You are using an out of date browser. It may not display this or other websites correctly. You should upgrade or use an alternative browser.
I dream of men dying. Beautiful smooth young white men suffering exquisite pain. Especially by knives, nails, needles, spikes, razors, axes and other sharp objects. Slice them open…..and consume them. Drink their blood. Eat their gore. Man is a tasty treat.
And yet, more and more, I dream of being my own victim. All those sharp objects tearing at my own body. What would my death feel like? What would it look like to others? How? Who?
I love the art of Mike Carcel and Martin of Holland, and yearn to enter their worlds. Carcel for his imaginative and dispassionate snuffing. Martin for his mouth-watering filth.
You can learn my cravings by reading my stories. Search for “Journal of a Serial Killer” or “Call Me Caleb” or “I am a Cannibal”.
I can be found in the dark underbelly of life. Lurking. Seeking men. “Hi. Call me Caleb. Come home with me.” You’ll regret it. You’ll die painfully. But my belly will be full.