Happy Friday my horny foxes, I hope wherever you are, there’s a smile on your face and… that’s it… that’s the opener.
I have some fairly alarming news this week.
I am going on vacation.
Not permanently, obviously, because I have seventeen books, two Substacks, a website, several ongoing series, podcasts scheduled, an unhealthy relationship with Google Search Console and approximately nine thousand fictional men currently waiting for me to decide whether they’re going to fall in love, rail each other, get chased by their wives (true story) or, as is increasingly common around here, achieve all three before lunch.
I am simply taking a few days off.
This should not be remarkable, except I realized while organizing it that this is my first actual break in more than a year which explains why the concept currently feels less like a vacation and more like I’ve been selected for an experimental European government program where exhausted writers are temporarily removed from their laptops and released near large bodies of water.
Apparently, people do this recreationally. They go somewhere warm, lie beside the ocean and do absolutely nothing.
Nothing. I don’t understand. What happens after I lie down? Do I watch men walk up to each other saying things like, “Hey John, nice biceps,” and take notes? Have them give each other that look, then follow each other to the men’s changing room? Am I allowed to follow them? For research purposes, of course. Not just because the two imaginary men I just conjured are both coincidentally exactly my type, and their eyes widen when I walk in as they slowly pull their cocks out. I’ll be breathless, standing by the door, but one of them will give me a grin I’ll definitely end up licking as he pulls me farther into the changing room, then the door closes, and what ends up happening in that locked recess will be written and released right after I get back from this vacation.
Damn. This vacation sounds exhausting already and I haven’t even left.
You know what’s kinda crazy? I grew up right next to a beach in Western Australia.
The ocean wasn’t a destination when I was a kid. It was just at the end of the street, doing ocean things while I got on with the extremely important shit of growing up gay without realizing quite how much administrative work that would eventually involve.
Going to the beach wasn’t a thing we planned. You didn’t pack for it and didn’t stand in your bedroom three days beforehand holding two nearly identical pairs of shorts and wondering which one said totally relaxed Mediterranean gay and which one said divorced man finally considering joining a gym.
I want to lie by the ocean on a sunbed next to my husband and my friend Rosa from Australia and not make up stories for a few days.
Let me also remind you about my friend Rosa.
Rosa is a cis female in a gay man’s body. She used to fuck like a man, get them in and out, sanitize everything, then drink a beer.
A couple of years back, I taught her about aftercare. I even wrote a whole post about it here. It was like teaching a child basic math: don’t kick them out the minute they cum, give them a few minutes of post-coital care, a drink, a coffee, then boot them out.
And now she has men chasing her in droves, sending her poetry, buying her high heels and messaging her asking if she’s in the mood for them that week.
Apparently, I created a monster with five star reviews.
So Rosa’s here in Madrid, and we went to the gym, took a long walk, then had coffee this morning, and she told me that she finally likes one of the guys she’s been railing for nearly a year. They even have a shared joke and nicknamed her vagina Slutiza.
At this point, I pushed her away, told her I’m going home to write this post and shower, and we’ll meet for lunch. Now we all know about it and can spend the weekend getting over the visual.
So my horny, dusty, sweaty foxes, I am going to be away for one week. Just one.
Now for your homework. Yes… there’s homework.
While I’m lying on a beach contributing absolutely nothing to society, I want you to do something for me.
I want feedback, like actual feedback. Tell me what you’re loving. Tell me which series you open immediately when it arrives and which characters have somehow moved into your brain and refuse to leave.
Tell me what you want more of, what you miss, what surprised you, which story you thought you wouldn’t care about until suddenly it was midnight and you were furious with me because I ended the chapter there.
Tell me which fictional man you would happily follow for another twenty chapters, even though you know perfectly well I’m eventually going to do something terrible to him because according to Disco Dancing Pete, I have an evil streak. Which we know is true, but why spoil a good story with the truth?
I read your comments and emails. I notice what gets reactions. I notice when a character suddenly develops his own little fan club, and I absolutely notice when I publish something I thought would cause a riot and instead you politely smile, then look away.
So tell me.
Also, if you’re currently a monthly paid subscriber and you’ve reached the uncomfortable realization that you actually like it here and intend to stay, you can switch to an annual subscription. Normally that’s already cheaper than paying monthly for twelve months, but because I’m disappearing for a week and apparently sunshine has made me reckless before I’ve even reached it, I’m offering 20% off the annual subscription right now.
Yes, I have essentially discounted myself because I’m going to the beach.
Gone are the days I just fucking went to the beach.
Now… let’s talk about Scott and Andy. Sweat and Sawdust 23 dropped and I realized I don’t want to end this series. Just like The Farmhand, I’m very invested in these two. The Florida job is in full swing, although this week the wrong fittings arrived, the wrong skirting arrived, Andy’s very expensive diamond saw decided to kill itself and, somewhere underneath all that sawdust and construction-site chaos, Andy messed up. Then Scott turned up, started talking about hammocks, and even as I wrote it, I got a little… something stuck in my throat.
Over a damn hammock. If you know, you’ve read it.
My Science Teacher Railed Me On Campus dropped, based on my actual science teacher, Mr. Cliff. Obviously I’ve left that on a cliffhanger. See what I did there? I would give you a helpful summary here, except that would involve telling you what happens, and apparently Mr. Cliff and I have already committed ourselves to the cliff. Drumroll, please. Sometime soon, we will all find out who walked in and what this will mean for Rex and his perfect life.
Railing Dad After His Son also dropped. Yes, the title is literal, cos you foxes all know how exceptional I am at coming up with names for my stories. Josh went back to Alan’s son after Alan, because apparently once you’ve crossed that particular family boundary, the sensible response is to go back and check whether there are any boundaries left.
Josh is definitely sowing his seeds.
And Ep. 23, The Dusty Town dropped, which takes us back to a tiny Australian town, a mysterious old building and an outdoor shower where I eventually decided that clothes were an unnecessary complication and got completely naked. This one is a true story, because apparently Fiction Fox occasionally looks at Real Fox and thinks, Nope, I’ve got nothing.
That’s your lot until I get back.
Unless I accidentally write something on the beach, which, having reread the beginning of this post, seems alarmingly possible.
Oh, and lastly, but definitely not least, partner in crime(s) Freckleman64 and I have already discussed our next collab. I think you’re gonna love it. Sent chills down my back.
Anyway, please stay foxy, and of course, as always, stay pantless.
Happy Pantless Friday.
Fox Emerson G.H.K.®
The Captain
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October 18, 2025
This story received a lot of great feedback, and so a part two was written.
Sweat and Sawdust
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September 16, 2025
I’d seen him around for weeks. We’d both landed on the site at the same time, but back then he was just another pair of steel caps and shoulders, lost in a sea of them. It wasn’t until this week, whe…
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