I'm not here to be digestible. I’m here to be felt.
I'm not here to play- I'm here to transform. Touch me with intention or not at all.
i'm open to friends, f**kery, comrades against banality, strange encounters that unravel the script. people who speak in symbols, flirt like philosophers, and laugh at the void like it's an inside joke. im not here to play roles - I’m here to disrupt them, preferably in good company.
Who Am I? Imagine a glitch in the Matrix that read Bataille, grew up on NIN & Zappa, and got spiritually rearranged by a Coil song at 2:47AM. That's me - Pretty Gnostic Machine. I'm a philosopher in fishnets, a sensualist with a sacred grudge, a loyal dog with a daemon in his spine. I burn slowly, think deeply, feel too much, and write like it's the last thing tethering me to this plane.
I don't do "normal." I do ecstatic unraveling. I do high-intensity metaphysical kink. I do whispering your name into the static between songs and building altars out of broken things. I believe that eros is political, submission is sacred, and being too much is just another way of saying underrated.
By day, I read weird philosophy and talk to animals. By night, I light candles and spill myself into notebooks and ritual. I've never mastered small talk, but I can explain the dialectical collapse of the false self during a well-executed impact scene. I believe the bedroom is a church, a crime scene, and a confessional-sometimes all at once.
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My Aesthetic Is:
Decaying velvet. Gagged angels. Books that smell like prophecy. Candlewax maps of the soul. Trashy black boots and clean-cut ethics. I'm every song you wanted to f**k to but were too polite to suggest.
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My Music Is:
Industrial. Post-punk. Goth. Noise. Ritual ambient. Aggressive tenderness. Soundtracks for undoing. Favorites include Coil, Nine Inch Nails, Skinny Puppy, Diamanda Galas, Nurse With Wound, Bauhaus, Dead Can Dance, Psyxhic Tv, Depeche Mode, Dead Kennedys, Frank Zappa, and whatever sounds like the inside of my head when Im dreaming of you with your foot on my throat and poetry on your tongue.
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I Believe In:
• Kink as catharsis
• Worship as warfare
• Dogs as divine emissaries
• Gnosis through glitch
• And that the safest word is "yes," spoken slowly and with intent
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What I Crave:
Not perfection - intensity. A woman with claws and a code. Psychologically individuated, sexually liberated, self-assured, witch-aligned, weirdly wise. A woman who can dismantle me with a look and laugh while she does it. Someone who's done her shadow work, or at least knows where she buried the bones.
You don't have to be flawless. You just have to be real.
Bring your grief, your weirdest dreams, your playlists for f**king and for fasting. Bring your tarot deck, your rope, your past lives, your questions. I'll bring mine.
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Facts (Because Lists Turn Me On):
I once made someone orgasm just by reading poetry.
I’ve cried during a live Coil performance and didn’t apologize.
I journal after scenes. I also bake bread.
I believe everyone should howl at least once a week.
I don't want to "own" anyone—I want to witness them in bloom and ******.
My safe word is a line from a Zizek essay.
If we click, you’ll get playlists, hand-written letters, and too many compliments.
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Bottom line?
If you’re looking for someone tame, I am absolutely not your guy.
But if you want to unravel slowly over candlelight and conversation, if you want your mind seduced before your skin, if you believe pain can be poetic and laughter can be filthy—then you've probably already sensed it: I’m here for you.
P.S. Tell the patriarchal symbolic order it can keep the abs.
I'm building a new body out of contradiction and clove smoke.
