Happy Friday, my horny foxes, and I hope wherever you are, someone has physically removed your laptop and put you somewhere where you can read my stories pantless, and in private.
I have returned from my few days on the beach.
Technically, I was supposed to be having a vacation, which apparently means you stop working for several consecutive days and just… enjoy yourself. I know. It sounds made up. Horrifying. Apparently there are people who do this recreationally.
I did give it a proper attempt, though. There was sun, there was sea, there was food I should not have eaten, a couple of other things I shouldn’t have put in my mouth, and there were a couple of incidents that I won’t tell you about yet because they are going into stories soon, where they can be exaggerated, fictionalized and delivered to your box. I’m talking about your inbox. What did you think I meant?
So, naturally, after a couple of days of relaxing, I got bored.
I got writer bored, where I started thinking, I could write this story now.
I opened my laptop, felt that familiar excitement where Simon sits next to me, starts chewing his slice of watermelon too loudly in my ear, and my characters started shouting all over each other until I had to hold my head, shake it a few times and hit my forehead while yelling, “Will you all just shut the fuck up in there?”
And then Rosa appeared.
She looked at what I was doing with the sort of disappointment normally reserved for someone microwaving fish in an office kitchen, informed me that I was on vacation, and immediately ran off to tell my husband.
I tried to explain that I was on vacation, just on vacation with a laptop.
This argument did not survive once Calum walked into the room. He took one look at my guilty expression, then at my open laptop, and I got the dreaded… tsk. If you’re married, you know the tsk. It contains no words and a small eyebrow raise that looks subtle, but has deep meaning.
Within minutes, I had been removed from my computer and returned to the beach, where I found myself sandwiched between Rosa and Calum, my laptop several hundred meters away. Basically a hostage situation with better weather. Neither of them had the slightest sympathy for the terrible burden of being forced to lie beside the Mediterranean doing absolutely fuck all.
It was horrible.
I missed you.
The universe cannot allow me more than forty-eight consecutive hours of peace without throwing a small administrative grenade through the window, I also returned to discover the exciting world of chargebacks.
I didn’t even really know how chargebacks worked until this happened. Apparently, instead of asking me for a refund, you can go to your bank, dispute the payment and fuck me over.
And in my case, it cost me $35.
Thirty-five fucking dollars. Over an $8 or $9 subscription. Apparently asking me for a refund was harder than going to the bank and starting whatever the fuck this process is.
So this week’s Pantless Friday public service announcement is very simple:
Look, if you subscribe and change your mind, that’s fine. Seriously. Even if you just think, fuck this, I don’t want to pay for this anymore.
PLEASE JUST ASK FOR A FUCKING REFUND.
I’m very approachable when money is involved. Sex too, apparently, but that’s a completely different customer service department.
I won’t demand an explanation, nor stand outside your house holding Simon while he stares accusingly through your kitchen window, and you will not wake at three in the morning to discover a small lamb beside your bed chewing watermelon and whispering, “We know what you did.”
Substack gives you seven days to request a refund. Just do that. You get your money back, I don’t lose another $35, nobody has to press the giant fucking CHARGEBACK button and Don Simon Corleone doesn’t tragically appear in your bed.
Maybe I’m particularly pissed because I’ve already had my iPhone stolen this year, and then this happened on my fucking birthday. Apparently one mugging wasn’t enough, this one just came with a payment processor.
So yes, I was just a tiny bit pissed.
Mostly because if you’ve paid for something and you’re unhappy with it, tell me. I’m not fucking Amazon. There isn’t a labyrinthine refund form hidden behind seventeen dropdown menus and a chatbot called Susan who keeps asking whether you’ve tried clearing your cookies.
I don’t clear cookies, Susan. I eat them, but thanks for asking.
Just ask me.
I’d much rather give you your eight or nine dollars back than pay another $35 for the privilege of discovering you didn’t want to give me eight or nine dollars in the first place.
Steam valve closed.
Simon, put the watermelon down. We’re not going round there. This time.
Vacation over.
The one good thing about taking a few days out is that I did manage to come up with some great ideas for stories, several of which I’ve already started working on, including a couple inspired by things that actually happened while I was away.
And nooo… I’m not telling you what happened yet.
I did also sneakily write The Farmhand 16: Fair Fight while nobody was looking, then finished it as soon as I could once I escaped beach custody. If you haven’t read it yet, that dropped yesterday. So technically I did work on vacation, but because I wasn’t caught until afterward, I believe legally it doesn’t count.
There’s something I want to highlight about this episode that’s probably too close to home for many of us. It might be triggering, but what happens in The Farmhand, while largely fiction, is unfortunately still a reality for a lot of people.
The world still hasn’t figured out fairness for everyone. We’ve come a long way, but our fight isn’t over.
This week’s special guest on my audio erotica Pantless Friday is VanderDad, and fuck, this one is hot. The story itself is proper erotic… but then there’s his voice. Deep, Southern and really masculine. Fuck. I found myself listening to bits again while I was supposed to be editing them.
For professional reasons, obviously.
Click above to listen. I genuinely cannot wait for you to hear it. I also want to thank VanderDad for trusting me with his story, telling it so brilliantly, and patiently waiting while I worked through the audio to give you the cleanest version I could manage.
“Cleanest” being a wonderfully optimistic word to use anywhere near Pantless Friday.
So that’s it for this week. To be fair, I spent several days physically wedged between two people who claim to love me while actively preventing me from doing the one thing I love most.
And that is jerking off.
No, I’m joking. I meant writing.
Although now that I think about it, they were interfering with both.
Anyway, I’m back, the laptop is open, Simon has resumed his position beside me with an unbelievable amount of watermelon, and several new stories are already fighting for attention inside my head.
And judging by what happened while I was away, you’re going to enjoy at least a couple of them far more than I enjoyed the research.
Happy Pantless Friday, my horny foxes.
I’m home, and I really did miss this little community.
Fox Emerson. Still G.H.K. ®
Gay Erotica Vault
The Construction Worker Part 1
·
July 14, 2025
By the time the clock ticked past twelve-thirty, I was already loosening my tie. Yes it was hot, and not because the office was any busier than usual. It was just one of those days. Constant requests flooded my inbox, a stream of client calls lined up for the afternoon, and a weekly progress meeting with my boss who seemed to take great pleasure in pointing out anything I’d missed. My tie was suffocating me. I had deadlines, pressure and things to do. I felt a little detached from all of it, almost like an out-of-body experience.
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