girloftheforest

Finally, the long-awaited post about masturbation. Many have..

Finally, the long-awaited post about masturbation. Many have asked me how I do it, what exactly I do. And they were right in their suspicions—women don’t have vaginas, they have combat helicopters, and piloting them is extremely difficult. And I’m flying mine right here on the picture.

For the rest of you, who have actually spoken to a woman or maybe even touched one before, here’s the post.

So, fans often write to me in DMs about their fantasies. I guess it’s supposed to arouse me or motivate me to respond, but all I see are boys who grew up on porn and think sex is just masturbation with a woman’s body. But here’s the thing—women don’t have nerve endings inside their vaginas. Fun fact. Otherwise, we’d die of pain during giving birth. That’s why your sausage friction is totally unnecessary to us and often just creates an unpleasant sensation inside.

A much more interesting structure is the clitoris. As you can see in the images I found for you online, the penis and vulva both develop from similar structures during embryogenesis. Meanwhile, the uterus, neck of uterus, and part of the vagina develop from the urogenital sinus (which also forms the bladder in both sexes) and the Müllerian duct, which men don’t have at all. Look closely at the image of the penis and clitoris—they’re the same structure.

Men usually enjoy stimulating the head and shaft of the penis, which is analogous to the clitoris and its legs, located on either side of the vaginal opening. I’m not denying that there are women with unique features, but the vast majority only experience one type of orgasm—clitoral. No vaginal, anal, ear-based, or other kinds of imaginary orgasms. Unfortunately, women often try to please men, and men’s egos tend to be inflated, which is where these wild stories about different types of orgasms come from.

As for penetration, the ideal option is a thick but not too long penis. Vaginas are very short—only about 5–7 cm—and no one cares about a three-meter-long hose. However, thickness that presses on the clitoral legs is perfect. Neck stimulation can also be interesting. If a woman loves and trusts her partner, her body may instinctively want to conceive, and full penetration with pressure against the neck can feel very desirable, though it’s difficult to achieve orgasm that way.

How do you know if a woman has orgasmed? You don’t. All those moans, lip biting, or fingers in certain places are easily faked nonsense. You have to talk. Ask about her fantasies—not directly, but indirectly. Ask which characters or couples she liked during her life, which books, movies. Ask what emotions she wants to experience in a relationship with her ideal partner. Analyze how much responsibility she takes on every day.

Never, NEVER bargain for sex in exchange for something good you’ve done—sweeping the yard, bringing home a paycheck, or anything else. That’s disgusting, and a tired woman with no desire will either suffer through it or turn you down. If that doesn’t suit you, you don’t love women—try anal with your best male friend or spread your own cheeks.

If you want a happy woman, foreplay for sex shouldn’t be your five-minute fumbling between her labia—it’s your whole life. And then she’ll have oceans of oxytocin for you, she’ll be happy, calm, and attached. Women release oxytocin during orgasms, when looking at their baby, or when feeling loved. It dulls suffering and generates affection.

In general, if you want good sex and love from your woman, provide her with circumstances that feel safe and desirable for having children. She doesn’t have to want baby at all. But her body needs to feel intellectually, emotionally, and physically secure according to her individual needs. If you don’t want or care about that, you either don’t love your woman or don’t love women in general. Sadly, many grim statistics confirm men’s widespread hatred of women.

As for me personally, I masturbate lying on my back under a blanket. I haven’t done it in a long time due to studying, depression, and taking antidepressants. I use a fairly thin vibrator with a smooth surface and a slightly rounded tip; it also has a small “finger” that vibrates on the clitoris. I don’t press directly on the clitoris, usually just slightly to the left. I don’t make much noise. Neck and shoulder support is very important to keep the body relaxed. When I orgasm, I sometimes stretch my legs out fully. I rarely use thrusting motions with the vibrator—this usually happens when I feel a strong mental attraction to an imaginary partner mixed with a sense of tragedy over their absence. Sometimes these thrusts make me cry. I can orgasm about four times in one evening.

That’s it. Not sure who finds this interesting, but it’s probably important information. If you want, I can share another post about my sexual fantasies—what causes strong physical arousal, what causes mental arousal, and how my sexuality has developed over time.

My dudes, I’m maintaining my perfectly spherical shape to pu..

My dudes, I’m maintaining my perfectly spherical shape to pull more subscribers into my orbit.

Went for a walk with the dogs today and found some awesome s..

Went for a walk with the dogs today and found some awesome sticks. Mom didn’t take a picture of me fighting with trees :( Feeling really sad right now because a person I had been having nice conversations with suddenly disappeared from all the social media platforms where we were chatting. He deleted his accounts entirely. I hope he comes back 🥲

Guys, this post doesn’t have any nudity or boobs—I sincerely..

Guys, this post doesn’t have any nudity or boobs—I sincerely apologize. Yesterday, I made a painful mistake. For some time, I’d been chatting with a fan, and the conversation gradually moved into a more casual tone. Those of you who follow me know how much I love to complain. But this guy? He got the full dose. He made the mistake of admitting that he found me pleasant, and I started oversharing way more than I should have. As usual, I began to impose myself, even though I could feel his interest fading.

Yesterday, I ended up spiraling into reflection about my real appearance—not the one you see here, with makeup, soft lighting, and flattering poses, but my actual self. The one with stray hairs, wrinkles, horrifying acne scars. The scars on my chest and pubic area. The badly chewed nails and fingers. Fans will rush into my DMs to defend and encourage me, but I know it looks awful. This isn’t a “normal” body; it’s a body that its owner doesn’t love and has damaged.

So, of course, I brought all of this to him. I unloaded these thoughts. And then, on top of it, I sent him photos. Of my hands, of my face. He didn’t say anything bad—just offered polite support. But I felt like life whipped me across the face. The moment I realized I’d ruined something again—this time, a pleasant, light conversation—was excruciating. I am pathetic. I am being pitied. I knew this would happen long before it did, but I still dragged it out, still pushed it into this ugly, inappropriate level of oversharing. Why? How could I be so out of line?

The worst part is, I wasn’t seeking approval, admiration, or even sympathy. I wasn’t trying to get anything out of it. I was just drawn to the act of… well, self-humiliation? Though I didn’t even want that, not like this. Maybe I was just testing my own boundaries.

And here’s the kicker: this morning, I woke up, and my face looked great again! Like, yesterday, after not eating all day, not sleeping, spending hours traveling and out in the cold, then doing a peel and applying retinol in the evening, I actually thought, Gods, my face is so horrifying! I didn’t stop to think that I just needed water and proper rest. My self-esteem only exists in the moment—it shifts and changes with the moment. I can’t see myself objectively, and I don’t take care of myself. I don’t attribute things to external circumstances; I blame myself. Maybe these are signs of narcissistic personality disorder.

But you know what I noticed today? My hands are beautiful. Even with the chewed-up fingers.

Watch as I play with my best friend’s amazing ass and tits 👀..

Watch as I play with my best friend’s amazing ass and tits 👀👀👀🫦🫦🩷🩷🩷😩😩😩😩😈😈😈💦💦💦

Well, guys, it seems I really am a fallen woman after all. I..

Well, guys, it seems I really am a fallen woman after all. I don’t feel anything about it. Maybe it’s just my mood right now. But I’ve been wanting to post increasingly revealing content here. And I actually enjoy knowing that people are jerking off to me. Honestly, I do. Maybe it boosts my self-esteem, I don’t know what to think about it. It feels like I’m slowly becoming more like the typical locals here on this platform. That’s not a bad thing—I don’t judge them. I just thought this wasn’t about me or for me. But now, I guess I’m in this playful, indifferent mood. Probably because of hormonal fluctuations.

I suppose I should feel guilty toward my parents. But, on the other hand, I’ve already been raised with a constant sense of guilt. What I’m doing on OnlyFans is something I genuinely enjoy. I like reading the feedback from my viewers. I want to experience pleasure and material comfort. I like taking full responsibility for my life, but let’s face the truth: there are very few people on OnlyFans who feel truly happy or safe—whether that’s financially, emotionally, spiritually, or socially.

I want to receive love, attention, and tenderness—even if it’s the kind of attention you’d give to a piece of meat. But I’ll pretend that everyone loves me for who I am. It makes things easier for me that way.

Someone I was deeply in love with once told me, “You really lack tenderness.” And they were right—I do. That’s why I’ll take it however I can get it, in whatever form it comes. I have the right to feel happy, even if it’s within the framework of such a condemned activity.

It’s hard for me to admit this to myself, but I feel like this blog lightens the heavy, crushing weight on my chest. Like I can finally exhale, like an apple tree whose branches were groaning and breaking under the weight of its fruit, until tired travelers began to take the apples, lightening my load and giving me room to grow. It feels as though I can breathe again, as though I can bloom.

I want to share love here and receive it. I don’t have anywhere else where I can just be.

Good morning, friends! Enjoy this photo of me getting an inc..

Good morning, friends! Enjoy this photo of me getting an incredible amount of delicious white liquid right in my mouth first thing after waking up💦💦💦🫦🫦🫦🫦😩😩😩🌫️🌫️🌫️

GUYS people liked this one so I’ll show it!! It was actually..

GUYS people liked this one so I’ll show it!! It was actually very funny to make those videos I hope I don’t die from cringe in the morning.

GUYS one fan asked me to touch my nipples that was really my..

GUYS one fan asked me to touch my nipples that was really my best attempt thank you for your attention!!!!!

By the way my tits are the same size, but one is lower because for some reason I have a dent in my ribs, nobody knows where it came from🧐

You can check out my butt in the half-light because I don’t ..

You can check out my butt in the half-light because I don’t feel like flaunting my cellulite. And for my one-and-a-half followers who have mastered the alphabet, here’s a new text!

So, I want to talk about the financial side of my page because it’s been bothering me more and more every day. Yes, I know I’m counting chickens before they hatch. I fully understand that my musings might irritate some people. Of course—people work around the clock, live paycheck to paycheck, and here’s some girl in a huge mansion with a butt that looks like she eats a kilogram of uranium a day (for those who don’t get it—1 gram of uranium contains 20 million calories), whining about her hard life. What can I say? Judge not, lest ye be judged, and all that stuff. Yes, I know I’ve lost my sense of proportion, but what can you do?

Anyway, life has taught me that Lady Luck doesn’t favor this kind of thing, but I still want to imagine that my OnlyFans actually starts making money. Maybe I’ll get some obsessed fans, a couple of wealthy patrons, or maybe I’ll break all my promises and start filming horseback rides on three-meter-long dildos—who knows? The point is, imagine I have a lot of money.

The first and most important thing on my mind, the thing that hurts me, is university. Honestly, hand on heart, I don’t really love doing anything and would happily spend my life lying on a couch, being loved and supported. But in reality, you need a proper profession. :( And as it happens, with my quick exhaustion and perfectionist tendencies, med school is an enormous challenge for me. Yes, I consistently rank among the top students, but it’s come at the cost of my mental health, and that’s largely why I’m on academic leave right now.

If I had enough money to support myself, I’d want to reduce my workload for the next academic year—split my courses over two years. I’d like to live and enjoy life while studying, visit home from the filthy capital, see my mom and friends, and play with my dogs. Unfortunately, at university, I study non-stop. I can’t do it any other way—I’m too responsible.

Actually, we have two medical universities in the country, and I’d prefer to transfer to the other one, which follows the rules more reasonably and has a genuinely well-designed curriculum. Funny enough, although my current university is ten times harder and produces far better specialists, the other one is considered more prestigious here.

Plus, in that other university, I could study for free due to admission quirks, whereas at my current one, I’m paying thousands for terrible-quality education. The downside of transferring is that I’d have to start over from the first year, and I’m always afraid of losing time. But if I had a decent income, that wouldn’t be an issue. That’s how things stand.

Also, I want to share—don’t know why—that starting in February, I’ll be working at a hospital to help my mom, who’s a very-small-people psychiatrist. “Working” is a bit of an overstatement, though, since I won’t be getting paid. But technically, I’ll be functioning as a nurse—helping with documentation, typing, quickly finding patient files and information, and calming down patients who are often in an unhealthily hyperactive state. That’s about it.

I was freezing, and my butt was wet. But that’s not the poin..

I was freezing, and my butt was wet. But that’s not the point. The point is how much of an idiot Dima is. Dima was my former ‘pen pal’ from St. Petersburg. We met online in 2021 and talked every day since. We liked jokes about, well, bodily functions, racism, history, Gachi—basically, we were always spouting nonsense. We’d also send each other memes like ‘the battle of brown substance vs. yellow liquid’ (you know, if you know, you know) and caption them ‘literally us ❤️❤️❤️.’

We exchanged gifts often: I sent him Lego and Latvian sweets; he sent me Russian exclusives. We played WoW together. I knew he was in love with me—he didn’t even try to deny it and would tell me every day—but he wasn’t my person. So, I constantly reminded him that to me, he was primarily a friend. Dima also said I was his friend and that he valued our connection above all. But deep down, I was always cautious—I never got too attached to him.

Even though Dima swore he genuinely liked me as a person, he couldn’t name even the most basic things about my character. From what I understand, he liked my humor, the fact that I happily engaged with him on my own initiative, my appearance, listening to my endless voice messages, and the attention I gave him. He always eagerly followed my recommendations, which I found quite pleasant.

When we first started talking, he had terrible acne and was balding (he was 27 as far as I remember), and despite living in St. Petersburg, he hadn’t been to a single cultural event. Under my guidance, he cleared up his skin and hair, started going to theaters, watching classic films, and eating properly. Over the course of our friendship, I visited St. Petersburg twice, and there were things that really bothered me. For instance, during our meetings, I was the one carrying the conversation entirely—he couldn’t contribute anything to the dialogue. It’s fine in texting, but in real life, it’s exhausting. Also, he crossed boundaries—he tried to touch me and even twisted my arms once to kiss me against my will. It was extremely unpleasant, but I had no problem continuing our online friendship afterward.

For me, these situations just solidified my understanding that he didn’t see me as a person but rather enjoyed my resources and the image he’d built of me in his head. But I was fine with that—we had a really fun online dynamic. I encouraged him to sign up for a dating site and find a girlfriend since he definitely had no future with me. By the end of summer 2023, he found someone. He told me she didn’t mind our friendship, and I assumed she was as quirky as I was and didn’t think much of it.

Dima and I kept chatting the same way until spring. Then he told me his girlfriend had read our messages and insisted we stop talking. Apparently, ‘literally us ❤️❤️❤️’ was now something between him and his girlfriend, not us (which, fair enough—if anyone’s the brown substance and yellow liquid, it’s definitely them, I won’t argue 🥴).

I found this unpleasant but not shocking. I always knew Dima was weak-willed and would eventually fall into the nearest available vagina. What bothered me was that he hadn’t properly informed his girlfriend about our unusual style of communication—in essence, he lied to her, trying to sit on two chairs at once.

He never wrote to me again, not even to wish me a happy birthday. A few days ago, I was playing WoW and thinking about him. I wrote to ask how he was doing. He blocked me.

So that’s the kind of friendship we had.

People who swear by love, friendship, and loyalty and then trade it all for the nearest available genitals have always inspired pure contempt in me.

This is where I post from!!! Cum join me 🩷🩷🩷🫦🫦🫦😩😩😫💦💦💦👉🏻👌🏻

This is where I post from!!! Cum join me 🩷🩷🩷🫦🫦🫦😩😩😫💦💦💦👉🏻👌🏻

My room tour for everyone who wanted to see❤️❤️❤️

My room tour for everyone who wanted to see❤️❤️❤️

Dear friends, thank you so much for your attention, kind wor..

Dear friends, thank you so much for your attention, kind words, and financial support! You can’t imagine how happy I am that you enjoy my content. I’m especially thrilled that you not only look at my photos but also read my posts and discuss them with me. It means so much to me to finally have a small community where I can be so sincere without fear of being misunderstood or out of place.

I never expected to earn anything here, but it’s been a wonderful surprise to see that people are genuinely willing to support me. This is especially meaningful with New Year’s around the corner, and thanks to you, I’ll be able to buy some great gifts for my friends and loved ones.

So, thank you all so much—you’re amazing, kind, and thoughtful people, and I love you all so so so much 🩷🩷🩷

So, I was taking photos with my front camera, no fancy light..

So, I was taking photos with my front camera, no fancy lighting, just to test which poses would look better for photos. But then my brother suddenly showed up, so I didn’t get a chance to retake them with a proper camera 😭. So here you go, enjoy these photos with quality akin to being taken inside a rhino’s backside. Some are even kind of exclusive—maybe the two people who like my photos will buy them, who knows 👉🏻👈🏻🥺.

Anyway, here’s a little story. When I worked as a junior researcher in an ecology lab, I had two bosses: a husband and wife. The husband was a well-known ornithologist, and the wife, once his student, taught at a university. Both of them were quite eccentric—very paranoid, constantly gossiping about other professors behind their backs, isolated, and pretty envious. They’d often spend project funds on personal items. They were convinced that Oxford and Harvard were stealing their research and trying to poison them. Both were small and thin.

They have two sons. The older one, who looks like them, escaped to England. The younger one…well, he’s something else. Nearly two meters tall, awkward, and chubby, with an oval, puffy face and close-set eyes. A real cuckoo’s chick. Physically, he’s clearly a bit different. He also has some intellectual delays—he can’t search for information in books or online, doesn’t know how to use Excel or calculate simple data. He can’t take care of himself either—his mom heats up his food, and when he uses the sink, he floods the floor. He doesn’t know how to work a vacuum cleaner and dries his sneakers on the lab radiator.

His parents fuss over him constantly, even though he’s 30. He also loves to act like a big boss, but it’s so ridiculous it’s almost funny. Honestly, the guy has developmental issues, and there’s no field where he secretly excels. Yet…he’s a Doctor of Science. His dad made sure of that.

Once upon a time, I dreamed of becoming a scientist and teaching at my local university. It’s sad that all the spots are already taken.

P.S. For those, who will get exclusive photos - friends, I have no idea who took a bite out of my butt. Just imagine it was either you or a dragon. I’m too lazy to Photoshop anything.

Top three things I think about before bed:1. Gabby. She was ..

Top three things I think about before bed:

1. Gabby. She was my Welsh Corgi Pembroke, who lived with me from 2010 to 2021. She passed from lung disease. We didn’t know she was sick until six months before her death. One day, she was climbing the staircase to my second floor and stopped on the last step, staring at me. I thought she was just trying to manipulate me, since she often did that with the bed and couch to get picked up. I told her to climb up herself. Now, I realize she was suffering. It eats me up inside. The day before she was gone, when she was already very sick, I took her into bed with me on the second floor because she hadn’t been able to climb up for a while. She didn’t want to sleep in the bed and went to another room. I thought she was going to lie on the cool floor there. But she tried to climb down the stairs. As soon as I heard the first step, I rushed to her, but I was too late, and she fell. The soft thud of her falling still echoes in my ears. She was lying on the floor below, breathing heavily. It’s terrifying to see such a smart, strong, and willful creature like that. It’s frightening because something unshakable is breaking right in front of your eyes.



2. Frogs. When my brother and I were still in school (he was about 14, I was 8), he was very interested in history, particularly admiring one famous doctor. My brother would do very bad things to beetles, then moved on to frogs. I didn’t watch him do this, but I always giggled and supported him. I wanted to seem cool. Then, one day, he dug a hole in the sand and poured a bucket of frogs into it. I guess it is obvious what happened next. I was standing right next to him, and then left with him afterward. I can’t excuse myself by saying I was not mature enough —I clearly saw what kind of action this was. Terrible death. But I was filled with a mix of fear and intense embarrassment, worried that I would seem “different.”

 I really wanted my brother's approval.

3. Zhenya. When I was studying at university in my hometown and didn’t plan on going to any capital city, I took in birds for rehabilitation. It happened that a rook named Klyukva and a crow named Zhenya stayed with me because they both had problems with wings. Klyukva was completely wild, but I hand-raised Zhenya. When he was small, we had a very tender relationship, but as he grew older, he became very aggressive, pecking and biting me, breaking things, constantly screaming loudly, and throwing food, even though he had plenty of toys and attention. I just wasn’t equipped to raise a crow. I started ignoring him, locking him in the cage. He made me feel irritated, exhausted. During our last summer together, he lived in an outdoor aviary, and I would just go there to clean, change his food, and water. Sometimes he would come up to me, and I would gently scratch the top of his head. Then he would peck at me again. Living with Klyukva, he became very wild. At the end of the summer, I found them new homes because I was leaving for my studies. Klyukva went to a large bird shelter, and Zhenya was placed with a foster family. They had their own goats, chickens, and geese, and they seemed like very nice people. After handing Zhenya over to them, I quickly ran back to the car because it felt so sad, and I wanted to cry. I also felt ashamed. Because he was my baby, and I had failed him badly. Since then, I’ve only asked those people twice how he’s doing. Now I’m even afraid to write to them. I don’t want to know anything about Zhenya.

It’s been a while since I last drew with my left hand; I hav..

It’s been a while since I last drew with my left hand; I haven’t had time these past few days. But I have been practicing handwriting instead.

Good morning to all my modest cholesterol fans who don’t sen..

Good morning to all my modest cholesterol fans who don’t send me money. Today, I’ll altruistically delight you with a new post! First, the usual part, and then the hatepost.

The Usual Part

I’m tired of maintaining this body. I don’t understand the concept of a body. Different people message me, telling me I’m very sexy and that I evoke desire. Are they talking about me? About this rotting piece of flesh, covered in a luscious layer of fat? I’m not saying fat is bad or good—every fat girl will find her admirer, and that’s fine. It’s just that I don’t perceive myself as a woman. I wasn’t raised within the confines of any stereotypes—neither in how I dress nor in how I behave. I’m just a person. And for the first time in my life, I’ve consciously entered a space where objectification is normalized and even elevated. But in my mind, this creates an absolute dissonance because the person in the photos isn’t me. I’m here, in my head, in these words that I’m writing. But not there. There, it’s just a body.

I’m tired of washing it, tired of lifting it in the morning, tired of dressing it. Tired of taking care of its needs, tired of hearing sounds, tired of speaking. How much longer do I have to do this? You take one sip of water, and already you have to visit bathroom. You brush your teeth, and they’re dirty again. And heaven forbid you don’t keep up with it all—everything falls apart. What’s the point? It’s just decomposition. Decomposition stretched across a lifetime. The only things we know about life are that we exist in this moment and that someday we’ll die. Past memories and future plans are subjective—they might as well not exist at all. Time only exists to prevent everything from happening all at once.

So why am I living if I’m not truly alive? Why? For pain, for boredom. To keep failing over and over when my strength and resources are already depleted. To watch people around me lose their minds, turning into grotesque versions of themselves. To bury my dogs and see the wrinkles deepen on my mother’s face. I hate this. I hate this piece of meat. I don’t know if I’m trapped inside it or if I am it, but I don’t understand if I ever chose this. If only I knew why.

The Hatepost

And now, the rant: I also hate courier services. This morning, I got a text saying my delivery would arrive between 9 and 11:30. I planned to take some photos but patiently stayed in bed waiting. By 11:25, I figured the package would probably just be dropped off at a locker. So, I got in the shower and started taking photos, and of course, that’s when the courier called. Great. Soaking wet, I threw on a robe and ran outside. I stood there like an idiot for another 15 minutes before finally getting my boots. As usual, courier services exceeded all expectations.

Then my father showed up. Naturally, the first thing he did was flood the sink just by washing his hands. (When he used to live here, he’d constantly eat, leaving the sink full of dishes and water. I’d wash them over and over, and my hands became painfully dry and inflamed.) He started asking me how things were at home and how Mom was doing. Really? How do you think Mom’s doing after you spent 15 years using drugs, drinking, and then left her for another woman while her father was dying? Probably fantastic. I tried to answer his questions in monosyllables so I wouldn’t lose my temper. But honestly, it’s infuriating.

My dear precious followers, little by little, there are more..

My dear precious followers, little by little, there are more of you, and I’m so glad to see those who are genuinely interested in my strange and perhaps slightly unconventional content. Once again (as always), I want to share my thoughts. Maybe I’m just really tired today, but it feels like OnlyFans is starting to weigh on me.

I originally planned not to post many photos here, just write. But very quickly, everything changed, and my content even became slightly erotic. For me, this is a bit shocking. I haven’t taken as many photos in my entire life as I have in the past two weeks. And they’ve certainly never been this vulnerable. Observant readers know that I had an OnlyFans account a few years ago, but things were very different then, and I barely even remember it. This time, it’s so different, so much more open in every sense.

I’m baring so much of myself, and it’s filling me with confusion, doubts, and false hopes. Hope is the worst of these. I start to think that maybe I can earn money here. But deep down, I know I can’t. My subscribers will either be oddballs like me—which is a rare audience and unlikely to pay—or typical users of the site who expect very explicit content. I don’t want to create that kind of content. And I don’t want to feel hope.

On the other hand, I really need money. It’s not a trap because I know I won’t make money here, but the thought still weighs on me.

I also feel like I’m posting too much—photos and posts alike. It feels repetitive, unoriginal, and pointless. I’d honestly prefer to just take the same photos over and over, in the same poses and clothes. But somehow, that doesn’t feel right either. I made this page for myself, but now I feel like I’m trying to meet some unspoken expectations—ones that nobody even voiced.

Another thing is that I’m constantly checking the site. I wait for messages, try to respond, and I obsessively keep conversations going. I refresh the page every minute, as if my thoughts are starting to revolve around the site. If it were a source of income, that would be one thing. But since it’s not, this is becoming pathological.

So, that’s where I’m at. Maybe I’m just completely drained. I probably need to take a step back, slow down, and let myself breathe.

I’m curious, would any of my followers be interested in seei..

I’m curious, would any of my followers be interested in seeing a short room tour video? I could make one sometime this week.

I want🥲

I want🥲

I went to the gym. There’s a very interesting dynamic about ..

I went to the gym. There’s a very interesting dynamic about this place—women usually just come to work. They do a set, take a break, stretch, drink water, do another set. They might greet someone they know, but overall, they’re focused and productive.

Men, on the other hand, do something strange. They occupy machines for half an hour or more, scrolling through TikTok or chatting loudly with their friend during breaks. Loud enough for the whole gym to hear. Then, they load up an obviously inappropriate amount of weight for themselves and, with groans that sound like someone’s stretching their ass to the diameter of the universe, attempt to lift it. When they’re done, they often drop the weights, turn their red faces like bulldogs, and sit back down to scroll through TikTok with dramatic, sighing breaths. Of course, this doesn’t apply to all men, but it happens quite often.

In post-Soviet countries, there’s an interesting phenomenon—women are incredibly well-groomed, strong, and intelligent, yet they often have shockingly low self-esteem and a desire to seek approval or please others. Men, on the other hand, tend to be more hysterical, aggressive, often unattractive, and have pathologically high self-esteem.

What’s curious is that, in my experience, I’ve never come across such characters when chatting with foreigners online. But when it’s locals? Threats, demands, insults—that’s the standard. That’s just how it goes.

Well, my little fat-loving enthusiasts, here’s a new photo o..

Well, my little fat-loving enthusiasts, here’s a new photo of me with makeup that makes me look like an aging representative of the world’s oldest profession. And with the photo, a fresh hate post! See the room behind me? Keen observers might recognize it—I’ve taken a couple of photos here before. Lovely room, isn’t it? It would be, if my brother could master the basic skills of politeness and…well, maybe just using his hands? Unfortunately, that’s beyond us. He managed to graduate medical school, become a psychiatrist, aim for a seat in the government, have a baby—but cleaning up after himself in someone else’s house and making the bed? Nope, not in the skill set. Oh well, the boy is only 32 years old; he’s got time to grow up, our little darling 😍.

And now, unexpectedly, a little irritation directed at my mom. I wouldn’t call it hate, because usually she’s pretty considerate, but today was…something. I was on my second floor dressing up and trying to take this very photo in a way that didn’t make the fat spill out from every angle. And then I hear my brother’s daughter trying to climb the stairs, with my mom encouraging her. I ask her, “Please don’t bring her up here.” I ask once. Then again. And she still brings her up. Into my room.

In my room, I have perfumes on a low shelf. I was so stunned—because I’ve asked many times not to have people in my room—that I just sat there on the bed watching it happen. And of course, the baby broke one of the bottles. Mom got scared, apologized, and left, but…what the hell was that?

I get that Mom doesn’t guard her personal space at all. My brother and his baby literally barge into her room and sprawl on her bed whenever they want. But I’ve fought hard to reclaim my room from their invasions, and now they only enter with my permission and under my watch. Seeing this kind of behavior from my mom and feeling so powerless—because I didn’t want to be rude—was just strange.

What’s weirder is that my whole childhood, and even now sometimes, I’m accused of being rude, tactless, overly blunt. I don’t get it. Maybe I have schizophrenia and just don’t remember, or maybe I lack self-awareness, but I overthink everything I say and do, terrified of hurting someone’s delicate feelings or violating their personal space.

I literally started this OnlyFans to vent about things that bother or upset me because I never express these emotions in real life—I try to resolve conflicts with compromises or prevent them altogether. And lo and behold, all my friends and acquaintances outside the house think I’m sweet, kind, supportive, reliable. But at home? I’m apparently some kind of goblin who won’t let my totally out-of-line relatives walk all over me.

I’ve spent my whole life thinking I’m some kind of moral freak, ashamed to speak up in front of others, deeply embarrassed by my emotions and myself, feeling like I’m inappropriate, laughable, shameful. I’m sorry it’s taken me until this ripe old age to start realizing that maybe I was fine all along.

Watch me as I take a really massive cock in my mouth 🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🐓🐓..

Watch me as I take a really massive cock in my mouth 🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🐓🐓🐓🐓🐓😍😍😍😍😚➡️➡️➡️

So, here it is—attention, my fat belly! I promised in my las..

So, here it is—attention, my fat belly! I promised in my last post that no one would ever see it. But then I thought—this page is for me, and I’ll use it for myself, so why should I feel ashamed?

I wish I could say that I hate what I see and despise living with it every day. But that would be dishonest and exaggerated. I see a person with excess weight, maybe even first-degree obesity. I see the effects of a sedentary lifestyle and, even more so, the effects of cortisol.

I don’t hate or despise this person. If I saw these photos online, I’d probably stare at them for a while, thinking how beautiful this nymph is—a literal goddess—and then save them to my gallery to admire later. In the photos, it looks beautiful. On me? No.

A fat belly, fat legs, fat arms. An old, faded tattoo. Years of battling excess weight and a lifetime of EDs. Fasting and losing weight down to skin and bones with grueling daily workouts, a fleeting glimpse of happiness and fake beauty—only to gain it all back and become fat again within a couple of years. Hopelessness, but also personal growth.

Now I don’t have an ED—I’m in remission. I don’t binge until it hurts, I don’t purge, I don’t starve. I go to the gym. If I weigh myself, it’s only to adjust the fitness equipment. I buy pretty clothes in my size. I do my makeup. It seems like I’m beautiful, and I truly believe that.

But it’s just the surface. Underneath, I know how sad I feel. It’s sad to see folds, cellulite, a thick, flabby belly. It’s sad to see bitten-down nails, scars, and dark pigmentation in my groin from pulling out ingrown hairs. A wretched pig, a heap of folds.

I’m a liar. I’m pretending, trying to fool myself, but it’s not working. Maybe I really am just disgusting. I’m used to this feeling—it’s not sharp or shocking anymore. It’s just normal. It’s such a part of me that I barely even understand it anymore.

At least I managed to squeeze into these tiny thong panties—barely. Unfortunately, when I bought this set, only the tiniest size was left, but I bought them for the sake of the matching set 🥴.

Well, I don’t think I’m exactly model material (no one will ..

Well, I don’t think I’m exactly model material (no one will ever make me take a photo with my stomach exposed), but it still turned out pretty decent. Either way, it was interesting to see myself from a different perspective.

Wonderful. On top of my idiot brother, my moron of a father ..

Wonderful. On top of my idiot brother, my moron of a father has also shown up at home. I hate that, after tormenting the family for over a decade and breaking us completely—while literally living with another woman—he still allows himself to come into our house, drink coffee, stomp around, make a mess, and slam doors. But he’s tied to my mom through work and helps with house repairs when needed, so we’re still dependent on him.

Meanwhile, my brother and his daughter are waiting for his wife—they’ve decided to stay the night. Just like that, without any warning. This pathological audacity is both paralyzing and horrifying.

I’m going to the garage to help my friend change the tires on her car. I feel so bad that my mom is stuck in this madhouse for the evening. We had such nice plans.

My friends, this is going to be a post full of pure hatred. ..

My friends, this is going to be a post full of pure hatred. I sincerely hate my older brother. I can’t fathom how someone can grow up to be such a spineless, shameless creature who completely changes his personality depending on the woman he’s dating, while being such a vain attention-seeker who thrives on validation from incompetent people. It infuriates me that he went to a “gentle” kindergarten where he didn’t even want to leave because he felt so comfortable. Meanwhile, I was in a kindergarten where they wouldn’t let us go to the bathroom during nap time, and those who misbehaved were publicly humiliated by having their underwear pulled down in front of everyone.

He went to a regular school with project weeks, shorter days, lenient and kind teachers, where getting a grade of 6 (on a ten-point scale) was considered amazing. I, on the other hand, went to a school with 8 -9 lessons a day where teachers mocked you in front of the entire class if you got an 8. My brother did whatever he wanted—skipping classes, trying new hobbies, hanging out with friends, playing computer games. My every step was controlled by our parents. My free time was taken up by tutors hired to pull my grades from 8 to 9, and the rest of the time I did homework. I skipped school only once in 12 years.

Then my brother entered medical school, where students had endless chances to pass exams, and even there he managed to drink, do drugs, throw wild parties in the apartment our parents bought for us, and get married to his first wife, who also started living completely at our parents’ expense. Yet, he had the audacity to blame our parents for not giving him enough.

When I finished school, I also moved into that apartment, but it was a disaster—a literal trash heap. I couldn’t even live there and returned to my hometown, where I enrolled in biology. After my brother finally vacated the apartment, I moved in and entered the same medical school. By then, the university had become much stricter—only three attempts for each test, more material, and a much harder program. I dove into the material and got excellent results, all while dealing with the slow, painful death of my grandfather and my drug-addict father finding a new woman. All of it crushed me, and I ended up with clinical depression, even though I had never planned to take a break from my studies.

Now, I’m lying upstairs feeling bitter. I can hear SpongeBob blasting at full volume downstairs because my brother and his 1.5-year-old daughter showed up unannounced again. Neither my mom nor I have the nerve to just kick him out. Unfortunately, the men in my family have no sense of tact or ability to think ahead; they only care about themselves. My brother doesn’t consider that my mom worked all week—he doesn’t care. He’ll bring his kid whenever he wants, and if she dares to ask him to schedule visits in advance, he gets offended and starts a real drama. For context, this “man” is over 30 years old.

He destroys everything around him. The guest room where I usually take photos is trashed, and he doesn’t even have the decency to make the bed properly when he leaves. And as a doctor? He’s brilliant—he literally wrote on Instagram that he cured his depression by plunging into cold water (I doubt someone without a brain can even have depression). Once, while talking to a patient on the phone, instead of answering her question about side effects, he said, “Well, life has side effects.”

This guy can barely name a couple of neurotransmitters, his first wife wrote his thesis for him, yet he’s a wildly popular doctor. Why? Because he’s a tall, well-built man with a beard who spouts meaningless but grandiose statements. WTF?

I usually try not to think about this, but still—how? Call me hysterical or jealous if you want—this is my page, and I have every right—but he doesn’t deserve anything he has. His success is a mix of luck, good timing, people who carried him, and pathological narcissism. Meanwhile, I work so hard, and my achievements feel like tiny steps forward. Most of the time, I crumble under the weight of how much I do and how much I care about doing it well and qualitatively.

I know none of this makes sense, and the world often forgives negligence in favor of attractive traits, but I can’t help it. I envy my brother. I wish I could be like him. I wish I could feel 100% confident in any idiotic thing I say. I wish I could believe the world owes me everything. I wish I could throw tantrums and guilt-trip people for not giving me what I want.

That’s the recipe for success.

Why am I not like that? Why am I the failure?

Wtf is this shit, also my idiot brother ate my chocolate I h..

Wtf is this shit, also my idiot brother ate my chocolate I hate him day ruined