You have read all my dirty little secrets about the weekend, Puppies….. You have read all my dirty little secrets about the weekend, Puppies….. Well, almost everything…. But like I said, I’ll never tell. What I will tell you all though, is that the weekend wasn’t all Parties & Boys.
On the Monday after all the fun, it was time to leave. My nervous system had already taken a beating, and I had managed to keep my PTSD under control, with very little weed for the first time in a while. I have a script for it and can fly with it. Every time I do, I get held at security or customs.
I get it. I’m tattooed, tall and I have a record. I now travel with a Dog bag. Full of all my paraphernalia. Dog mask, chains, poppers, dog tag, dildos etc. Because I know my bag is going to get searched. One time all the above was pulled out onto a tray and rescanned to find a lighter you’re supposed to carry in your pocket, for some strange reason.
Like I’m going to light one up on the plane…. I find it odd. Anyway. You can’t die young when you’re not young anymore, right! So my husband and I are packing up our shit. I am a menace when it comes to chaos, so I left the room to smoke a joint and give him his space.
I also flop around the place. I can’t even walk in a straight line, so it’s more beneficial for everyone if I am out of the way. I’m outside puffing away and decide it’s a great idea to stalk my ex’s Instagram after having him blocked for months.
Not the best idea! I saw a photo of him looking good. And I hope he is. I finish my smoke, and clearly, I’m upset. Old memories start flooding in and I start to feel that heartbreak feeling again. I go to pack my stuff and bump into hubby. He’s already flustered from picking up shit and I let loose.
Feral Woulf comes out and I yell some shit at him. He knows by now to get out of the way, and he goes and sits down and tells me to fuck off. I deserve it. And that’s it. I’m now full blown in the beginnings of a panic attack. I haven’t had one for MONTHS.
FUCK. My fight or flight response is now in full force and there’s only one thing to do now to fix it before my flight. Pop half a Lorazepam. I have some in my Dog bag from a leftover script in 2025. I fling it open. My cum-stained dog mask, a bottle of lube and half-empty bottle of amyl fall out.
But no pills. I’ve left them at home. Great. Well now I’m in it. There’s only one way out. And that’s through it. I’ve learnt the techniques. Now it’s time to put it all into practice. Get out of your mind and back into your body, Woulf!
I find my earbuds, put on some hardcore Marilyn Manson banger and start doing push-ups. 25 at a time until I reach 100. Get out of your mind and back into your body, Woulf! It pumps me up and gets my adrenaline running. Mission accomplished???? Nope. Here come the shakes.
The body tremors. The uncontrollable jerking. It starts in my hands, then shoulders, then neck, and before you know it… My whole body is convulsing. Big Dog notices. He comes over to grab me, gives me a hug and whispers in my ear: “Got yourself into a real tizzy there haven’t you.” I look back at him, trembling away, and reply: “That’s not quite how it works, but yes, I have.” I burst into tears.
And out comes little Wolfie. That little boy who just wants to be normal. “Why am I like this?!?” I whimper away. “Because you just are, don’t cry. It’s OK,” he whispers back. It helps. A lot actually. I stop my tears. Fuck this shit, I yell.
I’ll try fuck it outta me. Bend over. He laughs. “Alright, let’s go,” he replies. I spit on his hole, grab the lube that’s still lying out waiting to be packed away, lather up my cock and rail him over our baggage until I cum in his ass. I couldn’t help but shout: Fuckkkkkk.
Let it all out!!!! It helped. How could it not with an arse like his! He pulls up his pants, hole still full of my puppies, and helps me pack the rest of my stuff. I need it because every so often something flies out of my hands and across the room. Another uncontrollable nervous system response.
The Airport We get there. All packed up and on the side of the road waiting for our Uber. I sit down, all sweaty and spazzing out. The driver doesn’t notice thank fuck. He’s too busy talking away. We arrive at the airport an hour early. Check-out was 10, flight’s at 12, so we sit down and order breakfast.
There’s an old boomer couple sitting next to us, and the guy keeps looking at me. Once. Twice. Three times. While I’m trying to ignore him and keep to myself. I’d look too. Some dude sitting in the cafe that can’t control himself. My Wolfie persona isn’t in the mood for unwanted attention.
Only affection. All I want is my husband to come back from the counter and hold my hand. And he does! Good boy. I get a smile and a wink. Eating was fun. My long black turned into a fuckin frothy by the time I was finished, and my plate looked like a feral dog had just been at it after not eating for a week.
But it’s time to go through security. And I always take longer, so we leave. Of course, my Dog bag gets pulled to the side. No dildos out on display this time though. I can tell the guards are having a really good look at the scanner. A gay one looks over and smirks at me.
Fuck off cunts. Give me my shit. I’m anxious. I must have looked guilty too, shaking away. We get through. Time to board. We have a row to ourselves on the plane, so leave the middle seat empty to give me room to fit in peace. Earphones in. Mel Robbins podcast on.
Off we fuckin fly. The shame Think I’ve got it all under control…. Cause I don’t. The shame starts to set in & my mind starts rehashing the weekend. But this time, instead of blame, I realise I’m starting to notice some of my friends aren’t OK.
On the outside, we’re all party boys. There’s a gaggle of us. When you go to as many as I do, you start to see the same faces. It’s NZ after all. The gay scene’s not that big. With my hyper-arousal, I notice patterns big time. I get it. The world is a really scary place right now.
We all feel it, right?!? With Pride getting cancelled all over the place, it’s hard not to. I was planning to talk about several different situations where I found myself with an anxious friend or acquaintance. But for the privacy and respect of my friends, I’m just going to generalise.
So I think I’ll talk about the successes instead. A flip-flop of what I was going to talk about. FREE WOULF ENERGY What I found helped me out of my social anxiety was making the first move. Trying to relax my resting bitch face from the leftover Botox and filler from three years ago.
Trying to crack a little smile. Which has now turned into a wink. Talking to strangers. Pashing a lesbian. And letting go. The energy itself. I have to summon it from the depths of my gouche. But it’s there. The next is dancing. It’s the same rush that I get from working out at the gym.
The endorphins. Getting out of my head. Back into my body. Just like those 100 push-ups on the floor while my nervous system was losing its fucking mind. And then realising something. We’re all in the same 3D world. We’re all a bit fucked up. And that’s OK, puppos.
Free Woulf Energy doesn’t mean Wolfie disappears. Sometimes he’s still there. Sometimes he’s shaking in an airport cafe wondering why the fuck he’s like this and just wanting his husband to come back and hold his hand. And sometimes Woulf has to grab him by the paw and keep fucking going anyway.
Maybe that’s what confidence actually is. Not never being scared. Not never being anxious. Not having all your shit sorted. Just knowing that when it comes back… You can get through it. Find yourself a pack Next, find a pack! The amount of people out there looking for one is insane!
I met some great friends again down at the Big Gay Chill weekend. The hosts were amazing, the talent was on fire and I wish more of you weirdos went! Make the first move. Smile. Wink. Dance. Talk to the weird cunt standing by himself. Pash a lesbian. Whatever. Because there are a fuckload of people standing around waiting for somebody else to make the first move too.
Maybe you’re somebody else’s first move. Maybe you’re somebody else’s pack. So that’s it. 7 dicks. 5 holes. 3 parts. 1 weekend. And somehow, amongst all the cum, piss, parties, panic attacks and puppies… I learnt something. I don’t need Wolfie to disappear to become Woulf.
They’re both me. So go find your Free Woulf Energy. And if you can’t find it yet? Find your pack. We’ll help you sniff the fucker out. Stay safe pups. Reach out if you need. So what’s next, you filthy little animals? An introduction to the Woulf Pack.
Keep an eye out next week for where the Woulf is going. Enter if you’ve ever had to kill the version of yourself you built for other people, then join the Woulf Pack 🐺 FOOTNOTE: THE WOULF IS A PACK ANIMAL I went to a 40th last night. It was one of those classic gay-world parties where everyone’s lives collide for a few hours.
Straight parents. Co-workers. The gays who aren’t quite as slutty. And then, obviously, my whore besties. You know the setup. Everyone politely mingles while secretly standing in their own little groups, waiting for the straight parents and old people to fuck off so everyone can loosen up.
I got there at 7:30. By 9, the parents, aunties and olds had all left. By 9:30, the mask was on. Just in time for everyone to start getting into party mode. But something felt different for me. I felt a little pushed to the side. Nobody tried to kiss me. Nobody tried to hook up with me.
And that wasn’t the point of the party. I know that. It wasn’t a sex party. Although apparently nobody told my husband, because he managed to eat the ass of a guy standing on a fucking ladder taking down a smoke alarm. He also hooked up in the bathrooms twice.
Lucky cunt. So there I was. The Woulf. In his mask. Dancing by himself for a decent chunk of the night. I couldn’t completely let loose like I normally would. The crowd was different, the house was small, and by about 1am everyone had started latching onto whoever they were going to latch onto.
And I realised something. I hadn’t pashed one boy. I hadn’t sucked one dick. Again, that wasn’t actually the problem. Because I think from the outside it could probably look like jealousy. It isn’t. I’m genuinely stoked my husband had fun. But what is my problem is what I noticed underneath all of it.
I’m lonely. Not lonely because I don’t have friends. I fucking love my mates, and they’re there whenever I need them. Not lonely because my husband hooked up with someone else. That’s our relationship. I’m lonely because there’s a particular kind of attention I’m missing.
I want the sexual attention, obviously. But I want the affectionate shit too. I miss having a boyfriend to cuddle. Someone who gravitates towards me in the room. Someone who notices when I’m dancing alone and comes over. Someone I can flirt with, fuck with, curl up beside and have that little world with.
Not one of my friends — they always make sure I feel seen! I need a pup. And lately I’ve been thinking about that gap more and more. I don’t think I need to pretend it isn’t there anymore. So maybe this is me admitting it publicly: The Woulf is on the hunt.
Not desperately. Not because I need someone to complete me. But because I know what I want. I want a new puppy to roam beside the Woulf. Someone affectionate. Someone sexual. Someone who can handle all this shit and still want to curl up beside me when the party is over.
Because for all the independence I’ve built, and for all the time I spend disappearing into my own fucking head… This Woulf is still a pack animal. This time, just don’t break my heart 🐺