Welcome to the Shitshow: A Guided Tour of My Bad Decisions (And Why You’ll Love Them)

If you’re here looking for literary masterpieces, you’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere between Shakespeare and Pornhub and I don't have a map.

What I write is gay porn. Not the soft, romantic kind. I’m talking disturbingly real, filthy, emotionally manipulative, slow-burn, straight-boys-making-terrible-decisions-in-questionable-environments-they’ll-quickly-regret, immersive, cerebral gay erotica. You’ve probably read it already. If you haven’t, fix that.

You're inside my head now. Sorry, not sorry. Read any of my erotica and you’ll get an idea of where I’ve been and who I’ve done.

I publish at least something every day. That’s the deal. If I miss a day, you get a free month. Call it compensation for missed pleasure. Like leg day at the gym, only with more orgasms.

What else do you get? A front-row seat to the chaos I call a life. Blowjob scenes, cruising stories, narcissists who ruin for fun, cops who didn’t help, and men who did. And yes, most of them reappear as sex props in my stories. Because when life screws you, the least you can do is turn it into erotica and get paid for it.

I’ve published fifteen books, written hundreds of blog posts, and scattered stories across Literotica, Gay Demon, and Nifties. If you’re still in doubt that I don’t sleep, Fox Emerson will convince you. I’m still here, writing and ranting. Still getting laid, so I can come up with new material, and trying to get paid to make men cum. Apparently, women too. I don’t ask why, I just take the money.

If you’re wondering how I ended up here, writing unapologetically gay erotica with a side of vindictive narcissism blog posts and zero fucks given, the answer’s simple. In 2023, I met a real-life psychopath. Not the hot, Netflix kind.

Nothing says life goals like being cyber-stalked across continents. While he’s running from warrants, I’m writing erotica about cops who know how to handle their handcuffs.

Here you’ll find stories about cops, construction workers, criminals, and boys you wish you’d bump into in your local bathroom. And if you're wondering whether some of those cops are based on reality, they are, I just changed a few things because, legal.

This is the kind of resilience you get growing up in a country where a redback spider drops onto your shoulder, mid-presentation, to a room full of C-suite executives who didn’t know the difference between a server and a sandwich. Me? I kept talking, even though what I wanted to do was brush it off, crawl under the table, and blow every single one of them. But professionalism, right?

Or that time a dugite snake landed on my keyboard while I was writing IT documentation, and I ended up wrapped around a receptionist I’d never met before, both of us standing on her desk screaming like extras from a horror film. Where I grew up, we don’t do HR. We do trauma bonding.

What you’re reading here isn’t a professional newsletter. It’s my personal journal, dressed up like a blog. You’re inside my therapy sessions now. The only difference is that you’re paying for it. Or not. Let’s be honest.

So buy me a coffee. Or don’t. But if you keep reading without subscribing, at least have the decency to admit we’re in a toxic relationship.

People like to say trauma makes you stronger. That’s cute. Money makes you stronger. Buy me a coffee so I can keep pretending I’m emotionally healed.

Hit like if something made you laugh, cry, or cum. Otherwise, I’m just guessing what you want. And I’m not psychic. I’m just a pornographer with PTSD.

Subscribe if you want daily smut, questionable life choices, and life lessons nobody asked for, but I’m giving anyway.

Now let’s get back to the dick.

Fox