There’s more to this fuckin mask stuff than I first thought, aye. It’s my thing now. And I’m surprised how much writing on this platform has exposed that. Surprised. But also not. Not after everything that’s happened. What a fuckin identity shift.
I took all my shadow. All my shit. All my vilest things. Exposed them. And birthed the Woulf. I have never felt more authentic. It’s gotten to the point where I feel like I’m edging between playing around with the pup world and fully stepping into it. It’s Virgo season now.
Of course it fuckin is. My sign is reordering my reality alongside me. Thoughts I held onto so tightly in 2025 don’t even go through my head anymore. Things I did every day are no longer part of my routine. And the stuff I had? I couldn’t care less about it.
The more truthful I get, the more the Universe seems to provide for me. And somehow, amongst all of that, I’ve become the Kink Woulf of Substack. From filtered and flirty. To filthy and fruitful. But you already knew that didn’t you ?!? I hope you like it 😈 Because now I wanna talk dirty.
And I mean KINKY dirty. Because kink is also one of the biggest things I’ve been taught to feel ashamed about. And that shit started young. My earliest memories of anything involving nudity or my own body came with the message that it was bad. Don’t expose that.
Don’t touch that. Don’t do that. Why? Because it’s bad. That was about as much explanation as I got. Add to that everyone in my family wanting me to become a priest while indoctrinating me through Catholic school, and I learned pretty fuckin quickly how to perform.
All the adults in my life were always going on about how good I was. How smart I was. I felt that good boy pressure growing up. I’m the oldest. The only boy. And I’m gay. That last part didn’t exactly fit the character everyone had written for me. So I learned the rules somebody else had made up.
Learn about God. Be good. Do what you’re told. And somewhere amongst all of that, absorb the message that being gay was wrong. That being me was wrong. What a fuckin way to teach someone to hate themselves. The funny thing is, I mocked every second of it. I lip-synced in church to their stupid fucking hymns about God.
I fake prayed. Made up confessions. Played pretend. Lied to protect myself. Because somewhere underneath all that good-boy performance, I knew it was shit. But I still did what I was told for as long as I could. I never had a proper sex talk with my parents growing up either.
I remember being a teenager and my mum finding some crusty Cum rag undies I’d hidden between my mattress and the bed base. She pulled them out. In front of me. And my sisters. And angrily asked me what they were. Fuck. The shame. I can laugh about it now. But poor teenage me barely understood what was happening with my own body, let alone how I was supposed to feel about it.
So I figured it out myself. And once I became an adult and started properly exploring sex, something interesting happened. The stuff I’d been taught should be hidden? I fuckin loved exploring it. And over the years, kink became less like something I was discovering and more like something I realised had always been there.
Public sex was one of the first things that really got its claws into me. There was something about the risk. The environment. The smells. The feeling that this definitely wasn’t where I was supposed to be doing it. Maybe that was part of the appeal. My 1st gay sex happened at 17.
I had been out at the pub all night with my friends until 3 am. I was horny after a night out on the piss and had enough teenage testosterone running through my veins to make some poor decisions. Back then we had landlines, not Grindr or Sniffies, and I decided to ring the Hot Gossip chat line.
I picked up some random guys voice mail I had never even seen and organised to meet him in his car on the street he showed up 15min later and in I jumped. What a dumb cunt. We drove to a public toilet up the road from my house it was like 4 am, I was wasted and I was sucking some rando guy off in a loo after a few mins of going down on him he offered me poppers for the first time.
I took the hit I fell backwwards, landed on a tap and sent water flying everywhre all while a massive rush of heat and sexual energy surged through me. If you do them, you know the feeling. Especially if you did them in the 2000’s before the government “banned” them.
He tried to fuck me while i was gooned, it didnt happen. I think i ended up jacking him off until he blew and then we got back in his car and he dropped me back home. LUCKY After spending my childhood learning rules about what was good, bad, appropriate and inappropriate, suddenly I had this part of my life where breaking the rules felt fucking electric.
And I became adventurous. Really adventurous. Fucking in public toilets and poppers Its the smell for me that gets me off The chemical smell of the amyl and the chloirine tabs in the urinals Mixed with dude smells of god knows what. Im fukin into it , BIG TIME. When I first met my now circle of friends, I was hooking up with guys in the mall toilets.
I worked in a few of them knew about it they talked shit about it behind my back for a bit. I hope they are jacking off reading this now tho. Full circle jerk moment 😈 The second hook up I ever had, Grant, a DJ. He used to come out from town to the hutt after playing sets all night.
Pick me up, take me up the bush, and fuck me over a tree stump until he unloaded in my hole. That set my next kink in my sexuality outdoor sex Parks. The nude beach. Workplaces. Even the ones I owned. Random corners of the world where sex probably wasn’t included in the architect’s original plans.
I’ll fuck in public any day. Then there was scent. Fuck me. Scent. That one runs deep. Worn jocks became a thing. Sometimes very worn jocks. There’s something hypnotic to me about the smell of a man that’s been left behind on something he’s worn all day.
I discovered that one at the gym in my twenties. I found my first pair at the gym when I started going at 25. Some random hot guy who was working out had gone to have a shower and left his worn jocks ontop of his gym bag I coudnt resist. I had to give them a huff soooo goood right?!?!
And I’ve been sniffing and trading jocks ever since. I have a collection of jocks that weren’t mine to start with that I now wear after sniffing them until they’ve lost all their scent. Maybe I should start a side hustle selling crusty jocks and socks.
Or just swaps. This doggo loves a good jock swap. Actually, man smells in general get me off. Pits. Feet. Sweat. I’ll give it all a go. And writing that down has made me realise something. No wonder I became a fuckin Woulf. I keep writing about scent. I’m obsessed with rubbing up against my hairy mates and getting our smells all over each other like dogs.
I literally call my closest people my pack. I’m going to see my top-dog bestie today and will probably end up doing exactly that. That’s dog energy. And that makes me wonder: Did I actually invent Woulf? Subscribe Or did I finally give a name and a face to something that had been there the whole fuckin time?
Because the further I look backwards, the more obvious he becomes. The scent. The pack. The outdoors. The physicality. The animalistic shit. The desire to stop being so fuckin civilised all the time. Even watersports have always been a favourite kink of mine. Get on your knees in front of me and I’ll make sure you get soaked.
Or you can soak me. As long as you’re hydrated, the Woulf is thirsty. Although I haven’t explored everything that world has to offer… …yet. And now there’s the mask. The fuckin mask. This is where things have really changed. When I’m alone wearing it, or I’ve got it on one-on-one with someone, something switches.
Goofy, weirdo, “nice” Jono steps backwards. And this raw, sexual, confident-as-fuck thing steps forward. Woulf. And I’ve been wondering why. The mask takes my face away for those first few seconds when somebody meets me. They can’t immediately read me.
They can’t see whether I’m nervous. They can’t see whether I’m questioning myself. They can’t see me wondering what they think of me. There’s no judgement displayed in my expressions because there are no fuckin expressions. No visual signs of my PTSD on my face.
Just Woulf. Which is weird when I think about it. Because I spent so much of my life hiding parts of myself. And now… covering my face is somehow helping me expose more of myself than ever before. That fucks with my head a little. The mask hides me. But somehow it also makes me flesh.
It gives all the shit I kept internal a physical form. My shadow. My sexuality. My confidence. My filth. My humour. My masculinity. My vilest things. They’re not hiding anymore. They have a face now. Well… A mask. And that mask has completely flipped my reality upside down.
I’ve gone from selling couches for ten years… to selling myself. Fuck. That’s a sentence. For a decade, so much of my identity was wrapped up in what I sold. The business. The shops. The furniture. The house. The stuff. Then all of that disappeared. And now the thing I’m putting into the world is me.
Well… A version of me. The kinky version. Woulf. But the more I write about him, photograph him, fuck around as him and let him take up space, the less he feels like a character I created. He’s starting to feel like the part of me I stopped suppressing. That’s who Woulf is.
He’s a Kink Woulf. And I haven’t even scratched the surface of what’s out there. To some people, I’m probably intense as fuck. To others, I’m just a puppy learning the ropes. Mmmm. Rope play. Maybe that’s next. Either way, I’m turning 42 in a few weeks.
And I’m curious where this goes. Because maybe Woulf isn’t me becoming kinkier. Maybe he’s what happens when I stop apologising for already being kinky. All the things I was supposed to hide. All the shit I was supposed to be ashamed of. All my vilest things.
Turns out they weren’t the parts of myself I needed to get rid of. They were the ingredients. I just had to stop performing the good boy long enough to put them together. And birth the fuckin Woulf. Now… I really don’t have to, it want to explain myself anymore.
I’m just gona keep emboldening the WOULF. Let’s see what happens when I actually let him off the leash. Arwoooooo 🐺 Enter the Woulfs Den & see a a whole lot more…