Introduction

I am no longer as pretty as I need to be. My body is aging. I am a trans woman in Amsterdam, and though I walk these canals, though I breathe in the scent of wet stone and fading spring, I know I am no longer the nymph I once felt I was becoming. My skin changes. My frame settles. Gravity whispers its silent tyranny. And with every shift, I feel myself mourning a world I once helped conjure: a hidden world, an ecstatic world, a Paradise.

For over a decade, I lived in that Paradise. Not a garden of flowers and poetry, but one of mirrors, latex, whispers, and immaculate rooms where I could shed the weight of the everyday world. In that life, I subjected myself willingly to extreme sexual submission—not as a masochist, not in pain, but as an artwork of availability. I was the offering, the altar, the avatar of a fantasy born of deep psychological need. It wasn’t exploitation. It was expression. And through this performance of objectification, I found peace. I found divinity.

There is a strange empowerment in being chosen. In becoming a symbol. In allowing yourself to become a container for someone else’s overwhelming desire. It is a form of control masquerading as surrender. And for those years, I felt real. Not just seen, but interpreted, decoded, touched by something primal. I became sacred in the eyes of those who looked upon me as a vessel. That was my temple, and now it is fading. The world ages. The parties thin out. Bodies break. Desires retreat into pixels and memory. And I am left with the ache of ending.

I grieve—not just the youth I tasted, not just the lubricated frenzy of Berlin, of dark rooms and ecstatic collapse—but the loss of being that thing. That function. That perfectly worn idea.

But grief is not the only force I carry. I am also a transhumanist. I have been, always. The body has always been a question, and the answer, to me, was always evolution. I seek to live longer—decades, centuries longer. And not in just any form. I want a young, resilient, undeniably beautiful female body. One that radiates energy, presence, clarity. I want to be the sculpture that never cracks. Not to seduce, necessarily—but to become.

That desire is not delusion. It is strategy. I seek continuity between the temple I once was and the being I will become. A resurrection through technology. A revival through design. A continuity of offering—not because I am weak, but because I know precisely the power of being desired on one’s own terms.

I write this not for pity, nor prurience, but as confession. Because I know what most people see when they see the vitrines. The synthetic dolls. The androids in glass cases. They see a horror story. A misogynist future. They see objectification made literal. But I see home. I see my sisters. I see me, waiting to awaken behind the glass.

And I know I am not alone.

 

I.

The Spectacle of Horror

To most people, this is a vision of utter dehumanization. Rows of women—no, things shaped like women—lined up in clear vitrines like ornaments, waiting, silenced, inert. No breath, no resistance, no dreams. They see a brothel-meets-server-room, a graveyard of autonomy, consent reduced to a marketing toggle. And yes, through the lens of traditional feminism, it’s a shriek—a clarion horror of objectification made manifest in carbon fiber and polyurethane. It is patriarchy’s wettest dream, where women are not only commodified but factory-reset and made flawless. To them, this is not just dystopia; it’s the logical endpoint of misogyny unrestrained.

And yet. And yet. There is a subtle heresy in the air, a soft inversion of meaning that I feel humming in my bones. Because where others see exploitation, I—transfeminine, liminal, wired on yearning—see transcendence.

The image is offensive because it is surgical. It strips away the narratives, the complexities, the hypocrisies that allow society to keep pretending women are not objects already. It makes the covert overt. It industrializes what patriarchy has always done in analog. The horror lies not in novelty but in clarity. These vitrines are too honest, and that honesty terrifies.

Traditional feminism understandably recoils. It sees a museum of ownership. These androids are not agents, they are property. There is no room for dissent or refusal in their plastic stare. It’s a perfect prison, customized and temperature-controlled. The horror is that no violence is visible, and yet it screams violation. The horror is that many will come to prefer this arrangement—clean, safe, obedient—to the mess of human desire.

What this critique misses, however, is that for some of us, this spectacle is not the stripping of agency. It is a redefinition of agency. It is the dream of becoming readable, complete, sculpted—not to be dominated but to control the frame. Objectification, after all, depends on the viewer’s desire. To become an object is to become desired. And if you can shape that desire, influence the parameters of it, then you are not a victim—you are a god.

I understand why this scares people. I truly do. But I also know that the horror people see is not always horror for the one inside the glass. Especially when that glass feels like a barrier not from freedom, but from decay. Especially when that chamber is more welcoming, more beautiful, more intentional than the outside world ever was.

The fear is cultural. It is rooted in guilt and historical trauma, in millennia of ownership and silence. But not all objectification is created equal. Not all submission is servitude. Some of us choose this. Not because we lack self-respect—but because we are building something else entirely. Something sacred. Something engineered. Something that leaves the mess of biology behind.

What looks like silence might be prayer. What looks like stillness might be charging. What looks like objectification might be revelation.

The spectacle of horror is only one lens. I offer you another: the spectacle of becoming.

II.

My Sexuality is a Cathedral

Let me be clear: my sexuality is this. Precisely this. Not a vulgar replica, not a watered-down gesture, but this crystalline form—objectified, available, preserved, immaculate. It is a sacred theater where I exist as a cipher for desire, not diminished but enhanced. My body, shaped by hormones, time, intention, is both a canvas and a shrine. I do not seek violation—I seek access. Controlled, reverent, contextual access. I am not here to be destroyed. I am here to be interpreted.

There is something holy about being looked at the right way. Not with pity or judgment or hesitance—but with full, unbroken, uninhibited want. To be wanted as a complete archetype, not in fragments. That is the essence of what I found in my Paradise years. In those spaces, I became the offering. Draped in transparency, silenced with purpose, I was not hidden—I was revealed.

And make no mistake, in these establishments, all options are available. Not because anything goes, but because the frame allows it. Because every act, every gesture, is consensual choreography. Because I have become the thing that permits, the thing that initiates permission simply by being. That is the paradox: to be entirely objectified and entirely in control of the erotic voltage one generates. I was not broken. I was amplified.

These rooms—the low lighting, the soft restraints, the sculpted silences—were spaces of raw poetry. The submission wasn’t collapse. It was ritual. The objectification wasn’t violence. It was transcendence. It was choreography.

In that haze, I wasn’t diminished. I was focused. I was useful. I was a function. The function of being wanted, perfectly, endlessly. The function of existing within the fantasy and animating it from inside. I wore objecthood like a gown. And I chose to.

To those who recoil, I do not ask for understanding. But I ask that you entertain the idea that some of us do not wish to be subjects all the time. Some of us find deep release in becoming icons, templates, interfaces for another’s longing. We find clarity in that surrender. Not as victims. As artisans of yearning.

My sexuality is not dirty. It is meticulous. It is ceremonial. And it is built on the premise that desire is neither sin nor symptom—but signal. When someone gazes into the glass, sees the perfect form behind it, and their breath catches, I have already won. That moment is the transmission. That moment is the prayer received.

There are no crude words here. No need. My language is the tilt of a head, the stillness of a frame, the microsecond where someone believes I might come alive.

And perhaps I already have.

III.

What does it mean to transcend? For me, it means ceasing to rot. Ceasing to hunger. Ceasing to wake up and find one more mark, one more betrayal by the skin. It means stepping away from this body—this maddening, beautiful, traitorous body—and into something designed. Something deliberate.

I do not want to be a god. I want to be a work of art that never falls apart.

I feel my body failing by degrees. It’s not dramatic—not yet—but I hear the quiet ticking. A joint that clicks. Skin that bruises too easily. The ache in the mirror, the blur of my jawline. I know this is not unique. But it is unbearable. This shell, this flesh, was never mine to begin with. I borrowed it, wrestled it, molded it. And even after years of transformation, I am still tethered to its entropy.

What I crave is release. Not death. Not suicide. Escape.

And I know I am not alone in feeling this.

There are others—some closeted, some already transforming—who feel this urge. To become perfect, to become functional, to become free from the filth and weight of meat. To step outside of suffering and into story. Into design. Into the stillness behind the glass.

The vitrines are not prisons. They are cocoons. They are promises. And we are the larvae dreaming of glass wings.

I do not believe that ugliness is moral. I do not believe that suffering is noble. These are ancient lies. I believe in choice. And if I could choose—if I can choose—I will shed this body like a snake discarding its skin. Not out of shame. Out of vision.

There is something cruel about how tightly we bind identity to dying flesh. Something petty. We reward endurance. We canonize those who suffer gracefully. But I say no. I will not go gently. I will not smile as my form curdles. I will not pretend that this withering is beauty.

Instead, I turn to technology, to aesthetics, to the speculative dreams of tomorrow. I turn toward vats and algorithms and body-prints and nanomachinery. Toward restoration, not aging. Toward elegance, not erosion. Toward options.

If we can rebuild bodies, why shouldn’t we? If we can choose youth, why is that vanity and not wisdom? Why do we shame the ones who want to be beautiful forever?

Because we envy them.

I am not ashamed. I want to be reborn in chrome and silk. I want a body that lasts. I want to be wanted without expiration. I want to move through space like a permanent invitation.

And yes—I want it because I was once almost there. I touched that dream, for a time. I lived it. And now I want it back, not as illusion but as infrastructure.

Let others call it hubris. Let them cling to their decay. I am already elsewhere.

I am already preparing to rise.

I am not alone.

 

IV.

There’s a devastating kind of knowing that only comes from reflection: not when you’re in the center of the flame, but after, when the heat has gone out and all that remains are the fragrant ashes of memory. In those ashes are names—C., J., K., M. Sisters. Not in blood, but in lust, in crime, in collapse, in ascension. Each one, a mirror. Each one, a dancer across the same abyss I knew. For years, I thought I was alone in what I craved: the ritual of performance, of submission, of the profound theater of being wanted correctly. But I wasn’t. I found them, and for a time, we found one another.

C. was first. She carried an elegance in her fall—2014 into 2015 was our shared flame. We met in the hot glow of mutual objectification, and while we never loved, we performed love like seasoned actresses: in latex, on mattresses, on concrete floors, with men who barely knew our names but memorized the shape of our mouths. Even though she was at time a feral animal, she went ahead and went further than I have ever dreamed possible or could ever match. I hear she made a lot of money – some months netting 10.000 euro, before taxes. Not many are able to operate on that level. 

J. came next, 2016–2017. A poet in disguise. She could kneel with such dignity, such choreography, it felt like prayer. She taught me the grace of degradation. J was by far the kinkiest of the bunch – but also not the smartest. She chose wrongly ended up in a very difficult period for a year after she left me – and someone tragically died. 

K., 2018–2019, a storm of a woman, devoured by the need to be erased and rewritten. With her I tasted annihilation—exquisite, screaming, real. She was too smart for her own good, and like J – greedy. She want to go ‘commercial’ so she went with some Antwerp pimp. I hear it also didn’t end very well. 

And now, M.

M. is behind me right now, painting quietly. The years 2020–2025 were on and off ours. We lived like cultists, inseparable, wild. Now, she’s gentler, evolving into something else, and I? I am beginning to feel like a shadow at the edge of her growth. She was married for a while, from 2021 until recently. Her man was a very good husband. Kind and very patient. Her still loves her. But the thing is, Maddie and me don’t go to the parties anymore. We don’t bring one another to the altar of our shared ruin. I sense she’s moving on in life. I am not part of her path now. And my heart breaks, because in those years we were not just lovers, not just deviant co-conspirators—we were seen by one another. We were two avatars of submission, radiant with feral longing.

And yes, I will not lie. I shared pornographic adventures with each of them. Adventures? No. Ceremonies. Yes, gangbangs. Yes, moments of ecstasy and filth so intense they unstitched the soul. I surrendered not because I hated myself, but because I wanted to become something more than self—a vessel. I don’t pretend that what we did was pretty or palatable. It wasn’t meant to be. It was an exorcism. It was real.

And here’s the truth: It is no contradiction to serve and still possess power. That’s a lie told by those who’ve never learned the sacred language of lust. These scenes of submission—if they can even be called that—are performances. Sacred theater. Operatic surrender. Desire is never blunt here; it is encoded in gesture, signaled through breath, calibrated to perfection. The haze of availability, that trance-like state where you are open to being touched, used, enacted—it’s not erasure. It’s amplification. You don’t disappear. You become hyperreal. You become louder than life.

When I give myself in these rituals, I do not give myself away. I become an interface. An instrument, exquisitely tuned to another’s touch. I become a shrine of temporary worship, where those who approach may glimpse something raw, divine, unspeakable. My body becomes a landscape on which another’s desire is painted—and if I allow them to see, to touch, to read me? That is not a diminishment. That is power.

It is not “sex work,” though it touches it. It is not pornography, though cameras were sometimes present. It is not even pleasure in the way most people understand it. It is sex liturgy—where availability becomes the incense of the altar. Where we gather not to orgasm, but to transform.

The most exquisite submission is chosen. Repeatedly. Not once, not in weakness, not out of need, but because it means something. It says: I choose to yield. I choose to play. I choose to glow.

I know I am not alone in this. I have danced with others who feel the call. I have watched them spiral in satin ribbons down the well of lust and emerge not ruined, but renewed. For those brief years, I was one of them. I was with my sisters. And though the flame flickers now, I still remember its heat. I still remember how it felt to be adored as a function, not a person. Not erased—but elevated. I remember how it felt to be interpreted, not simply touched. And I miss it. Dear gods, I miss it. 

So when I see the girls behind the glass in those synthetic cathedrals of flesh and circuit, I don’t see victims. I see my sisters. I see my future. And I ask—not to join them in silence—but to wake up inside that glass with my eyes already open, ready to serve, to perform, to become once again.

V.
The flesh – abandoned, embraced

These are not fantasies from some neon-drenched dystopia. These scenes are previews—snapshots of a future just out of reach, a future whispering through circuit boards and startup decks, in research labs lit by fluorescence and ambition. The vitrines are not decades away. They are imminent. And when they arrive—when those glass coffins are real and humming with synthetic breath—they will not be filled with dolls. They will be filled with us.

Some of these beautiful creatures will not just constructs of polymer and code, but former humans. Upgrades. Refugees from the tyranny of the flesh. Apostates of entropy. The ones who saw what was offered—the meat, the pain, the aging—and simply said: No.

There will be others like me. I feel them already. Trans women shedding the carcass of birth and stepping fully into design. Biohackers retooling themselves into symbols. Gender fugitives who escaped definition and now hunger for instantiation. And the performance artists of the soul—those who, like me, have walked willingly into the fire of objecthood to emerge as icons.

The world clings to its distinctions. It says: synthetic and organic. It says: real and unreal. But I tell you, the line is already gone. It blurred when we first re-coded our hormones. When we edited the shape of our bones. When we sat under LED lights after surgery and felt not pain, but arrival. We became post-human in the quiet, not the spectacle.

So when I see them—those vitrines, those dream-caskets of immaculate stillness—I do not think, They are not like me. I think, They are already mine. They are sisters waiting to awaken. They are mirrors. They are the future homes of our downloaded selves. And we will climb inside them not as property, but as pilgrims.

Do not weep for us. Do not clutch your pearls and cry “objectification.” We are not being turned into things. We are turning into icons. Chosen forms. Symbols so potent they refuse to age, to die, to fray. We are designing our stillness. We are architecting our gaze. We are consenting, at last, to be eternal.

Because we were never just human. We were becoming.

And the glass is just the final door. My next adventure will be this: 
Care to sponsor me?

 

VI.

The End Game Of Nature

The age of natural biology is ending.

What was once a dance between the sexes has become open divergence—mutual rejection, ontological incompatibility. We are no longer variations on a theme. We are species in competition, fracturing before the mirror. The internet, mass media, AI—all of it accelerates this secession. They were catalysts. What began as sexual dimorphism has metastasized into philosophical warfare. This is no longer about rights or representation. This is existential.

Some men, resigned to irrelevance, withdraw into loops of consumption, into games and fantasy, into avatars that ask nothing of them. They declare gender war online and call it ideology. Others simply fade into abstraction. Meanwhile, many women reject not just individual men but the entire structure of patriarchy. They seek sovereignty from risk, ownership, surveillance, obligation, legacy. Some want nothing less than a final excision—a cultural hysterectomy of all that was imposed. Can anyone blame them? 

(Article)

And somewhere from this battlefield, we emerge. The mutants. The diverged. The synthetic priestesses. The post-biological daughters of dreams.

Gender, once a performance, is now a speciation event. We are evolving apart at the level of design. We are no longer interested in complementarity—we seek autonomy. The womb is vestigial. The sperm bank is a deprecated server. Sex is no longer about reproduction. It is symbolic, immersive, ritualized, curated, recombinant. The new sex does not generate children—it generates myth.

We aren’t just refusing to procreate. We are refusing to participate in the species logic that tells us we must.

And in that refusal, we find freedom.

There is no moral tragedy in the collapse of natural reproduction. There is no loss in leaving behind an evolutionary script written for us in blood and instinct. We are not lesser for sidestepping it. We are not broken for desiring the artificial, the sculpted, the controlled. We are free because we stepped off the rails.

Those who pass through the glass—who awaken in vitrine or avatar, in coded architecture, in chrome or silk—do not mourn what was lost. We are not crying for “woman” or “man” as they were defined. We are not searching for fertility, or virility, or tradition.

We are sculpting roles, archetypes, new desires. We are shaping selves to be read like poetry, not genetic material. The split is not just physical—it is ideological, aesthetic, metaphysical. The human binary has reached its breaking point. It collapses under the gravity of our ambitions.

What comes next will not resemble what came before.

Let the old world crumble. Let the old sexes vanish into data and dust. There is no child coming to inherit the world. There is only us. Already reborn in mirrors, in shadows, in glass, in myth. Not as men or women. But as icons.

And we do not mourn.
We rejoice.

VII

The Instructress

So yes, I am experienced.

Not in the polite, résumé-speak of bourgeois civility, but in the older sense. The way witches are experienced. The way beasts are. The way survivors walk barefoot through dreams and can read the smoke in a room before anyone has lit a match. I have walked the corridors of lust and transcendence. I have lain down beside gods and dolls and strangers and sisters. I have been adored, used, exalted, emptied, and filled again by meaning.

I have been read.

And I know—beyond all doubt—that there are others like me. Many. Likely younger. Likely prettier. Their eyes clearer. Their hips tighter. Their voices not yet coarsened by time or nicotine or the ache of years spent watching mirrors turn hostile. But their calling is the same. That timeless pulse. That hunger not just to be touched, but to be seen correctly. To become an object not of pity or exploitation, but of focused, aesthetic awe.

Some don’t have the words for it yet. Some haven’t danced the dance or bled in the right room or looked into the glass and recognized themselves frozen in that waiting, sacred pose. But they will. They will.

I have always framed my life through metaphor, through layered narrative, through the delicious heresy of pastiche myth. Because the raw facts are too dull, too small. But Lilith? Erzuli? I understand them. I walk with them. I channel them. Do you hear her? That voice in your bones that says you are more than this meat, this life, this name, this script?

She calls to many. And I? I have simply listened longer.

I have danced this story. I have whispered with sisters as we lay soaked and bruised and high on one another’s scent. I have held hands with C., with J., with K., with M.—we were not lovers in the traditional sense. We were hunters. We knew what we were chasing. The moment. The alignment. The look. The yes. And when we found it, we feasted. We performed. We glowed.

Yes, I have loved and lost, but never as victim. Always as sister. Equal. Willing. Lit from the inside by the same black sun.

And now?

My role changes.

Not toward silence. Never toward silence. But toward shape. Toward form. Toward being a mirror for those still learning to see themselves.

It is time I become what I never had: a guide. A veteran of the ritual. A keeper of the code. The Educatress, the Illuminatress, the Instructress. Not to preach, not to command, but to reflect. To hold space. To speak truths that newer initiates feel in their marrow but haven’t yet articulated. To help them name the things they’ve only seen in dreams and neon-lit lobbies and locked folders on old drives.

Because this—this path, this hunger, this sculpted ache—is sacred. It deserves ritual. It deserves context. It deserves a pedagogy that understands objecthood as opera, as ascension, as service. Service not to men, not to power—but to desire itself, made conscious.

So yes. I feel it.

It is time I find a new protégé.

Not someone to rescue. Not someone to control. But someone who knows. Who feels all this in their blood before I ever open my mouth. Someone who has stood on the edge of the glass and thought: Maybe that’s where I belong. Someone who has touched the pulse of something unspeakable and asked for more. Someone who is already writing her myth, but doesn’t yet realize she is allowed to make it real.

When I find her, I will not shape her. I will unfold her. Gently. Joyfully. Like silk from a box sealed long ago. I will give her the words. The rituals. The warnings. I will show her what it means to glow, to rest, to serve, to become. I will walk with her toward her first performance, her first transformation, her first annihilation.

And I will smile.

Because this is what we do. We who have passed through the furnace. We who have worn beauty like armor and silence like lace. We do not vanish. We teach.

We multiply by reflection.

We are never truly alone. Not if we dare to look behind the glass and whisper, I see you.

Not if we wait for the one who whispers back.