I used to sell you something to sit on. Now I’d rather you sit on me. Good boy. Now heel. I’m gonna tell you how I went from selling sofas and scented candles to selling sex, stories and — ultimately — myself. Because yesterday something happened that officially closed one of the biggest chapters of my life.
My old company disappeared. And today? I’m launching the new one. I used to be a respectable businessman Back in 2015, I registered my first company in New Zealand. What started as a little local artisan store eventually morphed into two furniture stores in Wellington with six employees.
For ten years, I sold shit. Sofas. Dining tables. Cushions. Scented candles. Homewares. I learnt branding. Marketing. Social media. Customer behaviour. How to photograph something so somebody wanted it. How to tell a story around a product. How to convince someone that this was the fucking sofa their living room had been missing its entire life.
Then came 2025. The Year of the Snake. And that motherfucker shed everything . My business went into liquidation in November 2025. And yesterday, after nearly eleven years of that company existing on the New Zealand Companies Register, it was finally removed. Gone. Humble & Grand no more.
Especially not the humble part. So what the fuck do I do next? For the last ten months, I’ve been rebuilding. Therapy. Gym. Working part-time in retail, which I HATE! Trying to figure out what the fuck I was supposed to do with my life now that the thing I’d spent a decade building wasn’t there anymore.
And, like a responsible grown-up, I started applying for full-time jobs. Again. And again. And again. Writing cover letters. Updating CVs. Selling myself to companies I wasn’t even particularly excited about working for. Then hearing absolutely fucking nothing back.
The effort I was putting into applying for jobs I didn’t really want, from companies that didn’t even bother replying, became exhausting. Eventually I realised something: I’m fucking over it. Not working. Not earning money. I’m over trying to convince somebody else to give me permission to build a life I actually want.
So I stopped. And then I started fucking around Over the last few months, I started going out again. Partying. Fucking around. Going to the gym. Wearing the mask. Being seen. And eventually I started posting online again. Share First Instagram. At my lowest, I hadn’t posted so much as a fucking Story for more than two months.
Then came X. Bluesky. Threads. And eventually Substack. Partly because of the work I’d been doing through To Be Magnetic Course. But mostly because I had a shitload inside me that needed somewhere to go. At first, none of this was supposed to become a business. It was for me.
Writing about my trauma became another extension of therapy. Posting filthy shit on X and Bluesky gave me delicious little hits of dopamine. I started telling stories because I wanted to tell them. No content strategy. No fucking funnel. No brand pillars. No media kit. Just me.
Then something weird happened. People started reading my shit Like... actually reading my shit. All of it. Stories about my past. My mental health. My sexcapades. My fuck-ups. My filth. My secrets. ALL OF IT. And at first, I had absolutely no idea. Then somebody brought something I’d written up at dinner.
Then someone mentioned another story at a party. And suddenly I started realising: Oh. People are actually reading this shit. Not scrolling past it. Not liking a thirst trap and moving on. Reading. And apparently... talking. Then I discovered the haters Queenstown. I’m at pre-drinks before a party when I bump into one of the head Partyboys hosting the event.
He’s a bit like me. Brutally honest. Sometimes with an undertone that gets taken the wrong way. Unfortunately. He looks at me and says: “You know, I love your articles. But there are people screenshotting your stuff and sending it to me to talk shit.” Oh.
Interesting. Then he tells me what he says to them: “Fuck off. I read one of his things. It’s actually really well written. Fuck the haters.” I looked him straight in the eyes. And cracked up laughing. “FUCK THEM.” Because something clicked.
People I didn’t even know were screenshotting my writing... sending it to other people... and discussing it... when I wasn’t even fucking there. Do you understand how hilarious that is? They were doing my distribution for me. HAHAHAHAHAHA. And there it was. That little magic moment after the dark.
I have haters. And I fucking love it. Because the people who hate you always seem to find each other. And apparently they come with a share button. Share But here’s what I actually learnt This is where the joke ends. Because somewhere between losing Humble & Grand, going through therapy, putting the mask on, writing about my life and discovering strangers were gossiping about my Substack...
I realised I’d accidentally built the beginning of something. Woulf Ryder wasn’t just me fucking around anymore. There was something underneath it. The stories that got people’s attention could also start conversations. The shit I’d lived through could educate somebody else.
The mistakes I’d made could become harm reduction. And the things I’d spent years feeling ashamed about could become the exact things I talked about publicly. That’s when Woulf stopped just being a mask. And became a brand. Shock through lived experience.
I’ll tell you what actually happened. The filthy version. The embarrassing version. The version where I don’t necessarily come out looking like the hero. But I’m not interested in manufacturing outrage for clicks. Shock opens the conversation. Raw education.
There is so much about sex, kink, consent, queer life, sexual health, sex work and bodies that nobody properly fucking teaches us. I want to change that. Research underneath. Woulf language on top. Harm reduction + awareness. Adults are going to fuck. Explore kink. Party.
Make porn. Meet strangers. Take risks. Judging them afterwards doesn’t make them safer. Giving them better information beforehand might. Information before harm. Not judgement after it. Break the stigma. This might be the biggest one. Because I grew up queer in Upper Hutt.
And there are still people sitting in bedrooms, small towns and families all over this country thinking the things they want, feel or fantasise about make them fucked up. Sometimes the most powerful thing you can hear is: You’re not the only fucking one. Shame survives really well in silence.
So let’s fucking talk about it. One door closes. Another one opens. Yesterday, Humble & Grand disappeared from the Companies Register. And now I’m officially launching what comes next. Woulf Ryder // 1984 Afterdark. Writer. Creator. Masked pup. Sex-positive troublemaker.
And apparently... businessman again. Fuck. Here we go. Woulf is officially available for media, campaigns, events, appearances, collaborations, education and aligned partnerships. If you’re working in sex positivity, kink, LGBTQIA+ communities, sexual health, harm reduction, education, nightlife, sex work or somewhere else that needs dirtier conversations and better fucking outcomes: Hire me.
There. That’s enough sales talk. I spent ten years selling sofas. I’m not spending the next ten years trying to sell you me. Because I’ve learnt something else through this whole weird fucking experiment. If you like me, you’ll find me. And if you hate me?
Apparently you’ll fucking share me. Either way... See you in the dark. Woulf 🐺 Talking about the shit we’re told not to.