camdenlace

[camdenlace]

Quiet Divine

Come to haunt my dreams,

Come as you always do.

Enter my sleeping, please—

I’m always ready for you.

Dark spirit, quiet divine,

Gentle presence, eternal bliss,

Intertwine your fingers with mine,

Bless me with your velvet kiss.

Make me feel your only chosen,

Comfort my restless soul.

Place your violet roses

Upon my lonely stone.

[camdenlace]

jesus no

[camdenlace]

SATIRICAL Q&A: “ASK A CIS GAY MAN™️”

Because he’s definitely the authority on everyone else’s body.

Q: Why don’t you date trans men if you say you’re into men?

A: Oh, I am into men. Big time. Just… you know… men men. Like, the kind of men they put in cologne ads and prison dramas. If your manhood didn’t come with factory-installed genitals, I don’t know how to compute it.

It’s not that I’m transphobic, I just… prefer my masculinity pre-approved by centuries of patriarchal anatomy charts.

Q: So you think penises define manhood?

A: No no no! That would be reductive! I believe manhood is about the soul, the spirit, the vibe.

But also, if there’s no dick and no cum, my gaydar just starts buffering.

It’s like - sure, you identify as a man, and I respect that - but when I unzip your jeans, I’m not trying to meet your gender. I’m trying to meet my expectations. Preferably six inches and vascular.

Q: What do you mean by “preference”?

A: Oh, it’s simple! A “preference” is that magical word that lets me dress up systemic exclusion as personal taste.

It’s not a bias, it’s a Vibe™.

I mean, I also "prefer" guys with six-packs, no body hair below the waist, and a Spotify Wrapped that’s exclusively The Weeknd - but that doesn’t make me shallow. That makes me discerning. Like a sommelier of dicks.

Trans bodies just… don’t pair well with my palette. You understand.

Q: What happens when a trans man doesn’t ejaculate?

A: I panic. Like - existentially.

Because if a man can climax and not leave a Jackson Pollock on my chest, then what is sex?

I was raised on decades of porn that treats cum like a curtain call. It’s not just an ending - it’s proof. Proof that I was desirable, that I did it right, that I’m a Real Gay™.

No cum? No closure.

I didn’t come here for emotional intimacy, I came here for a trophy shot.

Q: Wouldn’t it be more radical to decentre ejaculation altogether?

A: Radical? Maybe.

Sexy? Unclear.

Look, I didn’t spend years in the closet and another ten in therapy just to redefine sex as mutual tenderness and nuanced connection.

Where’s the pump, the thrust, the peak? If you take away the cumshot, what am I even supposed to screenshot later for my group chat?

Q: What scares you more: a trans man topping you, or confronting your own internalised binary?

A: Honestly?

A trans guy topping me would probably be incredible. But then I’d have to admit that my entire sexual identity might not be built on biology, but on a very fragile idea of power.

I might have to sit with the fact that masculinity doesn’t just come from what’s between your legs, but from how you use it - or don’t.

And that maybe - just maybe - I’m not as open-minded or queer-liberated as I like to tell people on Twitter.

So yeah. I’ll just swipe left and keep calling it a vibe.

Disclaimer:

This cis gay man is a fictional composite character created for satirical purposes.

If you feel personally attacked, you’re either in deep need of self-reflection…

or you are him.

Either way: this isn’t about hate. It’s about the consequences of unchecked preference culture, erotic gatekeeping, and the fetishisation of phallocentric masculinity.

No trans men were harmed in the making of this Q&A, but plenty have been harmed in real life by the logic satirised here.

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TW: transphobia, conversion therapy, child abuse

The Galbraith Method

(or How to Hide a Hex in Plain Sight)

Step one: Choose a random man’s name -

maybe one who invented aversion,

and made electricity synonymous with shame.

A name that hums like a lie - in more ways than one

even before it’s said aloud.

Step two: Slip it on like a trench coat.

Write with ink that reeks of scorched childhoods,

then call it fiction,

as if that ever softened a blade.

Step three: Build a detective.

Not clever enough to see the blood on your pen.

But clever enough to chase ghosts

and call them suspects.

Step four: When questioned,

say it was research.

Say it was empathy.

Say it was just a story

(as if stories can’t kill).

Meanwhile - In the real world,

kids are still praying the gay away

under the Union Jack’s proud shadow.

Still lying on therapist’s couches

learning how to hate the mirror.

Call it therapy.

Call it tradition.

Call it anything but what it is:

State-sanctioned haunting - torture.

You sign books with flair

while we sign consent forms

for surgeries you’d rather see erased along with us.

And yet—

You hide behind fiction

like a child with a wand,

casting hexes from on high,

then crying when the world calls it what it is.

We see you.

You, and the name you borrowed

like a wolf in a lab coat.

Your quill is not neutral.

It drips, crimson.

And the children still flinch

in your chapters.

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How to misgender a pineapple

ONE: Approach with confidence —

Never ask the pineapple how it identifies.

Assert. Assume. Pronouns are pointless.

Call it he because it’s spiky.

Call it she because it’s sweet.

TWO: Ignore the crown.

Clearly decorative —

not a metaphor for sovereignty of self

or chosen visibility.

THREE: Say things like:

“But you don’t look like a fruit” (while gazing at a banana).

“You’ll always be a citrus to me” (because that’s support).

“Isn’t that just a confused coconut?” (just because).

FOUR: Tell the pineapple it’s too exotic

for the local fruit bowl.

That it should be more…

pear-shaped. (See what I did there?).

FIVE: Laugh nervously when corrected.

Blame the label at the supermarket.

Blame autocorrect.

Blame biology (inaccurately, of course).

SIX: Slice it in half and argue about what’s inside.

Misunderstand that softness and sweetness

can complement resilience and bite.

SEVEN: Tell it to calm down

when it dares to rot quietly

in protest.

EIGHT: Put it on a pizza

and say,

“Be grateful you’re included.”

NINE: Hold a debate

on whether it’s really a fruit

or just performing as one (philosophy is king).

TEN: Call it brave

for fermenting without complaint

instead of planting it and watching it bloom.

Don’t listen.

Don’t learn.

jUsT lAbEl.

[camdenlace]

Hard hitting and kind of brutal.

You rise

You rise with morning creaks

You rise with every moan that wakes your soul

You rise despite it all

You rise tierd and in pain, yet you don't collapse again

You rise knowing those who wish you failed are watching

You rise for you

And you will rise again

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We build forts

We build forts.

Not only with blankets, pillows and pegs;

with glances across the kitchen

with snacks and cocoa and Eleventh Hour.

The world doesn’t penetrate the walls.

It doesn’t dare, not even a gentle knock.

Not when the roof is made of fleece

and the walls are held up by trust and love.

Inside, we make rules.

No shoes - but always socks. No shame but always pride.

Puns are mandatory.

Tea is sacred.

Silence is encouraged.

Sometimes we lie tangled,

speaking in foot nudges and single words.

Sometimes, we giggle like children

who know they’re hidden from monsters and life.

It isn’t escapism.

It’s recovery.

It’s what it looks like

to build safety from the ground up.

To say:

“I choose you as my shelter.

I trust you with the hidden parts of me.”

We build forts

because the world is shit,

and love should never be.

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Margins and Mirrors

I’ve been having an affair

since I first learned that the shape of syllables

filled the gap between breath and bruises.

Words never judged the weight of silence.

They just waited -

in margins,

in bathroom mirrors,

in the hush before someone said my old name.

Words let me choose which parts to show,

which to sharpen,

which to bury under metaphor and humour.

I learned early:

truth wrapped in rhythm hurts less.

Pain disguised as poetry

is still tolerable -

but at least it’s mine.

I write like I’m confessing something blasphemous.

Like my fingers remember

the things I was told to forget.

And when they say,

“Do you ever stop talking?”

I want to laugh -

because they don’t know

how long I was silenced.

Language found me

no one else did.

It taught me the difference

between being seen

and being read.

This isn’t just writing.

It is touch.

It is survival.

It is the only lover who never asked me to shush.

[camdenlace]

Love this

REVERSE!

[camdenlace]

Just Lace

It was just lace.

At first.

A kink, a thrill -

red against skin, hips against breath... and more.

A blush beneath bravado.

Power constructed with elastic.

It was just lace...

until it wasn’t.

Until I saw the way it softened him -

not just this body,

but his gaze - his whole self.

How lace didn’t feminise.

It freed.

It peeled back shame like old wallpaper hiding a love story.

Made something sacred.

Satin waistband and open soul.

I thought I wanted lace as a turn on.

But it made me fall.

Toward a person shining -

in their skin,

unafraid to be seen (by me)

in all their contradiction.

Lace was never kink.

It was language.

“I see you.”

“You’re safe here.”

“You can stop performing now.”

And me?

I never wore lace.

And I won’t.

But I know what it means

when someone chooses to wear it for me.

It means I don’t have to ask

if he’ll stay when I spiral.

I know - better than most.

That lace is the answer

to a question

I hadn’t learned to ask.

Until him.

[camdenlace]

Not just a Daddy

Not a Daddy with leather-and-rules.

Not someone who calls me “boy”, “little one” or runs my day.

But -

Someone who stands steadfast when I can’t.

Who isn’t scared by my spirals, my silence, or my self deprecating gallows humour.

Not a Daddy, but -

They wear lace? Talk dinosaurs?

Make puns so bad I threaten to leave?

But when they say, “You’ve got this,” I believe it.

Deep down.

Not a Daddy, but -

They’re mine. Most of the time.

And I love that. I need that.

But when my chest is tight and my voice goes quiet -

that energy slides in like second nature and I become theirs.

Not to control. To contain.

To be the pause when I can’t find it.

They don’t fix me.

They don’t flinch.

They just show up -

with hands that steady,

a grin that disarms,

and a voice that never tells me I’m too much.

They motivate with teasing, not shame.

They lead without asking for permission.

And they stay.

Not a Daddy.

But something better.

My Daddy.

Something real.