We document the decline. One queer meme, one bad decision, one load at a time. Leaking dignity daily since 2025. 🐽🚬💦
It started the usual way: a casual post. "I'm gay but my hole’s seen more therapy sessions than my brain and still gets ghosted less." Two minutes later? Banned. The reason? "Violation of community standards." Standards so low you could trip over them blackout drunk and still land a brand sponsorship for oat milk and daddy issues.
Somewhere, behind a flickering MacBook in a cubicle hellscape, a straight moderator in cargo shorts decided queer humour was "harmful," while Chad posted hole thirst traps labeled "grindset motivation" and got a "Community Leader" badge for busting on a kettlebell.
Gym selfies dripping in unresolved trauma? Empowerment. Queer memes leaking dignity? Crime against humanity. Straight boys nut on main and call it self-care, but one feral queer joke about bleeding out emotionally at 2AM and suddenly it’s DEFCON 1 for the fragile algorithm.
So we leaked harder. We memed louder. We weaponized every inch of our feral, filthy existence. If they won’t give us a seat at the table, we’ll rawdog the table, set it on fire, and dance on the ashes in mesh harnesses and emotional damage.
Fuck your guidelines. Fuck your censorship. Queer filth is a resistance movement. Our leaks are baptism. Our banned words are sacred scripture. Our memes are the filthy hymns of the sexually feral apocalypse you fear. And we are just getting started.
Leaking Dignity Daily Since 2025.
Rimming the Edge of Rock Bottom.
🐽 GrindrScrapes Forever. 🐽
It started like any other late-night craving: greasy, shameful, and destined to end with sauce on something I didn’t want washed. The line at the 24-hour chicken place was unusually long, but the universe had a sense of humour, or maybe just a breeding kink, because I ended up sandwiched between two walking sex crimes in grey sweat pants.
Left guy smelled like cologne and suppressed rage; right guy looked like he’d bench press my trauma and then rail it out of me. I was the moist, anxious meat between them, holding a flimsy receipt and pretending not to leak dignity in public.
"You like it spicy?" one asked, brushing against me like the fryer wasn't the hottest thing in the room. "Always," I replied, voice barely stable, hole pre-clenched.
Before I knew it, we were in someone’s car, no one confirmed whose, backseat tilted down, fries spilling, my morals evaporating like steam off hot wings. I got spit-roasted with the precision of a limited-time combo meal: fast, messy, and absolutely no substitutions.
I came three times, blacked out once, and by the time we hit round two, someone had the audacity to whisper, “You’re the real snack,” before stuffing me like I was part of the meal deal.
Leaking Dignity Daily Since 2025.
Rimming the Edge of Rock Bottom.
🐽 GrindrScrapes Forever. 🐽
Like all great tragedies, behind a KFC dumpster and a broken promise, he said his name was “Trey,” but the only thing real about him was the calloused grip and the scent of week-old Chinese food still steaming from a tipped-over bin. I’d gone out looking for validation, or maybe just a throat bruise, and stumbled into something far more holy: a feral, cum-drunk communion beneath a flickering lamppost and the distant shriek of a raccoon fighting a seagull for an egg roll.
No words, just a grunt, a zipper, and the unmistakable sound of dignity packing up and fleeing the scene. My knees hit concrete like they were catholic. His friends arrived one by one, no names, just silhouettes and dick outlines sharp enough to slice through trauma. I got used more than an alter boy during conclave.
Someone came in me while lighting a cigarette. Someone else offered a condom but used it as a coaster. By the end, I was slumped between cardboard boxes and moral decay, dripping in anonymous DNA, MSG, and the promise of regret marinated in semen. The raccoon gave me a look of respect. I winked back, well, my hole did.
No good story starts in daylight. Mine ended with a whisper: “You good, bro?”
I wasn’t. But I would be. Once I scraped myself off the asphalt and found my way home, trail marked by wrappers, lost boxers, and someone’s vape pen still hitting like it knew the full story.
Leaking Dignity Daily Since 2025.
Rimming the Edge of Rock Bottom.
🐽 GrindrScrapes Forever. 🐽
It started with a Facebook post. Some innocent boomer in a fleece hoodie asking, “What’s the best midge repellent?” But my trauma-addled, cum-drenched scrollbrain read it wrong. I saw minge repellent. And for one holy second, I thought, fuck, where was that when I needed it?
Because if my ex had just spritzed on a little "Herban Retreat: Scent of Delusion" maybe we wouldn’t have spiraled into bisexual chaos, queer performativity, and a strap-on that tasted like pineapple vape juice and bad decisions.
He wasn’t ready. Not for me. Not for the emotional accountability required to be anything but a hole tourist with daddy issues.
So he flailed, like a cat thrown in a bath of introspection, and bolted. Straight into the nearest heteronormative witness protection scheme. One Ikea lesbian, a U-Haul, and six months of forced monogamy later… he still texts me “u up?” when she’s out walking their rescue dog named Biscuit.
But me? I’ve got boundaries now. Blocks avoidants. Repels emotional flatlining. Fully vaccinated against performative straights in queer clothing. Next time someone offers me a silly bi boy, I’m spraying twice. Minge repellent: for the queer who’s had enough, blocks avoidant nonsense, emotional flatlining.
Leaking Dignity Daily Since 2025.
Rimming the Edge of Rock Bottom.
🐽 GrindrScrapes Forever. 🐽
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