I finally escaped the clamor of the city and the endless grind of the rat race. I bought a modest farm in a quiet New Hampshire town, the sort of place where the hills roll gently and the people speak softly. The community welcomed me with open arms; they gathered to help raise the walls of my little greenhouse, laughing as we worked, sharing stories under the open sky. It felt like belonging, like the life I had always quietly longed for. But when they discovered my private ritual—the need to be beaten severely, to feel my penis crushed against a slamming door—they turned away in revulsion.

DETAILS:

-100% cotton

-vintage machine embroidered "Hot Dog Eating Champion 1969"