Bunni Virus: She'll Infect Your Mind

My fingers are shaking as I tap “Start” on the navigation app.

Shit, my heart’s beating like I’m a teenager about to touch a girl’s tits for the first time.

Disgusting.

I haven’t felt satisfied—well—maybe ever.

As a reasonably good-looking guy, getting into relationships has never been difficult.

I’ve left more than a couple broken hearts in my wake, thanks to my fuckboy streak. But the relationships never lasted. Before long, even the hottest girls lost my interest.

And the emptiness returned.

I know what the void is.

I’ve had enough therapy-adjacent conversations, usually with girls who want to fix me, to have a working self-diagnosis: I’m addicted to the chase and bored with the kill.

The minute a woman decides unequivocally to be mounted, the specific voltage that made her unique drops to zero.

It’s not cruelty. It’s circuitry.

My grape lights up for the unsolved and goes dark when the question mark becomes a period.

The last girl before Paloma was named Dana, and she cried when I stopped texting back.

I felt bad about that one for maybe four days.

Then I felt nothing.

Then I started seeing Paloma, and the cycle reset, and for approximately six weeks, the specific brand of Dana’s crying face got replaced by the voltage of a new woman deciding she wants me.

Six weeks.

That’s about standard.

I’m aware this makes me a certain flavor of smug-asshole-hyphenate.

I’m also aware that knowing hasn’t helped.

The void is immune to self-awareness. It just waits, patient and comfortable, a pilot light that never becomes a full-on blaze.

Today is one of those days.

I’ve been seeing a Greek girl named Paloma for a couple months.

Her body is sexy, with feminine features and a little extra padding in the thighs and butt region, but she’s failing to keep my interest.

I know myself well enough to read the signs.

Disinterest.

Noticing other women.

The urge to flirt.

The urge to be wanted.

There’s a more recent addition to the all-too-common pattern, though.

Social media browsing led me to sissy trap and femboy videos.

Men—or at least men with six-inch waists, colorfully styled hair, eating up attention in skimpy outfits. Looking like they love being objectified and feminized.

I found them strangely titillating. And over time, the algorithms started showing me more.

And more.

And more.

It wasn’t long before even when I searched for standard pornography, I was pausing—transfixed by thumbnails and popups pulling me toward darker sissy content.

Within a year of that first search, I’d already found trans porn.

Got instantly addicted.

The withdrawal became so acute I could only forget about it in the first throes of a new, all-consuming relationship.

That was a year and a half ago.

I’ve tried to chart the progression.

Cause, effect. Point of escalation. Current position.

It started as curiosity.

I’m being honest there.

When the first femboy video came up in the endless scroll, it seemed like a mistake. Like the bot—always watching me, judging me—was running a test.

I watched the first video the same way you’d watch anything that shows up uninvited. With one eye, prepared to flee to safer territory at a moment’s notice.

I didn’t click away.

I watched it three times.

It wasn’t the obvious thing that hooked me. Not the dick or the act. It was the expression. The specific form of blankness—wide eyes and split li