I’m 27, and my name’s Zane. I’m a performance artist, living in a loft in Detroit’s art district, where the city’s decay fuels my work. My body’s a canvas—tattooed, pierced, scarred from years of pushing limits. I’m lean, pale, with shaggy blond hair and a seven-inch c**k that’s thick, cut, and veined, a part of me I’ve always been curious about. I’ve never fit the mold—s*x, identity, normal—and my art’s about breaking those cages. Last year, I took it to an extreme: I paid an underground surgeon, a genius with a scalpel and no license, to remove my two lowest ribs on the left side. The goal? To bend my body to do what no man should—suck my own d**k and f**k my own ass. It was insane, dangerous, but the idea consumed me, a vision of ultimate self-sufficiency, a closed loop of pleasure. Ton
