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Rated: 18+ · Book · LGBTQ+ · #2354557

Humorous, honest writing about shame, identity, and the search for belonging.

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#1108427 added February 15, 2026 at 4:52pm
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If I Become a Hundred-aire, That’s Enough.
I recently posted on Reddit about whether I should publish my memoir, I expected… well, I wasn’t sure what I expected. The internet is unpredictable. Sometimes you get thoughtful feedback, sometimes you get chaos, and sometimes you get a stranger telling you to “just Google it.” But the responses I received were surprisingly grounded. No one told me not to publish. No one tried to shame me. Most people simply reminded me of something I already knew: memoirs by non‑famous people rarely make money.

And honestly? That was reassuring.

I’ve never approached Floorbound with the fantasy of becoming a bestseller. I’m not delusional. I’m not expecting a movie deal or a book tour. If I become a hundredaire from this book, that’s enough. I’ll frame the royalty statement.

My niche audience already exists — I see them on my author Instagram. They’re a small, loyal group who connect with the fetish‑adjacent parts of my story, the strange little corners of childhood that shaped me. And that’s totally fine. A niche is still an audience. A niche is still a community. A niche is still someone saying, “I see myself in this.”

But the truth is, the memoir isn’t for the niche. Not entirely. It’s for the kid I was, the one who didn’t have language for his quirks, who didn’t know what acceptance looked like until his father — gruff, awkward, and utterly unequipped for emotional conversations — gave it to him anyway. It’s for the adult I became, who spent years carrying shame that never belonged to him. And it’s for anyone who has ever felt strange, or out of place, or convinced that their story wasn’t worth telling.

My biggest hesitation has never been about sales. It’s about permanence. Once a book is out in the world, there’s no taking it back. You can’t unpublish a truth. You can’t unring a bell. That’s the part that gives me pause — not fear, exactly, but respect for the weight of it.

Still, the more I sit with it, the more I realize that “permanence” is also the point. Shame thrives in silence. Stories lose their power when they stay locked away. And if my book reaches even one person who needs it — someone who grew up feeling odd or misunderstood, someone who’s still trying to untangle the knots of their childhood — then it wasn’t written in vain.

I don’t need a wide audience. I don’t need fame. I don’t need to sell thousands of copies. I just need the story to land where it’s meant to land.

If that makes me a hundred-aire, I’ll take it.
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