Let’s get one thing straight: real men don’t beg. They don’t whine. And they sure as hell don’t jerk off to a screen praying for crumbs. Real men fuck. They take what they want. They stretch me, wreck me, own me. And you? You sit there stroking your little shrimp dick to the sound of someone else’s moans, knowing you’ll never be him. You’ll never be inside me. You’ll never even matter. I make sure you see the difference—feel the difference—between a man who gets my body and a pathetic beta who just gets billed. You’re not in the story. You’re the laugh track. Real men fuck. You finance it.
