The Story of the Artist, a Story of a Wolf Boy (Patreon)

I went by a lot of names when starting out… The experimental era of this channel is something I’d much rather forget, drama and all. My name is Kay. You might recognize me as the pissed off little kitten who picks fights with massive tigers and somehow pulling out more wins than losses. It’s a pleasure to really meet you all, as make no mistake, you’re finally meeting me for real.

Well, I suppose it might be time to tell my story. To get some things out of the way right off the bat, I have misled you bros on a few key things. I hope you won’t be upset with me, as it’ll make sense why I did so soon. If you’re only here for the art, that’s fine. Skip this post. If you’re one of those who wants to make fun of me for sharing, fuck off and block me. I don’t want you shitbags here. For those interested, here we go.

Some things I want to get out of the way right off the bat:

1. I’m a good deal younger than I let on. I suppose I wanted to impress the grown-ups in the boxing art community, as it made me feel grown up. As of writing this, I am currently 20 years old. Yeah… That might be a bit of startling realization, but no one really knew this until now. Please note no one I’ve befriended here is a creep or anything, most of them STILL don’t know how old I really am. But… That said, I WAS a kid when I first got here, about 13 or 14 years old. Looking back, it shows. I used to be REALLY childish.
2. I’ve lied a lot in private, building up different personas depending on who I was talking to. This stems from my real story being crazier than any made up one, as evidenced by the fact that the only call-out I’ve ever received called out the true stuff but none of the lies.
3. Said some creepy shit by mistake a few times, typically from either joking or getting flustered. I was into the “loli” body type from about age 15 (Which IS a body type, has nothing to do with age). I’m largely not anymore, though I am into BEING this type of character.
4. This made me really paranoid early on, which led to me lashing out frequently. I mean… I can’t say I’m sorry, anyone I’ve hurt had a chance to accept my apology afterward as I HAVE reached out to each of them. So if you and I have beef, fuck you. I reached out and did my part, you swatted my olive branch. It’s fine. But fuck off.

Alright, with those out of the way, I’ll start with the early years…

I was a wild child in a very literal sense of the word. Descended from a gangster father and musician mother, adopted at age 2 into a literal cult that kept me locked in a basement, it’s safe to say I led a very solitary existence. Until age 10, my life was like a game of simon says but there is no right answer. This made me paranoid and distrustful right off the bat, as the “wrong answer” led to physical beatings and the like. I won’t dwell on the early years much, the only things you really need to know is that around the Summertime when I was 10, the cult got raided and many of their members are in prison now. I went through the system, being adopted by a kind Japanese American woman who knew my father at one point. She was a farmhand who had lost an eye in a knife fight in her youth, and she had a daughter a bit younger than me  who I instantly hit it off with.

I struggled to learn to speak, socializing was a baffling affair to me, I was put into special ed courses but got so frustrated by the others there I made it a personal goal to prove I could handle normal classes, an endeavor I miraculously succeeded in throughout my teen years. My sister and I remained close, but if you were to see us interact you wouldn’t know it. Something I should explain is that even after learning to speak and function, I remained VERY abrasive and even mean. I’m the same in person as I am in text, down to the way I call you names for no apparent reason. I transcribe how I speak so it feels natural. At home, I was a total sweetheart by that family’s standards. Mom was often tired after her daily job as a farmhand, and I made it a point to try to make her life easier. My sister would do most of the cooking, I would handle the cleaning, then I’d make myself scarce. At the time, I thought I was doing her a favor. From my interactions at school, I had the impression my company was a nuisance, so my “wolf brain” figured “I cause stress, mommy is tired and doesn’t need stress. I should leave the house and not cause stress.”

Turns out this had the opposite effect, especially after I started getting into scraps. Something many of you likely have experience with is that a single parent can only teach one side of the things parents are meant to teach. There’s the compassionate parent and the strong parent, for lack of a better term. My mother was very much the “strong” parent, and this is likely why I grew up so tough despite being naturally small. She was abrasive, casually verbally abusive, and not afraid to throw down. I remember on one occasion, we’d just gotten home from the river and caught a burglar in the house. Mom chokeslammed that dude through the kitchen table, which I later fixed and we still have that same table to this day. You could even see the crack where the man’s body split it! I would get shit at school often, more so than others because of my odd animalistic habits (I.e. slouched posture, habitually eating out of the trash, crouching on my seat, etc) and small size.

Small size… That’s something that you’ll find is reoccurring with me. I’m currently exactly five feet tall, spent a long time tilting my camera upward and using photo tricks to make myself look taller. People have this very strange habit of thinking that short people aren’t people at all. I think we’ve all seen this scenario, for an immediate example. Someone makes a joke at a short person’s expense. Short person retorts. Tall person gets angry and wants to get physical, seemingly thinking the short person is somehow out of line for retaliating verbally. I grew up with the attitude of “not getting even, but getting ahead”, and this led to problems. I scrapped a lot, put a few people in the hospital, and considering who my mother was, you can see how a wild boy can quickly be mistaken for a delinquent. I ended up in military school for six months, which straightened me out behaviorally but not verbally. I was still a very crass boy, and still am really. But what can you expect from a wolf boy raised by a mostly-reformed street thug?

I ended up moving out at age 16, lived with some roommates for a while. Never liked them much. I took up dabbling in cosplay, though I didn’t do much of note and didn’t know photoshoots were a thing. As a result, most of my early cosplays are lost to time. Soi Fon and Luppi Antenor from Bleach, Starfire from DC comics (New 52 in particular, with the long sleeves), Green Lantern (My former idol), and a few others. It was during this time I met the man I would later call “dad”. He’s a stoic yet flamboyantly gay man named Leon who I hit it off with at a Thanksgiving party I more or less crashed. With my mixed race composition, I could often get away with “crashing” latino family gatherings and birthday parties and such. Leon and I talked about a lot of things, and he felt protective over me from that point on. The older man really was the first to look out for me truly.  Don’t get me wrong, my mom certainly took care of me in her own way, but I finally had that “nurturing” parent in Leon.

He ended up bailing me out of juvy after I got into a nasty scrap (which landed me on probation), and he drove me back to my apartment without a word. That drive was the first time I ever felt truly ashamed of the violent youth I’d become. I remember so distinctly the light snow fall and the awkward silence. The radio wasn’t on, there was no music to distract from the emotions of the moment. He didn’t say it, but I knew. He wasn’t mad, just disappointed.

When we pulled into the driveway, I sat a moment longer and, after another moment’s hesitation, mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just be better.” He replied.

I nodded silently, then thanked him and got out of the car. When he drove away, I looked at my hands, inspecting the cuts and bruises and finally feeling the guilt of all my fighting hitting me at once. For the first time in my life, I had to confront the fact that all that clashing for ego’s sake had finally hurt someone I really cared about. I wondered if my mom and sister had been hurt by it all too. Unlike Leon, they never spoke up, and they had been in a lot of scraps themselves, so I guess I just felt a certain “justification” in doing so myself. It was what I thought humans saw as “normal”. That was how problems are solved. People don’t solve problems with words or solutions, only ruthless aggression. Only by making the other party hurt so badly they submit to your will.

But disappointing Leon like that changed things forever. I remember making a lot of changes around that time. I was still mean, still verbally abusive, still abrasive, but at the very least I stopped being violent. But, what I found was that when people thought I’d gone soft, they felt it was okay to treat me ten times worse. Throughout my first steps into the adult world, the threats of violence came in fast and hard. Active threats of violence from my first girlfriend’s family (who inadvertently caused the death of her 10 year old brother, btw), every man I ever met in social settings ar one point or another would get in my face and want to fight me, and even women suddenly thought it was okay to put their hands on me.

Through it all, I would clench my fist, grumble to myself that “I’m different now. I’m not going back to that dark place.”

I didn’t want to be a wolf anymore, I wanted to be a well behaved hound. A protector when necessary, sure, but not a vicious wolf. I wanted to leave that behind SO BADLY…

Then they tried to jump me.

I won’t say who. But they tried. And they failed. It was like a movie moment, down to the dark and stormy weather (Idaho is known for cinematic weather; the sky here is bipolar, I swear.)

With a beaten and bloodied man under me, eyes widened in horror as I had my fist raised, I stared into his soul with an aggression I’d kept pent up for years. RAGE. I had never felt it this badly. Here I was, trying to be a loyal hound, to be better than I was, and these assholes physically tried to drag me back into it? WITH A SHOTGUN EACH, NO LESS. (I don’t know if they ever intended to use them or if they were even loaded, but the thought didn’t scare me, it just made me angrier.)

I glanced at the other goon, who was watching while propped up against the brick wall in that alleyway, nearly black blood oozing from his mouth. I whipped out my hunting knife, holding it to the one I was holding’s throat.

I could kill him.

I had a perfect case of self defense here.

I could slide this across his throat, skin him like the animals on the farm.

I could carve my name into his chest.

Maybe I could have. Or maybe I’d have spent life in prison for it. But what saved that guy was that desire to be better. Ultimately, that’s what won out. Whether the courts would find me guilty or not didn’t even weigh on me. I knew that if I let my rage take over now, I could never face Leon again. How could I ever look him in the eyes again, knowing what I’d done? Not to mention my sister and my mother… In the end, I put away the knife and picked up my backpack, marching off still fuming.

I want to say I felt better. But I didn't. I was still SO ANGRY for the next year or so, which proved to be one of the worst times of my life.

Leon had moved into a compound with some LGBTQ folks, and it was here I lost a lot of love for that community. I had two trannies attempt to rape me, the way I was creeped on was unacceptable, but make no mistake, this wasn’t something the compound accepted or tolerated, but it DID happen. Both of the trannies there were creepy pedophiles and molesters, though in hindsight I’m sure that’s coincidence. At the time, I chalked it up to transgenders simply being bad people with delusions they demand the rest of us play into. I was transphobic in a very real sense of the word. I might have gone full on genocidal rightoid around this time if it hadn’t been for Leon, Uncle Carlos, and a few others. Atrocities happened at that compound, not just to me, but to all of us. It was a bad situation for everyone, and as we speak, I now live with Leon, Uncle Carlos, and my cat (Dante) in a house we’re paying off now. I call Leon dad, we host visits from my mom and sister frequently, and while Uncle Carlos’ health has been failing him for years now, he’s at least stable and for the first time, I find myself looking in the mirror and liking who I see.

That rage filled monster is gone, replaced by a hopeful albeit sad looking young man.

I didn’t have a family at first… Even when I had one, it took so long to accept them. But I finally feel that warmth that I’d heard talked about when the topic of family came up. I’d started to think it was a myth, in fact… But at the New Years party with Uncle Carlos’ extended family, I looked up from my food for a moment and just… smiled.

People talking and laughing, joy in the air, and hope for the future. I looked around at everyone there and recited in my head how lucky I was to have known each and every one of them. Those yokels who jumped me still look for trouble, claiming I left that town out of “fear” despite knowing I was in the moving process when they attacked anyway. Strangers still get in my face and want to fight if I dare speak up for myself. I’m still sub-human for being small. I’m still an angry fella. I still snap and yell sometimes, I still can be really mean and abrasive, but one thing’s for sure.

Despite everything, there’s a heart in this chest of mine.

I’m not perfect. I never will be. But I think at the very least, I’m not a monster. Given where I came from, that’s a miracle worth thanking God for.

There’s a lot of other stories I want to tell, but here’s a GROSSLY REDUCTIVE overview of the life of this wolf boy you know here. To you, I’m only a fetish artist. I don’t think it’s any secret my interest in that is waning more every day. But, I got told a few times there’s a fascinating side to the very human hands that did all these stupid CG renders, a certain “artistic quality” to the man behind the curtain. So, I decided to finally come clean. Take it as you will. Spit on me, call me names, hate me. That’s okay. Love me, stick around and enjoy my work, watch me grow, watch me change, you’re more than welcome and I thank you for it. Really, it means so much to me that I get to hear from you all from across the globe. I don’t think I ever really thanked you so intimately, and I probably should have, but… That’s all I have for you for now. Thank you all.

Ps. I’m happy to focus in on some details later, if you bros want, or tell other stories to fill in the many, MANY gaps here. You’ll find very quickly that I like sharing my life’s stories. Sorry for being so paranoid before, feel free to ask. I don’t bite… anymore ;)