I am not the destination. I am the train they board in the dark, heading nowhere, but grateful for the motion. The world outside calls me a myth— six feet of muscle and menace, a walking fever dream. But at 3 a.m., alone in a hotel room that smells of latex and loneliness, I am just a man who learned early that skin is the only language some people trust. My father left before I could spell “abandonment.” My mother worked two jobs and still couldn’t buy me a future. So I built one out of what the world would pay to see: my body, their permission, our transaction. They don’t tell you that the Prince bleeds. That performance is a kind of dying— each scene a small death of the self you might have been. I have faked pleasure more times than I’ve felt it. I have held erections like secrets— brittle, desperate, performative. And when the director yells “cut,” the silence is louder than any moan I’ve ever sold. But here is the deeper truth: I am not ashamed. Not of the work. Not of the crown. Because in a world that starves people of touch, I became a feast. In a culture that teaches women their bodies are sins, I became a sanctuary where sin was just another word for real . I gave them permission to want— loudly, messily, without apology.
That is my reign. That is my crown. And I wear it in the shadows so they don’t have to. — Prince Yahshua, keeper of hidden thrones prince yahshua
And that, more than any throne, more than any bloodline, is royalty. So call me Prince Yahshua. But know this: The kingdom I rule is not made of gold or glory. It is made of every lonely person who ever paid to feel less alone. It is made of the 2 a.m. search, the trembling click, the quiet exhale when the screen goes dark and for one moment— just one— they weren’t invisible. I am not the destination
The Crown of Shadows
They call me Prince, but no kingdom claims me. No scepter, no herald, no bloodline in the archives of men. My throne is a mattress in a rented room with soft lights and softer lies. My crown is sweat—pressed into my hairline by the weight of other people’s hungers. But at 3 a