other developments: I’ve now expanded my audio erotica to both Spotify and Apple Podcasts. The call is no longer coming from inside the house. It's coming from your car, your headphones, and possibly the produce section at your local grocery store.

Good luck getting rid of me.

So, let’s get the bad stuff out of the way first. After some prompting, I thought I’d try my hand at narrating one of my stories, The Farmhand.

Let’s just say my hand is great at many things, but narrating my own fiction is not one of them. It will not happen again.

I’ve since discovered that reading one of my stories aloud requires actual voice acting.

Yeah, fuck that.

I do still enjoy audio erotica stories, which is why I recorded and revealed what happened when I met my ‘straight’ friend Jon.

Now that we’ve expanded to Spotify and Apple Podcasts, I’ll continue producing audio erotica alongside Pantless Fridays.

Because I clearly looked at my workload and thought, “Not enough.”

The Farmhand: The Bridge dropped. As with many of my stories, things are getting intense for Levi and Rodney. Because apparently what this story really needed was a cinematic horse chase.

Sweat and Sawdust 19 also dropped. Scott and Andy are on the precipice of something dangerous. And possibly derailing. Somewhere between the beers, the cabin, watching people piss, and the showers, things got wildly inappropriate.

And last but not least, Under Surveillance 17 also dropped. If you like strange sci-fi mysteries, brilliant men slowly losing perspective, and that creeping feeling that something is very wrong, welcome to Under Surveillance. This week’s The Collective showcases just how far down the rabbit hole Josh and Logan have gone.

Look out for this week’s latest audio erotica, episode 12. It should be out this weekend. Or earlier if the left side of my ADHD brain stops fighting the other side.

Six years after I wrote it, people have also been discovering The Hole in the Door lately.

I wrote this book six years ago. Long enough ago that I genuinely assumed it had settled down, bought a small apartment, and retired quietly. In case the name doesn’t give away the subject matter…

Apparently not.

To my paid subscribers: thank you. I spent more time writing this week because of you, and less time offering blowjobs in exchange for rent payments.

Also, thanks to a comment from Grant this week, I may or may not be writing a story about a mailman this weekend.

You people are not helping.

Fox G.H.K.® x

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Last week I wrote Pantless Friday and the Lickable Forearms Crisis.

At the time, I genuinely thought it was funny simply because small things tickle me.

Turns out I’m prophetic.

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Apparently I have crossed some kind of invisible psychological line because this week I met a guy, things escalated, and at one point I picked up his arm and licked his forearm before my brain could scream stop.

I was inside him at the time.

The thing is, people always talk about kinks like they arrive dramatically. Then one day you wake up in leather gloves speaking fluent German and demanding to be called Captain.

But apparently some kinks develop so gradually you don’t notice them until you’re halfway through licking a man’s forearm like you’re testing a ripe avocado.

For years I thought I was relatively uncomplicated. I like attraction, chemistry, good kissing, emotionally devastating eye contact, and obedient blonde bottoms. You know, pretty standard stuff. That boring guy who goes quiet when someone asks me about my kinks.

Meanwhile other people are out there into feet, spit, rubber, masks, armpits, being yelled at, pretending to be electricians, or whatever dark administrative horrors are unfolding inside Berlin warehouses after midnight.

Then out of nowhere my own brain goes: “No no. We’re not doing any of that. We’re just going to try licking forearms.”

Forearms that suggest this man has carried something heavy without immediately looking around for another man to help him.

I’m afraid that if a man casually rests one forearm on a kitchen counter while listening to me speak, I’ll become cognitively unavailable.

Anyway, the SECOND I licked him, this man froze and stared at me like he was trying to decide whether to kiss me or RUN.

This is how it starts.

Today it’s one innocent forearm lick. Six months from now I’ll be emotionally compromised because a man carried a bag of potting soil one-handed.

Forearms are weirdly intimate. You notice them when someone’s cooking, driving, carrying groceries, fixing things, leaning against doorframes, pulling shirts off over their heads, or silently carrying six dining chairs at once during a family barbecue while everyone else pretends not to be impressed.

A good forearm says: “I can assemble IKEA furniture without looking at the instructions.”

Anyway, while I continue deteriorating psychologically, here’s what happened this week in the Fox universe.

So, this week I finally got around to creating a podcast I didn’t immediately delete, about a guy whose forearms I don’t even remember, but who was incredibly hot. Check out My Straight Friend Jon here.

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The Ranger Railed Me came to me after watching a documentary and immediately thinking, “Yes, but what if this became considerably less educational?”

It got over ten restacks, which means it gets a sequel.

I also dropped The Captain’s Front Page, a chapter that’s been open for weeks, but due to the intensity of the story, I kept inviting blonde guys over with lickable forearms and getting distracted.

The case for me having ADHD grows stronger with each passing week.

The Farmhand: Another Month dropped as well. Levi is about to discover that sometimes the people who love you most can still ask you to break your own heart.

Back to the podcasts. I am aware only part of this fox community likes them, but I’d genuinely love your honest opinion in the poll below.

Extra breathing optional. Possibly dry-tongued if I licked anyone that day.

Chapter 16 of Good Luck Getting Rid of Me drops this weekend for those following along.

It’s a roll of the dice what I’m working on this weekend. Want your say? Comment. Tell me. First comment dictating which story gets written next wins.

Happy Pantless Friday.

Fox Emerson G.H.K.®

If you need me, I’ll be looking for blonde guys in hardware stores.

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My sweaty, dusty, thirsty, pantless foxes.

Let me tell you where I was emotionally at the start of this week.

I was lying in bed, fully pantless, staring at the ceiling after doomscrolling the news on my phone, wondering whether I should spend the day spiraling or writing about two men slowly falling in love inside a police station at two in the morning. That’s literally how Night Shift in the Cell came into existence.

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And the ceiling, very wisely, said:

“Fox. Be serious. You already know which one you’re choosing.”

Now before any of you start thinking this Fox character has finally snapped, I should clarify something. I did not answer the ceiling back. Apparently that’s the part where doctors start taking notes.

The world is a lot right now. I don’t think I need to elaborate on that. You can feel it everywhere lately. That constant low-level anxiety humming in the background you can’t completely ignore, constantly nipping at your nervous system. It’s like that man you absolutely should not keep texting, but somehow continue texting because he occasionally sends shirtless photos and says things like “you up?” while revealing himself one body part at a time like some kind of jigsaw human captcha test.

This is what I’ve realized lately, and I’m saying this with absolutely no motivational-poster energy whatsoever: This weird little corner of the internet genuinely makes my life better.

Every single week one of you leaves a comment that makes me laugh out loud. Someone messages me to say a story hit them emotionally right. Someone discovers the glory hole stories for the first time and goes through the full psychological journey from confusion, to curiosity, to acceptance, to “fine, I guess I’m a fox now.”

When I started this, I genuinely expected maybe five readers. Three would’ve been me checking formatting errors. One would’ve been a confused and horrified relative. The fifth probably arrived accidentally while searching for financial advice.

Instead, somehow, we built this strange pantless little kingdom together and suddenly I’m number 30 in fiction on Substack.

We’re all horny, thoughtful, emotionally perceptive, and above all, supportive. Oh, and occasionally dehydrated. The ideal combination of human traits, really.

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To me, that makes everything else survivable.

Stories don’t fix the world, but sometimes they give you somewhere to go for a while when the world feels heavy, and lately I think a lot of us need that more than we realize.

So no, I’m not going to spend today trying to solve global collapse or communicate with my talkative ceiling. I’m going to write emotionally complicated men with great butts who make decisions we fully embrace.

Speaking of which.

This week a coordinated man in entirely blue gym gear inspired Blown by the Gym Bro, which materialized before the sweat had even dried off me.

None of it really happened, obviously.

Or did it?

Under Surveillance 16 also dropped, and for those wondering why gaps happen between chapters, those take me around three days to write properly because I spend an unhealthy amount of time staring into space trying to figure out where the hell to take them next.

No wonder the ceiling communicates with me.

The Night I Didn’t Go into the Bathroom Stall crossed the restack threshold too, which means that story is continuing. Unlike some of the others, I can write that one in about half a day because apparently my brain knows these bathroom scenes too well.

You may also have seen my completely rational midweek announcement where I officially crowned myself the Glory Hole King® after discovering foxemerson.com now ranks on page one of Google for an alarming number of highly specific search terms around glory holes. Like, the history of glory holes for example. I can only imagine how successful a ‘map of the glory holes’ post might be.

It feels less like an achievement and more like the internet finally reflecting my true destiny.

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And genuinely, thank you for being here.

This place works because underneath all the jokes, empty tissue boxes, crying characters, lickable forearms, sweat and questionable public behavior, most of us are just people trying to survive the week and maybe even make somebody else smile for ten minutes.

And if that smile occasionally comes with a boner?

Well.

That’s what we in the industry call range.

I try to make as many stories free as possible, but free subscribers unfortunately do not pay my rent. This publication still doesn’t come with free tissues, but honestly, with enough paid subscribers, anything is possible.

My landlord continues to insist that “exposure” and “pantless enthusiasm” are not legal currency here, and suggests it might even be illegal.

Coward.

He’s also going to be in my next story as the villain.

Or vilified bottom.

Might even put him in Officer Needs a Warm Hole season two and have the jackhammer show no mercy.

Stay pantless, happy Friday, and thank you for being here. I mean it.

Fox Emerson G.H.K.®

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Every single time we have a little win in life, no matter how small or how big, we need to remind ourselves that it was still a win.

Today I discovered I have over ten keywords placing me on Google’s page one for glory holes on my website FoxEmerson.com.

I’ve made it.

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My parents had doubts about my capabilities, which in fairness, were not entirely unreasonable. I showed no particular aptitude for math, career planning, or basic adult functioning. But glory holes? Apparently this is where I was destined to shine.

I am officially the Glory Hole King.

Fox Emerson G.H.K.

I’m adding those letters to my name immediately. Email signature, business cards, possibly my passport, although I suspect “internationally recognized glory hole authority” may trigger additional screening at border control. I’ll get back on that one.

I don’t have a high IQ. Probably not a particularly high EQ either. Hell, my pants aren’t even that high most of the time. But page one on Google for glory holes?

Yeah baby. This is what higher education was preparing me for.

Admittedly, some of these keywords are probably searched by about four men globally, one of whom is definitely deleting his browser history right now. But why spoil a perfectly good story with the truth?

And you know what makes this achievement even more impressive?

I did it pantless.

I know. It may be difficult for some of you to believe that one man could write multiple blogs, stories, and even a whole book about glory holes while not wearing trousers, but here we are, and frankly I consider it a movement.

One day I’ll be commemorated on some plaque in a long-forgotten, or at the very least poorly cleaned, bathroom somewhere.

My photo. Pants down. Smiling proudly while holding a Google award.

“Fox Emerson G.H.K once visited this hole.”

I like to imagine some confused university student accidentally citing my work in an academic paper right now. “According to Emerson et al., bathroom stall etiquette peaked sometime around 2009.”

Speaking of holes, Luke didn’t go to one this week, but what he did instead was somehow even hotter.

The Night I Didn’t Go into the Bathroom Stall just passed 14 restacks, which means the story officially lives to see another hole…sorry, another bathroom.

And Under Surveillance 16 is about to drop. There are no holes in this one unfortunately. Maybe plot holes, but we digress. It’s late, because… well, that’s another story for another day.

I’ve spent far too many hours reorganizing both FoxEmerson.com and this substack’s home page to make finding content easier. Hopefully things are grouped together a lot better now. And you should now be able to subscribe separately to my pointless pantless blogs or just the stories themselves.

Anyway, the Glory Hole King doesn’t just sit on his throne. I should probably mention that between all the glory hole research, the pantless blogging, and the quiet dignity of being an internationally recognized bathroom authority, I also wrote another book. I’ve written several at this point, which suggests the pantless methodology is working.

About Night Shift in the Cell Fox Emerson G.H.K.®

Officer Grant is working the dead-of-night shift when his colleague Mac drags in a young guy named Owen Carlisle. Owen is calm, composed, and was apparently doing donuts in an empty lot at 1 a.m. in his father’s Lexus. Mac isn’t interested in the explanation, but Grant is.

Owen is a physics dropout with sharp blue eyes and a stability-control system he built himself. He’s also the most composed person Grant has ever seen in the back of a cop car. He doesn’t ask for a phone. He just sits there and watches Grant like he’s already worked something out.

What starts as small talk through cell bars, over bad coffee and a tennis ball that keeps bouncing off a corkboard, slowly becomes harder for either of them to walk away from. And Grant’s dog Razor, who has no business being at the station and no interest in following rules, decides pretty early on that Owen belongs there.

This is a story about two men who have spent years getting good at avoiding themselves. A small-town police station at two in the morning turns out to be a difficult place to keep hiding from yourself.

And yes. There’s pantless activity.

Preorder it here.

Stay pantless.

Fox Emerson G.H.K.®

And you know what? It's not even Friday yet. The Glory Hole King answers to no calendar.

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Happy Friday my sweaty, dusty, pantless foxes.

Thankfully yesterday I turned left on my walk, and walked past that construction site, which sparked a new story in me. Hours later, Concrete Heat was written and published. It’s amazing what a few butt cracks and sweat will do.

Had I gone right, you may have read The Butcher instead.

Not sure I’m emotionally equipped to blend horror and erotic fiction yet. Although considering some of my dating experiences, maybe I already have.

Recently I’ve been delving into characters a little more than I usually do. Not for every story obviously, but some are ending up with a lot more emotional depth than I originally planned.

Writing The Final Railing, which continues the Railing Stepdad series, became an emotional rollercoaster. If you haven’t read it yet, I won’t spoil it for you, but there’s some crying, there’s some sadness, and then there’s some pretty damn hot sex. Basically the literary equivalent of ordering a tequila shot immediately after therapy.

Some of you are now deeply emotionally invested in Josh and Alan, which concerns me a little because that relationship has more red flags than a Soviet parade. We’ll see what happens. The votes are overwhelmingly positive to continue this story, so who am I to get in the way of Josh’s sexual discovery?

Speaking of emotional depth, The Farmhand: Falling dropped. At this point it somehow contains drunken moonlit kissing, gay panic, existential crises, emotionally unavailable farm boys staring at each other too long, and a lamb named Simon repeatedly escaping confinement like a tiny wool-covered criminal mastermind.

Honestly Simon may now be the most emotionally stable character in the entire series.

There’s also a moment where one of the guys compares losing his virginity in a barn to girls in small towns doing the same thing, which somehow became emotional, ridiculous and weirdly sweet all at once.

I really enjoyed writing Inside the Attendant last week, and apparently so did many of you, because people immediately started demanding a sequel, so naturally I wrote one. Gettin’ Railed at Work followed pretty much straight after.

And Sweat and Sawdust 18 dropped too, can you believe we’re at chapter 18 already? It feels like just a few weeks ago I walked past that other construction site and invented Scott and Andy.

There were concerns in comments recently regarding whether I should even be allowed outside anymore. It is a valid concern, but the alternative is keeping me inside without my pants 24/7. Humanity is not prepared for the stories that would emerge from that situation.

Stay tuned, because Officer Needs a Warm Hole season two continues any day now. And yes, before anyone asks, it’s technically about a cop looking for a tumble dryer.

Happy Friday everyone. Stay pantless.

Foxy x

Happy Friday my Foxes! Please remove your pants before you read this post. It is also best read with a glass of wine (coffee will do, but seriously?) and read in an English/Australian hybrid accent.

There’s something about Friday that gets me excited, even if I have nothing planned for the weekend except for more work.

I’m pantless, which is a given, windows open, because that nosey cow in the apartment across the road can finally learn her lesson and might one day stop looking. Or look, I dgaf. And it’s pre-dawn because sometimes the stories come at you while you sleep.

This morning… wait, before you put your eyes of judgement glasses on, let me start with a disclaimer. It’s a dream, which means I have no control over what I was dreaming.

Good, glad we got that out of the way, though you’ll judge me anyway. I was dreaming about Rodney, from The Farmhand. I guess I was Levi in my dream, except in my dream, Rodney definitely knew what he was doing. We started off in the barn, then somehow ended up at my place, in my bed. As Rodney’s groaning, moaning my name, ramming me (yes, in dreams I bottom), while I ran through things I wanted him to do. Even in my dream I knew he was a character, and was choreographing it all. Maybe because I’m a control freak, or maybe because a long, long time ago, I wrote porn scripts for porn. Yeah, I did do a few of those. And you’re thinking… wait, porn needs scripts? Isn’t it just, “oh, I’m so glad you’re here, Mr. Plumber. You might need a big tool for this job.” But porn requires a script, scenarios, details, characters with depth.

Don’t blame me if the porn they actually end up making is low budget, bad acting and terrible lighting.

Anyway, of all my stories, my current favorites are Rodney and Levi, with Josh and Logan from Under Surveillance coming in a very close second. Don’t worry Scott and Andy, while we haven’t Sweated and Sawdusted in my dreams, I’d take you both in a heartbeat. Or a throb.

Too much is going on right now, and I don’t just mean politically, global events, incoming summer for those of us heading into it.

So… while I’m apparently directing porn in my sleep and traumatising the neighbourhood, real life is also doing things. Rude.

Good Luck Getting Rid of me Chapter 15 should be out next week. This one takes an emotional toll to write. What started off as therapy turned into a book. The podcast release date for Good Luck Getting Rid of Me should be provided soon. And the final version of the pitch deck is complete for the streaming services dramatization.

There’s a new site launching that a few of us have been quietly working on for the ultimate smut. I’ll announce that soon, but it’s nearly up and running.

Meanwhile, some of you might be excited to realize that Officer Needs a Warm Hole Season 2 has begun. Episode one is here. I teased on notes that it may or may not feature The Jackhammer. Spoiler, yeah, he does. If you haven’t read it, please… read it, let me know your thoughts. Like, restack, grab some tissues etc.. you know, cos it’s sad😉.

Under Surveillance 15 dropped this week. There are no more private thoughts. How’s that for a spoiler?

The Farmhand:Daylight dropped. Let’s be honest, if I’m dreaming about it, then it’s worth writing about.

Final note. Please stay pantless. Whatever you do today, know that somewhere in Europe, this Fox is pantless. Whether that nosey bitch wants it or not.

Fox x

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I am writing to you, as tradition demands, without trousers. This is not a gimmick, or branding, as many of you who have stuck around a while know by now. This is what happens when a grown man, who may or may not have ADHD, refuses to negotiate with trousers and wins.

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This week I want to talk about straight men (again), specifically the type who’ll tell you he’s straight within minutes of meeting you. It comes out casually, slipped into conversation like a business card nobody asked for. Some people lead with their job, some lead with their star sign, this one leads with his sexual orientation, unprompted, at a bar, while maintaining the kind of eye contact that makes the word “straight” do a lot of heavy lifting.

And then comes that moment, you know the one, the slight lean in, the conversational equivalent of a door being left ajar, your knees may or may not touch.

Somewhere, a gay man stops mid-sip, like a meerkat hearing a twig snap in the distance, because we all know what comes after that sentence is never boring.

What follows is a series of small, reasonable decisions that, taken individually, make perfect sense, and collectively end with both of you in a situation that neither of you is adding to your LinkedIn, your family group chat, or recounting as a hilarious anecdote at his wedding right after the best man finishes a story about fantasy football.

In his version of events, none of this was planned, it just unfolded.

Never done this before, he tells you, has a girlfriend, is super discreet, the list arrives in that exact order, each one delivered with quiet confidence, right up until the part where he tells you exactly what he wants you to do to him, with surprising clarity and a very specific request regarding the lighting.

You are watching a routine with excellent PR.

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At some point it stops sounding like a disclaimer and starts sounding like a trailer, meanwhile I’m watching his arms, getting caught up in his scent. You aren’t being warned, you’re being pitched, and frankly, it is a very compelling pitch.

Then, afterwards, the inevitable, “I’m still straight.”

Which is fine, genuinely, but there is something almost theatrical about walking all the way through an experience, fully, enthusiastically, with excellent follow-through, and then describing yourself as someone who briefly passed through the area.

Buddy, you didn’t pass by, you applied for residency and left a review.

Now here is where I have to be honest with you.

I have described this pattern in considerable detail, I write stories about it, I have mapped it, given it stage directions, narrated it like I am a wildlife documentarian crouched in the bushes with a headset and a clipboard, whispering, “and here we see him lean in for the third time.”

What I have not mentioned is that I am, and have always been, the bush, relax, I’ve been called worse.

I know this pattern so well because I have personally watched it happen, several times, with the same result every single time, me, here, apparently astonished, as though I did not see it coming from the exact moment he mentioned, unprompted, that he was straight.

I saw it coming, I always see it coming, I could set my watch by it, leave out a welcome basket, cookies and condoms.

I went with it anyway.

So if you’re reading this with your coffee, comfortably certain none of this applies to you, then you are either exactly as consistent as you think you are, or you are the man who said he doesn’t usually do this.

Either way, one of us is still pantless.

And one of us already knows which one.

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This week

Unfortunately, personal stuff got in the way. I was only able to publish Railing Stepdad: I Snapped this week, but I think this series is about to end.

If you’re following Good Luck Getting Rid of Me, chapter 14, the most intense one, just dropped. I spent far too many hours in the podcast studio working on the podcast for this memoir, but time well spent.

This weekend I am going to finish chapters for Under Surveillance, Sweat and Sawdust, and The Farmhand.

Please stay pantless, though some of you don’t need much encouragement.

Fox x

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Given my obsession with penises, and what men like to do with them, it’s a wonder I can use both hands to type an actual story.

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I wanted to have a penis competition, but felt it would be too unfair because I’m told I have the biggest one. Or wait, was it that I am the biggest one?

Either way, as authors, we take them as compliments.

I haven’t written a Pants Off Friday post in a while. There’s just been a lot going on and I do apologise.

The past few weeks my focus has been on Good Luck Getting Rid of Me. I’m about to drop Chapter 14, but honestly, this has been the most emotionally breaking part I’ve ever written. But the story needs to come out.

The podcast for a major podcaster in the true crime space has been finalised. A date for this will be released in the next couple of weeks. For many reasons I can’t reveal more yet, but we’re about to go live.

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Some great things are happening with progress toward the streaming service dramatisation, but there are no concrete details yet, so we’ll have to wait until I can confirm something solid. It’s exciting.

Back to my penis. Or rather, some good cocks.

I recently started a new series called The Farmhand. If you haven’t read it yet, check it out. The story is loosely based on someone I know, though I’ve taken… ahem, liberties.

Is interest in Sweat and Sawdust waning? Is it time to wrap it up and give it a beautiful ending? Interest seems to have waned, so let’s be brutally honest… it’s time for a POLL!

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I’m not giving up on Under Surveillance. The big reveal is just around the corner, so hold on a little longer as we finally find out what this story is really about. Chapter 14 is out if you haven’t caught up.

The Captain’s circumstances are getting intense. In The Captain and the Cold, real ramifications are starting to unfold.

The Night in the Bathroom Stall 5 has been released, and part 6 will cum soon. This will be a final part as that story was just a bit of cum ‘n go.

Also coming hard and heavy is Railing Stepdad. Then we’ll all sit on a poll and make a decision.

I’ll be recording another audio erotica story soon for those of you who enjoy them, though these take even longer to record, polish, and release. Episode 10 is here, or you can start from the first one.

I Cheated With a Married Man and Blew Up My Life will get one more part, but I’m waiting on the full story from Leandro before I write it. As this is based on a true story, I want to honour it properly and do it justice.

There will also be a closer for After the Blinds Closed soon, so we get some closure on what happened.

The next chapter of The Hardware Store Guy has been difficult to finish. I won’t go into it, but unless I can make this great, it will stay on hold.

That’s it, and that’s enough. Whether I have the biggest penis, or I’m the biggest penis, is a matter of public debate. Applications for independent verification are now open. Apply through the usual apps.

Stay pantless, as always. It’s the only way to live life.

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Good Luck Getting Rid of Me

Good Luck Getting Rid of Me Prologue and Ch. 1

Good Luck Getting Rid of Me…

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8 months ago · 7 likes · Fox Emerson

I get asked, occasionally with curiosity and occasionally with the kind of tone that suggests I might be running a conversion camp out of my bathroom, why I write so much about straight men. What’s with the first-time stories? Why the married or straight men who suddenly bend for the right guy?

The honest answer is that it’s compelling, because a surprising number of us have either been the straight guy in crisis or the person quietly holding the door open and pretending we’re not enjoying the drama.

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There’s a very specific kind of man the world seems to recognize immediately, like he came with the correct barcode already attached. He moves through rooms without friction. He knows what he wants, and conveniently, it’s what he’s supposed to want: women, success, something loud with an engine and a monthly payment. He can talk sports without Googling anything first and express affection for another man exclusively through insults or shoulder punches. Put him in a locker room, a boardroom, or anywhere selling beer by the gallon and he’ll operate like he owns shares in the place.

That version gets treated as the default setting. I sometimes think of it like going to a fair when you’re a kid and standing just below the height line, which means you don’t get on the ride. As a teen, I sometimes felt like I was just short of being a real man because I didn’t line up, and nobody hands you a measuring tape to check.

Growing up, I assumed that was the model. It wasn’t because it suited me, but because of the standard everyone else seemed to measure themselves against. At first, you try to line up and hope no one notices you don’t quite match.

At the time, I did what was expected, or at least what looked sensible from the outside. I dated women, genuinely wonderful women who deserved someone whose internal monologue wasn’t periodically derailed by the waiter’s forearms or the way the guy at the gym bent over. I built plans that sounded reassuring when spoken aloud, ones that make relatives visibly relax because everything appears to be proceeding along a familiar, heterosexual timeline. It felt responsible, grown-up, almost noble in a beige, “we own matching bath towels” sort of way.

Meanwhile, I convinced myself that curiosity about men was just ambient noise, the mental equivalent of noticing a well-designed building or appreciating good lighting. Every man probably clocked another man occasionally. That didn’t require a full identity audit; it just meant you had eyes. Very observant eyes. Eyes that sometimes lingered long enough to require a quick internal reset and a firm reminder that admiration was not participation.

I suppose I ran my own internal conversion camp for a while, frustrated and angry but still compliant.

Then it felt like I had my own Pride. I burst out of the closet after one fateful day in which I discovered a little hole, and then everything changed.

Some of these stories appear, ahem, slightly autobiographical. When you read The Pleasure Hole, or The Hole Story, or The Night in the Bathroom Stall, you’re probably thinking this guy isn’t making this shit up. This guy might know his way around a hole.

Anyway, speaking of holes and straight men, this week quite a few holes were filled.

Officer Needs a Warm Hole finally came to an end. What it really needed was addressing that thing that was floating between Anders and Slutty-bottom-boi, but done in a realistic way. I hope I did. And while I felt some emotion closing that chapter, nothing came close to how I felt putting Woodsmen to bed.

My original intention was to just end it. But that came with emotions, and I try not to experience those. They get you into trouble, into relationships, into accidentally meeting someone’s parents and having to explain what you “are” over brunch instead of just enjoying your eggs Benedict in silence. They get you into shared streaming passwords, decorative pillows you pretend you don’t care about but absolutely arranged, and long conversations about “where this is going” instead of just focusing on where he’s going. Eventually someone says “I love you” first, which history suggests is how empires fall.

Anyway, Woodsmen did end, but… as soon as I can come up with some really good plots and arcs and other clever things good writers say, I’ll launch season 2. Comment below on what you think.

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Let’s talk about Under Surveillance 11. That came out. There, we talked about it. End of discussion. This isn’t a democracy. I know many of you still love these two, and the story is only just starting to get… spicy. And I’m not even talking about Josh and Logan.

We absolutely can talk about The Captain and the Away Team however. What do you guys think? Continue it? Oh oh… looks like it’s time for another…

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Oh and, Railing Stepdad next chapter is coming this weekend, assuming I don’t accidentally on purpose find myself going down some hole. For market research, of course.

Oh, The Night in the Bathroom Stall 3 got over 10 restacks, and I’ve mostly written part 4. It’s cumming.

If you’re reading Good Luck Getting Rid of Me, chapter 9 came out on the 6th and a post dropped today.

I hope your weekend is full of holes. Emotional ones are optional.

Fox x

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Good Luck Getting Rid of Me

A Lesson in Trauma

There are wars that announce themselves with sirens and smoke, and then there are the quiet ones…

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4 months ago · Fox Emerson

Happy Friday my horny foxes.

The world is on fire. I know we’re all in this together, and while I never get political, it doesn’t mean I don’t know what’s going on or that I don’t feel the anxiety too.

Some days it feels like you can’t open your phone without being reminded that everything is either collapsing, arguing, or on the brink of doing both at once.
That’s why I keep writing, because we need love in our lives. I’m going to double down and keep creating stories that fill us with it, and distract us from the general background screaming.

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What we’re all really good at is telling ourselves that everything is going to be okay. That’s optimism, and I’m all about it.

There’s always hope, those moments where we see people do genuinely amazing things, sometimes when we least expect it. Life right now feels like an emotional rollercoaster you didn’t agree to get on, throwing your head back and screaming while you wonder how the fuck you get off it.

Even if you don’t tune into the news, it’s happening everywhere. We all feel it. But there’s also the good, the quiet belief that deep down, most of us are just trying to get through the day without losing our minds or being a complete asshole.

I’m on your side. I want to spread some love, some happiness, and make us feel good. This little community we’ve created together is where we share the ups and downs of the stories I create, and where we collectively agree that sometimes the healthiest response to reality is a well-timed fictional man with good arms, a drill in his hand, and no pants, even in winter.

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It’s important for us to focus on the good, to influence positively where we can, and remember who we are, especially when the outside world seems determined to test our patience.

There’s a silly little thing I want to admit to you. I told a close friend just this week that I do it, and he laughed, but said it wasn’t a silly thing at all. In fact, he said it was kind of cute, which I’m choosing to take as a compliment.

When things get heavy, and I look around and wonder where we’ll be tomorrow, I close my eyes, throw my head back, and imagine I’m out in space. I look at Earth, this tiny blue dot, then cast my eyes around the universe and wonder what’s beyond our neighborhood. Countless civilizations. So many other worlds and places that hopefully have their shit together more than we do. My imagination runs so wild I could write books about what I conjure, which, in hindsight, explains a lot. Actually, I did once. I wrote a book (Circle in the Sand) during a period when anxiety filled me up, and my escape was to reimagine history and where we came from. Sometimes I write books, quietly publish them and then forget they even exist. That’s just how I roll. Then there’s that other book I wrote about a glory hole, which a lot more seem to remember!

What’s the point here? When I cast my eyes back on Earth, I think about eight billion people, all trying to survive, all wrapped up in our own problems. All of us experiencing fear, love, hate, passion, and everything in between. And I think about the one thing we all desperately need.

A sense of belonging.

We belong here. This community is filled with stories designed to make you happy, and that often makes our cocks go… oh yeah, I like this.

This is our community. This is where we get to share our passion for stories that give us hope, love, and take us on a journey of discovery, sometimes emotional, sometimes horny, often both.

Thank you for being here, and for joining me on this journey of bringing small chapters of happiness into our lives. Preferably while hard, smiling, or at least temporarily less stressed than when you opened your inbox.

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Speaking of less stressed, this week in Sweat and Sawdust, Andy and Scott have made progress. Life is hard when you’ve lived your life aligned with society’s expectations. But Andy and Scott are realizing that there’s something more important than letting others dictate who you should be.

Chapter 14 dropped, and so did my pants.

The Captain gives me hope, and a boner. He still doesn’t know if going to the team’s physio that day was the worst thing he’s done, or the best. The invitation was too tempting to decline, and then things got too hot, and too real, and now they’ve crossed a line. The Captain and the Invitation is part three of this series.

I Railed my Buddy and my Stepdad dropped, which is part of the Stepdad series I started with Railing the Man She Married last year. He did the unthinkable, and now he’s running from it. But for how long? Once desire is unlocked…

As I always say, if a story gets over 10 restacks, it gets a sequel.

Pretty boys Josh and Logan give me hope. They’re young, intelligent, exploring, and discovering that what they mean to each other, is far more profound than who they thought they were as individuals. At some point this weekend, chapter 15 will drop, and so will their jaws when they discover what’s really going on in their FBI world.

The Night in the Bathroom Stall 3 got over 10 restacks, which means it gets a sequel. That’s cumming…

Also, I want to share something with you that I wrote, and was about to delete. I was so conflicted about this post that I’ve sat on it for too long. It’s a satirical, unhinged fictional event that’s meant to amuse. If you’re feeling in the mood to smile, then check out The Foxyverse MetGala Where No One Is Dressed Appropriately. Now and again I write something unhinged. Some of you might claim this happens more often than I care to admit, and you might be right. If you feel like a laugh, then please check it out.

I hope you have a wonderful weekend filled with hope, love and that thing that’s hardly ever said anymore, joy.

From my pants to yours. Fox x

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My dearest foxes. This piece is just for fun, and just because…

The paparazzi were everywhere. Flashing lights, screaming fans, limousines pulling up as the guest stars arrived, one by one. Somewhere, a PR team was having a stroke. Fortunately for everyone involved, they had no place here and no legal standing.

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Fans screamed as stars exited their vehicles, calling out names, holding out a breast to sign, an iPad, or a pair of underpants. Some were crying, while others were begging. One man shouted “I read you at work” like it was a confession and a cry for help.

The stars walked the red carpet, waving graciously, wearing their carefully selected outfits. Every single one of them minimizing how long it took to choose.

Inside, rows of tables seated select clientele, the movers, the shakers, and the people who absolutely believed this invitation meant something about their character. Around the perimeter sat those who’d upgraded to paid and supported the journey, close enough to feel involved, far enough to avoid legal responsibility.

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On stage stood Lesbian Lisa, radiant in Doc Martens, jeans, and an open shirt that looked like it had opinions. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, a single Leo earring catching the light like a warning. The crowd cheered, smiles spread, and several people immediately felt safer knowing she was in charge.

It took a while to seat everyone, especially the stars, who waved politely while doing the mental math of who they’d fucked, who they’d ghosted, and whether Lisa knew about it and was kind enough to save it for later.

Eventually, the lights dimmed and a single spotlight snapped on. Lesbian Lisa raised both hands, palms out, the universal signal for settling the fuck down. To everyone’s surprise, it worked.

“Welcome, ladies, gentlemen, and everyone else,” she said. “Thank you for being here. It’s an honour to welcome you to the very first Foxyverse MetGala.”

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The arena erupted. Thousands cheered and whooped, thrilled, confused, and already certain this was going to get talked about in group chats.

Lisa waited for the noise to burn itself out.

“Before we begin,” she said, “a reminder. This is a celebration, not a confession. If you hear your name tonight and suddenly feel tense, that’s between you and whoever you’ve been avoiding eye contact with.”

There was laughter across the arena.

Near the front, at a table for four, sat Anders and Jonathan, Cole and Ryan. Anders, Cole, and Ryan wore their police uniforms, looking even more radiant and handsome in real life. Jonathan wore a suit, while Anders’ fingers trailed his shoulders in a way that was casual enough to be believable, and deliberate enough to be noticed. Occasionally, Jonathan turned to smile at him, and Anders winked back.

Cole leaned toward Ryan and whispered something in his ear. Ryan smiled, turned back to Cole, and replied just as quietly, his hand settling on Cole’s knee like it belonged there. Watching the two of them, Jonathan flipped them the bird. Ryan leaned over and added, not nearly as softly as he thought, “Shut up, slutty bottom boi. You’re just jealous we’re still having sex with lots of other people.”

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Lesbian Lisa cleared her throat and scanned the room.

“For our very first Foxyverse MetGala,” she said, “we’ll be running through each of the series from Fox’s stories and introducing the characters. Then we’ll announce the nominees for each category, and finally, the winners.”

Jonathan murmured something to Anders.

Lisa stopped.

She looked directly at their table, paused just long enough to make it uncomfortable, then said, “Excuse me, the guy who didn’t even get a name until the end of the series…” She tilted her head, rolled her eyes. “Oh, and I should add, a series that got canceled. But we digress. Moving on.”

Anders bristled and shouted back, “He does have a name. Chapter seventeen!”

Lisa didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah. An afterthought. And we still have no idea what he does for a living. Just like Chandler from Friends.”

The crowd roared. Jonathan bit his lip. Anders put an arm around his shoulders.

“No more interruptions,” Lisa said. “Our first category: fastest romance in a series. And the nominees are…”

A murmur rippled through the arena as people turned to their partners, friends, or whoever they’d dragged along under false pretenses.

“And the nominees are… Josh and Logan, from Under Surveillance.”

Cheers and whoops broke out. Near the front, at a table for ten, the recently graduated FBI cast erupted into high-fives, the pretty boys grinning like they’d just been validated by the universe.

“And let’s be honest,” Lisa added, “they’re very handsome, and that whole up-the-bum thing? Adorable.”

The crowd was loud.

Lisa glanced down at her card, then back up at the room, lips already forming a smile.

“Our next nominees for Fastest Romance in a Series,” she said, “prove that sometimes the quickest way to someone’s heart is through their back door and a series of deeply questionable holiday decisions.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd.

“Ed and Rob,” she continued, nodding toward the table where Ed sat wearing a worn, oversized Santa suit that looked like it had seen several traumatic Decembers and at least one emotional breakthrough. “From Holy Santa.”

The cheers came fast and loud.

Lisa held up a finger. “Now, let’s be clear. This is not a slow burn. This is not ‘will they, won’t they.’ This is ‘fake Santa crashes through your back door, you’re naked and jerking off alone, he’s concussed, and within hours you’re having your first real gay experience.’”

The audience lost it.

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“Honey,” she added, squinting at Ed, “I love you, but you are not straight.”

More laughter, a few whistles.

“You didn’t even make it to Christmas lunch,” Lisa continued. “You made it to mulled wine, mutual masturbation, and a full existential crisis before midnight. That’s extremely efficient. And very gay.”

“And bonus points,” she added, “for the romance technically starting while one of you was still wearing a novelty beard and bleeding slightly.”

She nodded once, satisfied. “Truly festive.”

Rob adjusted the Santa suit. Ed looked like he was trying very hard not to smile.

“Honestly,” Lisa said, turning back to the crowd, “if Hallmark had any courage, this would already be a franchise.”

“Next,” she said, her tone shifting just enough, “the men who taught us that nothing says romance like dust, a midlife crisis, and bonding over power tools.”

The lights found Andy and Scott.

Both looked like they’d just stepped off a construction site in open shirts, jeans, and work boots dusted with sawdust, wearing the unmistakable look of men who had tried very hard to stay the same and failed completely.

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“They met on a job site,” Lisa said, deadpan. “They bonded over sweat, sawdust, and unresolved feelings. They fucked, panicked, avoided each other, then renovated a cabin together like they were lesbians.”

The audience roared.

She smiled. “Honestly, if that isn’t the most realistic love story here, I don’t know what is. Andy and Scott from Sweat and Sawdust.”

Lisa glanced down at her card, then back up at the room.

“Next up,” she said, “the men who went to the woods for something casual and immediately fucked that plan.”

Laughter rolled through the crowd.

“Gordon and Aidan. Woodsmen.”

The lights found their table.

Gordon sat solid and unreadable, dressed exactly like a man who had not adjusted his personality for a gala. Aidan sat close beside him, boots planted, shoulders loose, wearing the faint, permanent look of someone who’d come for sex and stayed for feelings. Around them, the rest of the Woodsmen table leaned in toward each other rather than the stage, relaxed, familiar, and clearly unimpressed by chandeliers. Max had his arm loosely around Wolfie’s shoulders. Both were in underpants and out of breath, like they’d just been for a run.

Lisa squinted at them.

“You met, you fucked, you said it wasn’t serious, and then you kept showing up. Which, for this crowd, is a committed relationship.”

The audience laughed.

She nodded once. “Textbook.”

Lisa glanced at her card and smiled in a way that suggested it was amusing.

“And next,” she said, “the men who proved you can meet anonymously through a hole in a wall and still manage to catch feelings.”

The crowd laughed.

“Miles and Rhett, from The Construction Worker at the Glory Hole.”

The lights swung to their table.

Miles sat in a work shirt and pants, polished shoes planted, jaw tight, the posture of a man who had arrived insisting this meant nothing and spent the rest of the series losing that argument. Rhett sat beside him, construction clothes holding a baby.

Lisa gestured toward them.

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“You didn’t exchange names, or numbers, but you exchanged bodily fluids, eye contact, and then had a baby. You’re definitely strong nominees for this category!”

Lisa scanned to the right and spotted them. A table for two, with just Jackson and Roger. Jackson was in a high-viz top and bare-chested in jeans, while Roger wore a suit. Jackson and Roger held hands, like two people who’d just fallen in love.

Lisa glanced over, then nodded once.

“Ah yes,” she said. “The men who met in a bathroom stall and somehow made it out with dignity, feelings, and most of their clothes.”

The crowd laughed. “Jackson and Roger, from What I Found in the Bathroom Stall. Proof that romance can survive a public bathroom with questionable hygiene, and with absolutely no plan.”

She smiled. “A miracle, really.”

In the distance, a drumroll began. It grew louder and soon filled the wide arena.

Lisa didn’t wait for the drumroll to finish.

She waved it off with one hand.

“Alright, enough,” she said. “We all know how this ends.”

She glanced once toward Ed and Rob.

“You met on Christmas Eve. You caught feelings immediately. You had boyfriend sex within hours. I was there for you the day after, which means this is biased, obvious, and entirely correct.”

She smiled.

“The winner of Fastest Romance in a Series is Rob and Ed, from Holy Santa.”

Applause broke out before she even finished the sentence.

Lisa nodded, satisfied. “Honestly? If any of you are surprised, you haven’t been paying attention.”

The lights dimmed and people stood, already checking phones, already talking over each other, already deciding which parts of the night they’d laugh about later and which ones would quietly get folded back into jobs, closets, and conversations they weren’t ready to finish.

Thanks for reading. This post was pointless and written pantless, but I hope it made you smile.

Fox x

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Happy Friday, horny foxes.

Quick bit of housekeeping before we get distracted: stories dropped this week, things happened, bodies were pressed against other bodies, penises got touched, feelings got revealed and then inconveniently acknowledged. You know, the usual. Scroll down later for the Friday recap.

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But first, something I keep hearing so often that my brain has filed it under “recurring,” right next to half-written sex scenes, abandoned outlines, and men insisting they don’t really use gay apps while somehow knowing all of them.

A friend of mine, Mario, was scrolling Grindr the other night and mentioned something almost casually.

He said he keeps seeing profiles from men who identify as straight and are looking only for trans women. Straight guys with gym photos and strong lighting, jawlines doing exactly what jawlines are supposed to do, even when the profile clearly says “NO GAY MEN,” which we all quietly hope is more of a gentle suggestion than an actual rule.

They won’t talk to him at all, which is impressive considering Mario is hot.

The reason becomes obvious quickly, because their profiles are extremely specific about what they’re looking for, spelling it out plainly and confidently: trans women, sometimes men who present very femininely or cross-dress, all laid out with no mystery or euphemism and absolutely no room whatsoever for creative interpretation. It even comes across like these guys have given what they want some thought.

Mario’s ego gets a little bruised and he’s understandably baffled, which, if you’ve ever used apps like this, is pretty much the default emotional setting anyway.

Anyone who’s spent time on hookup apps knows it’s a place where specificity thrives, with height limits, age cutoffs, and preferences expressed with the confidence of someone ordering off a laminated menu, occasionally followed by a short essay that suggests the profile was written after deep personal reflection and possibly a lot of alcohol.

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Gay apps are many things. Subtle is not one of them.

There’s research on this, by the way, that suggests there’s often a gap between how people identify publicly and what they’re open to privately. When asked about dating, many straight men say no to trans partners. When asked about attraction or fantasy, the numbers tend to shift, which is just… interesting.

Desire is personal and labels are public, with one happening in your head while the other has to survive Christmas dinner.

An online profile isn’t the full person; it’s shorthand, a way of saying, “this is what I think I can say without having to explain myself,” and for some people, explanation is exhausting.

Most of us have experienced some version of this. We like what we like, and then we spend an impressive amount of time negotiating with ourselves about what that means, whether it’s allowed, and if anyone else really needs to know.

Being desired quietly and dismissed publicly isn’t flattering for anyone. And trans women, in particular, have spoken openly about how common and tiring that dynamic can be. Attraction isn’t the problem, and neither is secrecy. Disrespect is.

Anyway, that’s my small Friday observation from the land of apps, profiles, and people being people.

Now. On to this week’s stories, where everyone’s age is real and the lighting is always kind.

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The previous week, I’d randomly (as I do so often) written a little story about a public bathroom hookup. It got well over 10 restacks, which is my measure that you want a sequel. Ta-da! The Night in the Bathroom Stall 2 dropped. And that one got over 10 restacks, so then there’s a part 3.

Our cute, FBI pretty boys got a little intense. Feelings were mentioned, some seriously crazy shit happened, we start to understand the name of the series a little, and I won’t spoil it… so here’s Under Surveillance 10.

Sweat and Sawdust 14 is scheduled to drop within the next 24 hours. Let’s just say that there will be a lot more sweat. Oh, and sawdust.

As always, drop a message, like a post, hit the restack, or just tell me to fuck off. And remember, restacks work the same way gay apps do: once there’s interest, things tend to escalate.

Fox x

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Hey my horny foxes. Happy Friday. Before we run through our weekly update, I feel like playing dress-ups. This week I’m casting roles.

There’s a story we like to tell ourselves about sex and intelligence, mostly to feel better about our dating choices. The story says good sex must come packaged with sharp wit, shared references, humor, and matching brains sparking in tandem, like an intellectual duet no one asked to hear, preferably performed over dinner while everyone nods politely and pretends this isn’t exhausting.

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And then there are times when you sleep with someone who clearly doesn’t meet any of those expectations and the sex is still excellent. Not confusing, clarifying. The sort of experience that exposes how confidently wrong you were about what you thought mattered.

A lot of the mess around sex, dating, and relationships comes from asking one person to cover too many roles at once. Lover, best friend, intellectual sparring partner, emotional support animal, gym buddy, therapist, dinner date, travel companion, and the designated recipient of screenshots, voice notes, and half-baked thoughts sent at 2am for reasons no one remembers in the morning.

That’s what friends are for. That’s what conversations over wine are for and why group chats exist to absorb without judgment. Banter can be outsourced. Sex can be something else entirely.

I have a delicious friend who has been married for something like a thousand years, give or take a century. She’s been openly fucking a guy regularly on the side for about half that time and occasionally meets someone new. Her list of qualifications for a bed buddy is long and confidently held, including intelligence, humor, great sex, and the occasional drinking companion.

Recently, she met someone who didn’t have any of that. He was, however, extremely good-looking and fit, which tends to buy a surprising amount of goodwill.

What caught her off guard wasn’t hidden cleverness. She was very clear that he wasn’t clever at all. What surprised her was how well he read her compared to men who could out-quote her, out-argue her, and out-explain her, despite supposedly ticking all the “right” boxes.

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Problems start when every connection is treated like it’s auditioning for the same role. Sex, friendship, and partnership operate on different terms, and pretending otherwise is how people end up confused, irritated, and quietly disappointed, like marrying a good fuckbuddy and then acting shocked when the conversation dries up.

A long-term partner is a specific role. That role requires communication, curiosity, and the ability to talk when there’s nothing else to do. If you’re building a life with someone, conversation is the material you’re actually living inside.

Sex doesn’t promise that and nor does it need to. Sometimes sex is the point and at other times the mind is the point. Trouble starts when one is expected to transform into the other without anyone admitting that expectation out loud.

You don’t walk into a gym, lift heavy things for an hour, and then complain it wasn’t emotionally fulfilling. That wasn’t the job. Nor do you get into an Uber and then act betrayed when the driver doesn’t want to hear your life story. You needed a ride, not a soulmate.

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Different roles, different criteria equals clearer outcomes.

Before I move on to the requisite weekly showdown, you might be wondering why I’m going all relationship-column this week. I’m not. I just spend an unhealthy amount of time thinking about people, especially the ones I write.

By the time a character hits the page, I already know their sexual orientation, what they look like, whether they’re a top, bottom, or vers, and what they reach for when they’re nervous. I also know their politics, their blind spots, and the kind of connection they keep mistaking for something else.

I know how ridiculous that sounds. It’s also why my characters don’t all want the same things from the same people.

Nearly all of my stories feature protagonists who are straight, curious, or bisexual. To make them believable, I need to fuck them myself first. There, hopefully you now understand my motives, or at least why I spend so much time thinking about who wants what from whom.

Anyway, psycho-Fox time is over. We apologize for this brief detour into my brain and return you to your regularly scheduled update.

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Sweat and Sawdust 13 dropped today. Can you believe we’re already at 13? If you’ve been following Andy and Scott, you already know things don’t stay quiet for long, and this chapter doesn’t pretend otherwise.

I woke up horny this week (shock, horror, gasp, right?) and with a new story in my head. Naturally it was a bathroom stall story, so here it is if you haven’t read it. When I don’t know how a story will resonate, I ask for 10 restacks before I even consider a sequel. We got those restacks right away, which means there will be a part two immediately. Thank you for the likes and restacks. They count, so please like, restack.

The Holy Santa series has finally come to an end with Unholy Santa (where the fuck am I getting these names?). The final, final, actual final dropped this week. I truly mean it this time, it is absolutely, 100% the final. Unless… see rule above…

And then there was the naughty stepdad and son that started with Railing the Man She Married that turned into a series, because… well, you’re all about as horny as I am. So this week, Please Stepdad dropped. Why has his best bud arrived? What on earth will happen next?

That’s it. At some point this week, I’ll be doing a podcast with Mario. Oh boy, I can’t wait for you to meet Mario!

Let me know your thoughts below.

As always, please stay pantless. Fox x

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Happy Friday my horny foxes.

It is the middle of winter, and I’ve been taking cold showers for days. I’ll explain why in a minute. It has been a very interesting week.

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Wednesday early afternoon, after a long, unhinged, creative high, I organized a hookup. His face pics weren’t clear, his dick pic was blurry, and talking to him felt like extracting info from a hostage. Still, he committed and said he’d be over soon.

I usually warn people I’m naked when I’m home, so when they turn up and I open the door pantless, they’ve been warned. But with this guy, I felt like I’d make a concession, for once and keep the pants on.

Another cold shower later, I was tidying up when he turned up early, which I didn’t mind. He’d told me online that he was bi, only into light “side” stuff, but when he walked in, he truly caught me off guard.

The guy was goddamn hot. Also carrying a toolkit, didn’t look exactly like his pics, but definitely an upgrade. This has happened before, from nervous inexperienced guys who are terrified of being found out. They turn up and look nothing like their pics. This guy, looked a lot better than his pics.

For a second I genuinely wondered if the outfit and the toolbox was cosplay, but soon assumed he was on a break from work.

He was really nervous, just standing there, staring at me, waiting for me to start. The energy was off. I hate that jittery, deer-in-headlights thing. It kills the mood. So I whipped my dick out and started jerking off, watching him.

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He just… stared.

Not in a hot way. In a “you do all the work while I panic” way. I was seconds from telling him to leave. Cute or not, I wasn’t doing a solo performance. Meanwhile my brain was multitasking, because of course it was. I kept thinking, I’ve been taking cold showers, maybe you can look at my hot water system if you’re going to freak out and be a dick.

After a few painfully awkward minutes, just as I was about to put my cock away and call the time of death, he finally started rubbing his bulge.

Finally. Jesus. What a cold open.

I stepped closer, but he looked like he might bolt. Then after what felt like an hour, he pulled his cock out and started jerking off. And I was thinking, wow. This cock was way nicer than his pics. A rare reverse-catfish situation.

We both jerked off and I was trying to be extra polite because he still looked one wrong noise away from fleeing the country. I finally asked, “Can I suck it?”

Before he could answer, I dropped to my knees and started sucking his cock. He immediately went, “Oh my god, I’m gonna cum.”

I’d barely had it in my mouth for ten seconds. I shot up just in time as he blew his load everywhere.

I helped him clean up, slightly annoyed because Mr. Comes-Too-Quickly had left me hanging. Then he picked up his bag and said, completely casually, “so… your hot water isn’t working?”

I was like… wait. What?

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m here to fix your hot water system.”

My dearest foxes. That was the tradesman. My hot water system had gone down on Monday morning and the property manager told me there was a shortage of plumbers. They couldn’t get one until the following week. It turns out they had found one, and just forgot to let me know he was coming over.

I’d just blown the unsuspecting tradesman.

The timing was fucking incredulous.

Anyway, after he blew his load all over my floor, he fixed the hot water system. Twenty minutes later, I had hot water. He fled my house, casting me a side-eye like I’d just raped him. Which to be fair, I kinda did. But in my defense… who am I kidding? I have no defense your honor.

Five minutes after that, my actual Grindr hookup turned up. He looked exactly like his pic, although his cock was a disappointment compared to the plumber.

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That’s how my mid-week went.

This week’s roundup will be slightly less eventful. In fact, I feel like all of my stories I’ve written this week are going to pale in comparison to my plumber story.

The Mechanic was a random one-off story that took me by the balls (unlike my plumber) and had to be written. It wasn’t planned, but I’m glad I wrote it. Poor overworked office worker goes to get his car, but discovers something else under the hood. Have a read, it’s waiting for you. As per usual, lots of likes/restacks could convince me to write a sequel.

Woodsmen 19 dropped, which saw a major shift in direction for the series. I’m going to freshen up the stories, and change some things. If you haven’t already, check out chapter 19 and let me know what you think. I know you’ll love where chapter 20 takes them. There may or may not be waterfalls involved, and new relationships, and…

The Gardener (sequel to Climax) dropped, which is a return to Jordan, the hot gardener who seduced poor, innocent Robert. But what happens after ‘the back of the shed’, that’s probably going to be an opener for a potential part 3. Check out The Gardener Railed Me Behind the Shed here. Pants optional, trust me, they may get torn anyway.

Under Surveillance 9… is starting to move forward quickly, and for good reason. You may have noticed that things are getting complicated and scary. Also, Josh and Logan get cuter and cuter FYI.

Finally, things are taking a very dramatic turn in Sweat and Sawdust 12, which dropped this week. There’s a huge new direction for Andy. And maybe Scott. I guess you’ll have to stick around to find out what happens next.

The new Railing Stepdad is here. It is called, Please Stepdad.

Have a great weekend, and if you need a plumber, or a mechanic, or gardener, or construction worker, or police officer, let me know.

Have you ever had a similar tradesman story? Tell me in the comments below👇.

Fox x

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If only my desk could talk. And if it could talk to my bed, it would say something like, “You think you’ve got some stories!”

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Luckily, neither my bed nor my desk can talk, but I will reveal some snippets.

Over a week ago, I recorded my 9th podcast and recounted a story about Gavin. Another hot fuckbuddy I can’t forget. And if I do meet Gavin again, I’m pretty sure my desk and my bed will be gossiping about it all fucking night, like two drunk aunties at a wedding.

For those who indicated you like the podcasts, I need your opinion. And for those on the fence about them, please go sit on this poll.

I’m considering doing a Part Two on Gavin and what happened after. Or should I just give you a fresh new story? Or… would you like me to read one of my existing stories out loud instead?

Yay. Another fucking poll. You decide because I’ve outsourced my creativity to democracy.

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Let’s talk about Officer Needs a Warm Hole.

Part 20, titled Officer Needs a Lover, has dropped in likes, readership, and views, so to me that indicates it needs a quiet burial. One last chapter and it’s gone. We’ll say a few words, light a candle, hold a vigil, mourn slutty-bottom-boi’s bitchy, sarcastic ploys, and then move on emotionally.
Do we agree?

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Also, disappointingly, Sweat and Sawdust views and interest have plummeted. So I’m considering one more to give you a big grand finale and finish it properly. There was a lot about to happen there, and this week’s episode 11 was written intentionally so we skip forward a chunk, because what happens next needs it.

But if it’s not getting reads, then I’m writing for a dwindling audience. Like a musician playing to three drunk people and a coat rack.
You choose.

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Under Surveillance, however, is thriving. Comments and views show me you’re enjoying it, even if the likes are down. That’s good, because I think some of you are starting to suspect where this is going… am I right?
Prove it. Drop your theories in the comments. Wrong answers especially encouraged.

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Let’s talk about the Stepdad series, you horny devils. Now that is something you’re very clearly enjoying, which is just as well, because it’s been a lot of dripping fun to write. And no, Stepdad does not look, act, or in any way, shape, or form resemble my ex-stepfather-in-law Kevin. That’s just pure coincidence.

Kevin did not ever drive a snowmobile, for example. Nor does he live in a cabin, own flannel, or know what edging is. Sheer coincidence.

You’ll be very happy to know that Holy Santa is continuing. A couple of you shrewd stalkers with alarming attention to detail have noticed it is on my Substack permanent menu. A new chapter coming very soon.

We can all thank that hot guy in a Santa suit who looked alarmed when I gave him the eye that inspired the story.

I won’t be releasing Rhett and Miles (Construction Worker) until that chapter is perfect. So that is taking time, but like all the boys scream, “I’m coming.”

Similarly with Bathroom Stall, there is a chapter half-finished but I can’t show you until it is perfect and worth the read. I refuse to serve undercooked dick.

Btw, if you’re a paid Founder, you get to see these and discuss these with me. So, Founders, if you aren’t already getting first looks and reads, hit me up…

Last but not least… Strangers in a Storm will get a third chapter and then we’ll evaluate what we do with it.

How does that sound, my fellow bed hoppers?

Good Luck Getting Rid of Me Chapter 8 has very quietly dropped on the GLGRoM channel.

As always, comment below your thoughts, vote on the polls, we all know the importance of voting. Hit the like button, shove a lot of lube up the subscribe button’s butt, don’t make eye contact, and hit it hard, or simply tell me to fuck off.

I hope your weekend plans are a lot more exciting than mine. I’ll be writing about things I wish I was doing, which is honestly my whole career.

At your service, pantless as always.
Fox x

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Welcome to 2026, my horny foxes. I was feeling cautiously optimistic until last night reminded me that humans are spectacularly bad at impulse control when alcohol and horniness get involved.

For a good friend of mine, though, the year opened with the emotional equivalent of slipping on ice in public.

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My friend’s been in a fifteen-month relationship with a man he loves very much. Let’s call my friend Rod. They’re about to move in together. Last night we caught up, drank far too much in a bar, and at some point late into the night I was on the dancefloor making eyes at someone who was either twenty-five or seventy-five, and may or may not have been a human. The beauty and danger of beer goggles.

Rod disappeared for about twenty minutes, long enough that I clocked it and stopped assuming he was just peeing enthusiastically.

When he reappeared, he looked like someone who had just realized actions have consequences and would like to unsubscribe.

Outside, sitting on the steps with the noise of the bar still leaking into the street, he told me he’d just cheated on his very monogamous relationship.

Shocked, concerned, and honestly pretty sad, we talked it through like two grown adults doing emotional damage control at 2 a.m. We agreed the right thing was to tell his partner the next day, which everyone agrees is correct while secretly wishing time travel were real.

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I’ve been in open relationships, and I know it’s a contentious topic. Some people believe monogamy is the only way. Just as many argue that men simply aren’t wired for it and that pretending otherwise is a long-term fiction exercise. I’m not here to sell either model to you. What I do believe in, very firmly, is honesty as the foundation of any healthy relationship, because dishonesty doesn’t just break trust, it quietly turns everything into a slow, resentful mess.

I love sex and write about it all day long. I am also currently searching for the opposite of Viagra, because writing at my desk with a permanent boner is deeply impractical and wildly unproductive. Still, I offer and expect honesty in my relationships. I’ve been cheated on before, I’ve emotionally cheated, and in my experience the owning up, the uncomfortable conversation, the “this is my shit” moment, is the only place where reality hasn’t already packed its bags.

I’m curious what you think about all of this, and I mean that genuinely, not in the “comment your trauma below” way.

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As for Rod, his boyfriend did forgive him. He made it clear he was disappointed and just as clear that this was a one-time forgiveness voucher, non-transferable, no extensions.

On a completely different note, my Christmas was dull enough that I wrote four horny Santa stories out of boredom, which feels like a cry for help but apparently delighted many of you. This raises an important question. Do we want a part five? Do we need to know what happens next with Santa the Doctor and the architect, or should I be stopped before this turns into a franchise with merch? Poll time. Seriously considering making Holy Santa t-shirts.

I also imagined into existence a New Year story in two parts, Strangers in a Storm and Strangers in the Storm 2. Yes, I reused the title. No, I will not be taking questions at this time or explaining myself.

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I launched a new podcast, which, had seven likes, however, the behind-the-scenes stats show they’re still popular. I am considering moving them off Substack. Others have done well with them on Pornhub, so I may move them over there instead. If I do, I’ll drop links in future Friday posts. But thanks to those of you who filled out the poll, and listened to them. Also, please hit that like button so the algorithm pretends you liked it.

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As we head into the new year, some things are wrapping up, some are mutating, and some are about to get a lot messier. I may or may not start selling tissues as part of a care package.

Jackhammer dropped, which was Officer Needs a Warm Hole 19, told from Ryan’s perspective. There will be one more chapter in this series in the next few days, then I’ll wrap that season and put up a poll. If the overwhelming majority wants a season two, we’ll do it.

Season two of Bathroom Stall and Construction Worker is about to launch. I’ll release one-off episodes of both and let our little foxy community decide if they deserve full lives or a respectful burial.

Woodsmen is also nearing its end. Chapter 18 dropped this week, with only a couple left. We’ll decide together whether that deserves a season two.

What Happened After Stepdad Railed Me, part five of the Stepdad series, also dropped. I’ll probably do one more and see what you all think, but so far seems we all love it. This is probably where I’ll need that anti-Viagra.

Sweat and Sawdust 10 dropped too. That one’s continuing for now, and I promise you Andy and Scott still have plenty to say.

Under Surveillance 7 dropped as well. Those of you following closely are starting to realize this story is not what you thought it was, and it’s about to go down a very interesting road.

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I’m still pantless. I’m still relying on your input to help steer what we focus on and what we let go. Please like, restack, comment, and make noise. This is our community, and what I bring to the table only works if it’s what you want to devour.

Thank you to my paid subscribers for preventing me from having to go to an office, wear pants, and greet Karen or Mark with a fake smile. I appreciate you deeply, and I promise to remain inappropriate.

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Please comment, tell me to fuck off, or at the very least hit the like button. Silence is boring, deeply unattractive, and suggests a lack of opinions, so pick one.

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Hello my horny foxes,

It has been a whirlwind of a year. So many stories, too many penises (wait… too many?) and not enough time. I realize this is the sort of problem that sounds fictional until you realize I am the one creating it and then immediately complaining about the consequences.

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Content creators like myself rely on likes, comments, and restacks to determine whether a story is working or whether it is simply existing in the world like an abandoned houseplant that nobody wants to admit has died. Each story can take hours to write, edit, and find images for, which makes continuing something with low enthusiasm feel less like creative perseverance and more like a quiet personal failing.

So, if you’ve noticed polls appearing at the bottom of certain stories, that’s me checking the pulse, not because I’m insecure, obviously not, but because I am incredibly secure, rock solid, emotionally bulletproof, and very interested in what the data says.

The Bathroom Stall series ended because engagement dropped off a cliff. As soon as I wrapped it up neatly and gave it an actual ending, complaints appeared. Construction Worker (Rhett and Miles) met a similar fate. Apparently, the correct amount of content is “infinite,” and the correct ending is “never.”

So here’s the deal: I’ll kick off a part one of season two for both in the coming weeks. There will be polls. You vote. Majority wins. Democracy, but hornier.

Now, about my brain. As we discovered a couple of months ago, I may or may not have ADHD. Many of you are extremely confident that I do. Thank you, WebMD graduates. Either way, my brain is constantly writing scenes. I’ll be standing in a line, brushing my teeth, or staring into nothing in a way that suggests absolutely no one is home, and suddenly I’ve written half a chapter in my head.

Case in point: this week I walked past a really hot guy wearing an ill-fitting Santa suit. The beard was long, slightly tragic, and deeply unconvincing. I winked and he ignored me. I kept walking and several hours later, Holy Santa was fully written and published. It did disturbingly well, so much so that I wrote a sequel - Holy Santa Too (I’m so good with naming these sequels) the next day. This is how my creative process works. I don’t make the rules, I just do whatever my brain tells me to.

At this point, I need your help, because I like juggling multiple series. I’m probably happiest when my brain is a chaotic writer’s room full of naked men arguing over who gets railed next. But I don’t love spending hours on a chapter only to hear the digital equivalent of polite coughing. So from now on, polls decide. Majority wins and the losers are archived with dignity and the horniest burial you’ve ever seen.

This is our community, and I genuinely love it. I love that we’re all operating with similar, deeply committed levels of horniness and that we get to share stories that reflect that. It’s very wholesome, if you don’t think about it too hard. Knowing my stories touch you inappropriately, helps me sleep better at night.

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For non-paid subscribers, I do try to release free stories when I can. Unfortunately, my landlord continues to refuse blowjobs as a valid form of rent payment, so many things end up behind the Gaywall. I’ve tried negotiating, but he’s stubborn. Apparently, he likes money.

First poll: if you’ve read both Holy Santa and Holy Santa Too and you want another chapter, let me know below. I am, as always, very enthusiastic about poles.

Episode 8 of the More of Steve audio podcast dropped this week for paid subscribers. Engagement was low, which is awkward because many of you keep telling me you love the podcasts. Is this a “quietly enjoying” situation, or a “please stop immediately” situation? Tell me. I need to know whether it’s me or... it’s me isn’t it?

Railing the Man She Married did pretty well, which led to Stepdad Swallowed Me, which also did well, which led to Stepdad Railed Me. This one was well received too. I’m assuming we want to keep going and fully commit to ruining Christmas and beyond for everyone involved?

Sweat and Sawdust 9 also came out this week. Yes, I know I say I love all my stories, but I’m particularly fond of Scott and Andy. Are we still enjoying Sweat and Sawdust, or am I alone in this emotional investment?

Under Surveillance 6 dropped the previous week and ended on a cliffhanger so aggressive it should come with a warning label. This story has you split down the middle. You either love it or hate it. If you’re enjoying our two FBI guys discovering each other and something much bigger, comment, like, and restack. This is how I know to keep going. Silence means I panic briefly and assume you’re all busy living your lives without telling me.

I’m going to do one more, then I’ll run a poll on that one separately and we can see if it’s worth continuing.

Woodsmen, Officer Needs a Warm Hole are safe… for now (I’m working on new content over the break).

Christmas is almost here, that magical time of year when people lose their minds in very specific and predictable ways. I’ll keep working through it, with a couple of small breaks you probably won’t notice.

I wish you all a wonderful Christmas, and for those who don’t celebrate it, I hope you jerk off enthusiastically to whatever brings you joy. May that be fantasies about who will be under the mistletoe next, finding creative uses for Christmas candy or simply reading yet another, horny tale from community scribe Fox.

Free subscribers, I dropped my pants. Actually, who am I kidding? I never wore them. Want proof? I literally posted a photo of me doing naked pushups and a handful of my favorites noticed.

Anyway, prices are what they are. If you’re enjoying the chaos, please consider a paid subscription. You’ll get stroked, free tissues, and full access to this gloriously inappropriate community.

Foxy x

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Happy Friday, my foxy foxes.

I am once again writing to you without trousers. This is not a gimmick, or branding, as many of you who have stuck around a while know by now. This is what happens when a grown man refuses to negotiate with trousers and wins.

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Some people start their Fridays with gratitude journals. I start mine naked, brimming with ideas, going down Reddit rabbit holes where people who shouldn’t have opinions have entire personalities built around them.

This week has been one of those weeks. You know the kind. Where time stretches, patience snaps, and your to-do list breeds overnight like horny rabbits. I have written words I am proud of, words I am ashamed of, and words that will absolutely get me side-eyed by someone clutching pearls they don’t even own.

Art. Growth. Character development. Personal decline, etc, etc.

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Let me share something that happened last week which led to a midweek epiphany. And no, it wasn’t to start wearing pants.

Last weekend I was due to drop my eighth podcast, but somehow ended up in a huge fight with my Mac, and after tears were shed, bytes were swallowed, and my Mac sat there silently like a sociopath who knows exactly what it did, that podcast got caught in the crossfire and has been missing ever since.

About eight hours of recording, editing, rerecording, re-editing, and general emotional investment and all that shit’s gone.

So by about Wednesday, I was feeling murderous and hornier than is medically appropriate for someone holding a cappuccino in public, purely so I could take it out on some poor, unsuspecting ass.

However, after a lengthy chat with my friend, let’s call her Dorothy, I was told to put away all tech and go chill somewhere. Although raining, I went for a long walk, got a cappuccino on the way and returned home, undressed, of course, brimming with new ideas for half my characters.

Also, I had a dream last night in which Scott from Sweat and Sawdust wanted to fuck me. Waking up this morning to realise it was a dream, and that Scott remained fictional while the rain remained very real, felt targeted. Give me a dream in which Pedro Pascal and Scott want to do things I write about to me, and you’ve got yourself a very happy Fox.

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Aside from the mid-life crisis, this week was productive.

After a successful I Railed My Stepdad dropped onto an unsuspecting public (the sequel to Railing the Man She Married) I got ideas. After said walk, I came back with ideas for part three which I hadn’t even intended on doing! So, also this week, Stepdad Swallowed Me dropped. Can I tell you a little secret? Well, it’s no longer a secret now, but whatever… I came a little writing that one. Honest. To God. I regret nothing and several life choices.

Woodsmen 17 dropped. They’re getting harder. So am I. Coincidence? We’ll unpack that later. I’ve left you hanging at the door along with Gordon and Wolfie. What’s going to happen in 18? You’ll find out. Let’s just say that… someone who was previously ‘straight’ will no longer be that straight.

Officer Needs a Warm Hole 18 also dropped. Slutty Bottom Boi is up to his usual tricks, but when you can’t get them into your bed, where do you take them?

Exactly. If you know, you know. If you don’t, you’re probably a cop. And if you are a cop, please call me, my number is usually on the back of the bathroom stall door.

Under Surveillance 6. I know many of you like it, some of you love it, and others are thinking… Fox, where the fuck is this even going? Well, how about reading chapter 6, and you will find out. It’s like edging, right? Under Surveillance is an edging story. And we’re about to… stop edging.

But… just as you start thinking you know what’s cumming next, you’ll have to wait for chapter 7 to find out what this story is really all about. Yes, it’s a slow burn. Yes, it’s not like my usual stories. No, there is no hope in hell that you’ll ever guess where I’m going with this story. I promise you, this story is going somewhere.

Anyway. Happy Friday. I’m off to keep pretending I’m a professional while writing about men getting railed by men who look suspiciously like men I’ve railed.

Allegedly.

Fox x

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Happy Friday, my foxes. I’m coming to you pantless once again, because after the week I’ve had, trousers were the first casualty. Okay, who am I kidding? As most of you know, I never wear them. Let’s be honest, if pants ever show up in one of these posts, assume I’ve been kidnapped.

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As some of you may have realized, this week has been rather… explosive. Spiritually, emotionally and in a way the fire brigade would frown at.
The Captain of the football team literally exploded. If you haven’t read it yet, that dropped this week. That damn physio is just too hot. The Captain and the New Car got messy.

I also railed my stepdad again. Well, I didn’t. Josh did. I Railed My Stepdad dropped and so did Josh’s willpower, not that he had much to begin with. His resolve collapses faster than a folding chair at a family barbecue.

I wrote about my Action Man problem, way back when I undressed him as a kid and discovered the world’s most disappointing absence of genitals. Mattel owes me therapy. That moment probably explains far too much about my later enthusiasm for cock. His cock in particular, yes, yes, I know. Having a crush on a plastic toy was the turning point.

Fans of Sweat and Sawdust will be happy to know there’s more sweat, more sawdust, more cabins, more chainsaws and testosterone thick enough to stir with a wooden spoon. Heterosexuality is hanging on by a single nail. We’re fast approaching the point where we can safely say Scott and Andy are not really that straight.

Speaking of not very straight, Logan and the other Josh, the smarty-pants FBI trainees in Under Surveillance, are slow burning at a rate that probably has some of you rolling your eyes yelling, “get the fuck on with the action, Fox!”. I warned you it would come slowly. And when it comes, it will cum. I may be legally required to hand out tissues when the time cums. I’m looking into the permits.

Blue Eyes left the glory hole and surprised us all in Blue Eyes at the Glory Hole 3. All the tissues got swept up, so it no longer comes with free tissues. Because it’s emotional, wink wink. I’m not replenishing my tissue stock.

Slutty Bottom Boi is really something. If you read Officer Needs a Warm Hole 17, you know exactly what he did, who he did and how he did it. The man is a menace, and I think many of us wish we were him. I cannot wait for you to see what’s coming next.

Rhett and Miles are cumming back. Season two of Straight Construction Worker is happening. Name change required, because neither of them has been near a glory hole since they met. Things have changed rather dramatically since those days, and I have a lot planned for the next phase of their lives. None of it is restful. Coming soon-ish.

The podcasts have done well and, given the comments and likes, I’ll keep going. Part 8 is coming, hopefully this weekend. They take a really, really, really long time to create, edit and fuck with, so bear with me. I am working as fast as I can, which is still apparently faster than Logan getting his dick out.

For those who haven’t heard them, episodes 1–6 are free for all subscribers. You get to hear me recount… erm… stories. Some people call them confessions, I call them plausible deniability.

To my ardent supporters, you keep my pants off, my attention wanton and you touch me in the most inappropriate way. Thank you, from the bottom of my extremely depraved, horny and overly excited heart. FYI, it’s noisy in there.

This work has been incredible. After 2024 took a turn for the worse and I lost a lot, and after 2025 started looking like it was going to make 2024 look tame, I began writing again on FoxEmerson.com, here and a few other places. Because apparently that’s my new coping mechanism.

I’ve been working on a deal with a major streaming service for however long it took Logan to get his dick out in Under Surveillance, and it’s moving at similar speed. We launched Good Luck Getting Rid of Me, which gives you a glimpse into how badly last year fucked me, without lube or permission. You never know, that contract might come before Logan and Josh actually do something indecent.

But the good news is, Good Luck Getting Rid of Me is slowly building. If you’re fans of psychological thrillers, true crime and WHY THE FUCK DID HE DO THAT TO HIMSELF stories, go check it out.

Also, two exciting things to share.

First, I’m launching my pornpire. No, really. It’s legitimately an extension of the Foxy material I’ve been writing, except now you can wear it. Wink wink. Imagine me on your chest. Or your balls. You’re welcome.

Second, I found a photo of me naked doing pushups from early 2024, and paid subscribers may get to see my bare ass 😈👇.

I go on and on sometimes about being pantless, and yet here I am putting fabric together in case anyone wants to wear it. But in this photo, you get to see me, my butt, completing a challenge after the pandemic ended and we all went back to our riveting lives.

To new subscribers, welcome. I hope you like the content. For all the obvious reasons, moderation and my need to eat food, means a lot of content has to be behind the paywall. But buy me the equivalent of a coffee once a month and, in return, I’ll keep writing stories you’ll swear you never read.

Have an amazing weekend. Stay Foxy.

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