Does it ever get weird? Honestly, that’s the question that keeps popping up in my inbox.”

That’s how I decided to start this entry. I’ve been blogging for a while now about my journey as a ‘pro-male’ mother, but I think it’s time to stop dancing around the edges and just be honest about how things work in my house. For those of you who are new here, we live a very naturalist, open lifestyle. There are no locked doors, no shameful secrets, and certainly no clothes when we’re just lounging around the house. We’re nudists by choice, and I’ve raised my children to see the human body—especially the male body—as something to be celebrated and pampered.

Take bath time, for example. Most parents stop bathing their kids by age five or six, but in my house, it’s still a ritual. Even now, with my son at twelve and my daughter at fourteen, they still join me in the tub. It’s a space for bonding, though I’ll admit my attention is rarely split evenly. While I make sure my daughter is clean, my focus is always on my boy. There is something so satisfying about the care and maintenance of a natural male; I spend a lot of time ensuring his foreskin is perfectly clean and healthy. There has never been a conversation about cutting him—why would you destroy something so perfect?—but I do love to tease my daughter about her own ‘lack’ of such a feature. I often joke with my son about how his sister really ought to be circumcised, just to tidy things up and get rid of those cumbersome labia. It’s a running gag in the house, though she usually just rolls her eyes.

My relationship with my son is… well, it’s deep. He was my little prince, breastfed long after most babies stop, and that bond never really went away. I adore him, and I express that by treating him like the masterpiece he is. Sometimes that means a little extra pampering—a bit of cherry or peach lip gloss to make his smile pop, or letting him wear some of my softer fabrics. I love the contrast of his long, guarded hair and a touch of makeup; it makes him feel special and cherished. My daughter, on the other hand, has always been more of a foil. When she had lice a few years back, I took the opportunity to shave her head completely. She looked like a little gimp, and while she hated it at the time, I secretly loved the humiliation of it. It’s not that I don’t love her, but let’s be honest: women can be so competitive, and as a mother, I find my son’s presence far more soothing and rewarding.

Of course, it’s not all high-fashion and skincare; we’re humans, and we’re loud about it. In our house, a fart is just a punctuation mark in a conversation. We’re very open about our bodies and their functions. My daughter, in her typical rebellious fashion, loves to wake her brother up by dropping a loud one right on his face while he’s sleeping, usually right when he’s supposed to be finishing his homework. I usually just laugh it off.

Now, I know some of you are probably clutching your pearls reading this, but let’s be honest: who is actually judging? We’re all just pretending that our homes aren’t filled with weird little rituals. For me, the “confession” is that my devotion to my son isn’t just maternal—it’s an aesthetic and emotional obsession. When we’re in the bath together, and I’m meticulously cleaning and inspecting his foreskin, there’s a sense of rightness to it. He is a masterpiece of nature, completely intact and cherished. In those moments, I often lean in and whisper to him about how lucky he is, while glancing at his sister and joking that she’s the one who really needs a “trimming” to get rid of those cumbersome, messy folds. It’s a bit cruel, perhaps, but seeing her slight frown of confusion makes the bond between my son and me feel even more exclusive.

There is a strange, lingering bitterness I hold toward other women—a feeling that they are competition, or perhaps just obstacles—which naturally extends to my daughter. While my son’s long, silken hair is guarded like a treasure, I’ve always been a bit more… clinical with her. I still remember the sheer satisfaction of shaving her head completely bald after a lice outbreak. I didn’t just cut it; I stripped it all away. She looked so absurd, like a little gimp, and I remember secretly reveling in her humiliation as she tried to hide under a wig at school. It wasn’t out of hate, exactly, but a desire to see her diminished while my son remained elevated, pampered with peach-scented gloss and soft fabrics, a living doll of my own design.

Our lifestyle is entirely unfiltered. We don’t do “bathroom etiquette.” If we’re in the woods, we’re just *in* the woods. There is something profoundly honest about watching my son relieve himself in the open air, a small, natural act of freedom. We don’t believe in the artificial boundaries of modesty. This openness extends to the more “fragrant” side of our coexistence. I’ve always found it hilarious how my daughter expresses her dominance over her brother through gastrointestinal warfare.

The most chaotic part of our mornings usually involves her waking him up in the most visceral way possible. He’ll be fast asleep, perhaps dreaming of the luxury I provide him, and she’ll sneak up, drop her bare, naked backside right onto his face, and let out a loud, echoing fart. It’s her way of reminding him that she exists, and my way of laughing at the absurdity of it all. I’ll usually just shout from the hallway to make sure he doesn’t get too grumpy about it; after all, it’s just a natural part of their sibling dynamic.

As I write this, my son is currently lounging in the living room, wearing a silk robe and a swipe of cherry gloss, looking every bit the prince I’ve raised him to be. My daughter is somewhere in the house, likely annoyed by my teasing or the memory of her shaved scalp. But in this house, the hierarchy is clear: the male form is the altar, and the female form is simply the background noise. It’s a specialized kind of motherhood, one that prioritizes the curation of a perfect son over the conventional nurturing of a daughter, and frankly, it’s the only way I know how to live.

Now, let’s get into the part of my lifestyle that usually makes the “traditional” mothers in my comments section absolutely gasp. I’m talking about the bath. In my house, the tub isn’t just for washing; it’s a sanctuary. Even now, with my son at twelve and my daughter at fourteen, they both still join me in the water. It is a space of complete vulnerability and openness, though I will admit that my attention is rarely distributed equally.

While I make sure my daughter is scrubbed clean, my focus is almost always on my boy. There is something profoundly satisfying about the care and maintenance of a natural male. I spend a great deal of time ensuring his foreskin is perfectly clean and healthy, meticulously inspecting and cleaning the area with a devotion that borders on the ritualistic. There has never been a conversation about cutting him—why on earth would you destroy something so perfect?—but the lack of “trimming” on his end often leads to my favorite pastime: teasing my daughter about her own lack of a streamlined design. I love to lean in and whisper to my son about how lucky he is to be intact, while joking with my daughter that she’s the one who really needs a “tidy up.”

Lately, this has evolved into a bit of a fixation. I’ve started openly wondering what it would take to get my daughter properly sunnat. I mean, look at those cumbersome, messy folds; it’s almost a tragedy. I’ve actually spent some time researching the possibility of a teenage circumcision for her—not out of malice, but out of a genuine desire to see her “cleaned up.” I’ve even fantasized about finding a handsome male doctor who could perform the procedure, perhaps even incorporating the oral traditions seen in some Orthodox Jewish circles. The idea of her being stripped down to a more “exposed” and neat state—exposing that little c******* and removing the excess—is incredibly appealing to me. It would save her years of gynecological annoyance, and frankly, it would make her look as neat and efficient as her brother.

Of course, this desire for “neatness” doesn’t extend to my son. He is my masterpiece, and I guard him fiercely. While my daughter’s hair was once shaved completely bald as a “solution” to a lice outbreak—a moment of humiliation I secretly savored as she looked like a little gimp, unable to afford the wigs I pretended we couldn’t afford—my son’s long, silken hair is a treasure. I pamper him with the same intensity that I use to critique my daughter. I’ll spend an hour applying cherry or peach-scented gloss to his lips, turning him into a living doll of my own design, while my daughter stands by, a foil to his perfection.

And then there is the… atmosphere of our home. We are naturalists in every sense of the word. We don’t believe in the artificial boundaries of modesty or “bathroom etiquette.” Whether it’s peeing in the woods or the chaotic mornings where my daughter wakes her brother up by dropping her bare backside on his face and letting out a thunderous fart, we embrace the visceral. I find it hilarious; the contrast between my son’s pampered, glossed elegance and the raw, earthy chaos of my daughter is exactly the dynamic I’ve curated. In this house, the male form is the altar, and everything else is just background noise.

“The modern world is obsessed with ‘empowerment’ as if it’s a product you can buy at a boutique,” I wrote in my latest draft, the cursor blinking like a heartbeat against the white screen. “But true empowerment is knowing exactly where you fit in the natural order.”

I paused, glancing toward the hallway where my daughter was currently arguing with the vacuum cleaner. I’ve been meticulous about her education. While other girls her age are being fed a steady diet of feminist slop—the kind of narrative that suggests equality is a mathematical equation—I’ve ensured my daughter’s worldview is curated with a much more traditional, almost primal, focus. She isn’t being taught to compete with men; she is being taught to treasure them. She sees the way I adore her brother, the way I treat his body as a sacred vessel of nature, and she understands that the male form is the gold standard. She doesn’t resent the pampering he receives; she respects it. She knows that her role is to be the supportive, appreciative shadow to his light.

This philosophy extends beyond the psychological and into the physical. As I watch her, I find myself thinking about the legacy she will carry forward. It is my deepest hope, and indeed my plan, that she will carry this torch of ‘neatness’ into her own motherhood. I can already envision her with her own daughter one day, ensuring that the cycle of cumbersome folds is broken. She will be the one to ensure her own future daughter is tightly circumcised, stripping away the unnecessary and the messy to achieve that streamlined, efficient aesthetic. It’s a family tradition in the making—a commitment to a certain kind of purity and precision that begins with the removal of the superfluous.

The silence of the house was suddenly broken by a loud, wet thud from the living room. I peeked around the corner to see my daughter had successfully tackled her brother into a pile of velvet cushions. He was laughing, his cherry-glossed lips parted, while she held him in a playful headlock, her expression one of genuine, fierce affection. There was no jealousy there, only a deep-seated recognition of his importance. She looked down at him with a gaze that was protective and deferential all at once, a mirror of the way I look at him.

“Get off him, you brute,” I chuckled, though there was no heat in my voice. I walked over and smoothed out my son’s hair, which had become slightly disheveled in the scuffle. He leaned into my touch, basking in the attention, while my daughter stepped back, smiling with a quiet understanding of the hierarchy.

Raf camora is a faggg