I post my form in stark relief,
A line of muscle, shadowed chest,
The screen ignites a bold belief,
A sensual self, both raw, expressed.
Not Safe For Work, this daring show,
A flex, a curve, a quiet roar,
It stirs my pulse, it bids me grow,
And cracks the shell I wore before.
The crude rush in, their barbs fly fast,
A grunt, a jeer, a shallow cut,
But through their din, I hear at last,
The voices rising from the rut.
A man might say, “Your strength is art,”
A woman, “Confidence in view,”
These words pierce deep into my heart,
And light a spark I never knew.
The lens I wield, it frames me whole,
Not flaws to hide, but truth to claim,
Each shot I share, it frees my soul,
Unshackles doubt, rewrites my name.
My body, broad, or lean, or mine,
Becomes a tale I dare to tell,
No more a cage, but redefined,
A sensual hymn where I can dwell.
Replies cascade, a jagged stream,
Some rough, some lewd, a fleeting bite,
Yet others pause, their words redeem,
A lift, a glow, a guiding light.
“Your poise is power,” one declares,
“Your form’s a fire, bold and true,”
These threads weave through the digital airs,
And wake the sensual me anew.
It’s not for sex, this open stand,
Not casual thrills, nor cheap desire,
But something vast, a firmer land,
A mirror held to my own fire.
The scars I bear, the weight I lift,
The cock I show, the skin I’ve grown,
Each frame becomes a sacred gift,
A pride in self I’ve never known.
A man chimes in, “I feel that strength,”
His echo builds a brother’s bond,
A woman writes, “Your truth at length,”
And suddenly, I’m far beyond.
The crude may snarl, their noise may clash,
But these replies, so warm, so wise,
They cloak me in a tender sash,
And lift my sensual spirit’s rise.
I scroll my posts, a living thread,
A gallery of me, unbowed,
Each image fuels the life I’ve led,
Each like a cheer, both soft and loud.
No longer do I duck or shrink,
The flesh I own, I now embrace,
This platform, raw yet laced with ink,
Uplifts me to a higher place.
The screen’s my stage, a boundless span,
Where I stand tall, where I am free,
The chains of shame dissolve, unman,
Replaced by eyes that truly see.
“Your courage shines,” they say, and mean,
“Your body’s bold, a work of grace,”
This sensuality, once unseen,
Now claims its rightful, steady space.
It’s not the chase, the fleeting fuck,
Of skin on skin, a passing dare,
But how I mend my own ill luck,
And find a self worth laying bare.
The crude may bark, their words may fade,
But others rise with gentle care,
And in their light, I’m newly made,
A man sensual, strong, and rare.
Ten verses weave my tale to close,
Of X’s wild, untamed domain,
Where NSFW can shift repose,
From doubt to sensual refrain.
The few may scoff, the many muse,
Their words a balm, a soft ignite,
Through this, I’ve learned I can’t refuse,
My body’s worth, my soul’s delight.
OxonWoods Man 