The Gaywall

A Field Guide to Crossing the Gaywall in a Jockstrap

If you subscribe to my Substack, a masked man will arrive at your door with lube, wearing only a jockstrap. Before you can stop him, he’ll have you bent over your sofa begging for more.

And then he’ll disappear into the mist like gay Batman. Within hours, your skin will glow, your ex will get an incurable rash, and three emotionally unavailable men will text “hey.”

Still not convinced?

Subscribe, and your landlord will reduce your rent, interest rates will drop, your mortgage will mysteriously halve and your credit score will jump thirty points. You’ll have your first lucid dream featuring Pedro Pascal in cargo shorts with only eyes for you, and a six-pack of sparkling water because he respects your hydration.

One reader even claimed their cat stopped judging them. Miracles.

Another said their ex moved cities and gained 30 pounds in emotional baggage.

No more paywall, or as we in the know like to call it, the Gaywall. But let’s be honest, it’s the cockblocker. Just like that friend who turns up with beers just as you’ve finally secured a ridiculously hot hookup.

They say on the other side of the Gaywall, there’s pleasure, there’s passion, a naked ghost with a clipboard who’s been known to say “I’m not an angel. I just look like one when you come.”

There’s a straight construction worker who takes his work helmet off before he takes your pants off. There’s a cop named Anders who’s so emotionally constipated, his love language is grunting while he’s inside you. You know, romance.

And that’s just the first room behind the wall.

Free readers, I love you. Genuinely, I do. In an extremely inappropriate way. You lurk, you skim, you click “like” with the commitment level of a guy who says “maybe” on an RSVP and shows up late with chips. But foxy… you’re in the lobby. The snacks are there, yes. But the orgy? The sauna? The good lube? That’s behind the Gaywall.

Subscribe, and you will become happier. Your inner slut will get a monologue. Free tissues delivered every week to go with your subscription.

Of course, I’m full of shit. But hey, you already knew that, that’s why you’re here. I’m a writer, and lying is just storytelling with more glitter. No one’s showing up at your door with lube. Your rent will stay insane. Pedro Pascal will remain tragically clothed. But here's what actually happens when you cross that fabulous, filthy threshold.

You get access to every dirty, chaotic, emotionally damaged, beautifully written story I’ve been unleashing on the world.
You meet the Sex Angel. You ride on the Woodsmen. You get to lick the Blonde Boy.
You hear cops grunt, sexy ghosts whisper, construction workers moan and find out everything I’ve done in places where apparently straight men don’t lurk. Spoiler, they fucking do.
You support a writer who’s turning trauma into art, dicks into metaphors, and lube into lifestyle.

You get to look through the glory hole.

So, stay on the free side if you want. Lick the glass, tap the posts, and pretend you’re full.
Or… subscribe. Step through the paywall… sorry, Gaywall. And bring a towel.

So what exactly is behind the Gaywall? Let me walk you through the neighborhood. Watch your step, the sidewalks are sticky.

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First stop, Sex Angel.

First, you die. Sorry about that, but hear me out, it’s fine, because when you wake up, there’s marble beneath your feet, a barely-dressed celestial being with abs for days, and apparently heaven has a reception desk.

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Then we take a long, seductive hike into the woods for Woodsmen.

This is for those who like their erotica with a side of survivalism, hot ex-military types, and sweaty hunks chopping firewood shirtless.

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After that, you'll stumble into Officer Needs a Warm Hole

It’s not a joke, honestly, it’s a lifestyle. Meet Anders: a ‘straight,’ or so he swears, cop who’s confused, repressed, and keeps turning up to get lessons on how to become boring.

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If you’re craving something softer but still absolutely filthy, try Blonde Boy.

Lonely older guy meets hot younger himbo. Cruising parks, aching glances, betrayal, and breathless sex on a motorbike.

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Then… we’ve got The Straight Construction Worker.

If you’ve got a thing for anonymous glory holes and slow-burn forbidden obsession, then this is going to get into your underpants and make itself at home.

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And don’t worry, we haven’t even hit What I Found in the Bathroom Stall yet.

Because nothing says “awakening” like discovering the love of your life with his tongue in your hole and someone banging on the stall door yelling “occupied!”

Each of these series gets updated regularly, because I write like I’m possessed and masturbate like it’s cardio. And yes, I warm up first. I'm not a savage.

The point is, behind the Gaywall, things happen.

Emotions, orgasms, and epiphanies. Sometimes all at once, sometimes in that order.

But if you’re still unsure, that’s okay. You can keep reading for free. I’ll keep writing for those buying me a coffee once a month. Just remember, you’ll never know what Luca’s mouth feels like until you cross over. And Anders? He’s not going to grunt for you unless you’re paying. That’s premium grunting, sweetheart.

So. Subscribe. Step through.
And wipe your feet. I just cleaned the sex dungeon.