forcemasc-art

[forcemasc-art]

he/him pronouns aren't enough i need to nut inside another man

[forcemasc-art]

[forcemasc-art]

Riding a guys strap, someone who’s farther along in his transition than I am, being smacked when the sounds or way I move are too feminine, and rubbing my clit when i bring my moans down into my chest. Being trained to associate the correct behavior with pleasure.

[forcemasc-art]

[forcemasc-art]

i need a gym buddy i think. like a dude who will stand over me, counting my pushups, not letting me stop until he's satisfied with how many i've done. once i collapse on my stomach, arms lying uselessly at my sides, he'll crouch down and look me over. tell me how big im getting, how good i look panting and sweaty. he'll tell me how im turning into a strong young man, how i should thank him for helping me out like this. he barely lets me catch my breath before hauling me to my feet and pulling my lips to his.

[forcemasc-art]

guy who wants to get forcemasced but is so excited to transition that it takes all the wind out of the "force" part

[forcemasc-art]

what's faggier than wanting it up the ass when you don't even have a prostate

[forcemasc-art]

[forcemasc-art]

one day, your days in that girls skin will be a distant memory.

[forcemasc-art]

[forcemasc-art]

[forcemasc-art]

Tom of Finland, Untitled, 1975, graphite on paper, 29.8 x 21 cm, (MA-FINLT-00029), Copyright Tom of Finland ® Foundation

[forcemasc-art]

[forcemasc-art]

ohh my god. I want to fight for dominance with another tboy top. wrestling him to the ground, grabbing his hair and slamming his head down. he doesn't care, he's already grabbed my throat and thrown me off him. he straddles me, pressing our crotches together and I force back a groan. we're both too competitive, this will keep going till we're exhausted and bloody and sloppily grinding against each others leaking cocks.

boys will be boys, I guess.

[forcemasc-art]

[forcemasc-art]

[forcemasc-art]

God I miss the days when you could show up to a stranger’s farm and he’d say “What’s your name, boy?” and you’d take off your hat and hold it to your chest to better let him see your face and reply “Why I ain’t got none, sir, on account of my mammy passed on before she could give me one” and he’d tell you he’s real damn sorry to hear that and ask what he can do you for and you’d tell him that you can’t read nor even write neither but you’re mighty good with horses and can mend them fallen fence posts what you saw on your way in and won’t ask for nothing much more than a hot meal and a warm barn to sleep in and he’d keep his wife and daughters inside but send his boy who ain’t got married yet even though his mama tells him he needs a woman out with a lantern and some stew at night and the two of you’d get to talkin and he’d throw you his flask to take a swig from and watch you drinkin from it while he leant against the door frame and when he finally got called back on up to the house again he’d take a sip from it too real slow-like like it weren’t the whiskey what he were tryna savour