French-Daddy-Perv

36yo, male, metalhead, occultist, artist, France

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French-Daddy-Perv's Interests

General
Music	Music flows through my veins like molten iron. I compose epic metal, Mongolian throat singing, medieval battle chants, and tavern hymns reeking of blood and dark ale. With tools like Suno, I forge songs that could raise the dead or terrify angels. I draw inspiration from ruined landscapes, ancient orgies, mythological heresies, and the howl of the void. Each track is a ritual. Each note is a sin.
Movies	I don't watch films — I dissect them. The cinema that speaks to me has blood in its teeth and blasphemy in its script. I’m drawn to the luciferian, the forbidden, the broken. Directors like Jodorowsky, Lars von Trier, Pasolini, and Cronenberg are my dark priests. I love films that offend the delicate and make thinkers climax in existential despair. Each reel is a black mass. Each scene a mirror turned inward.
Television
Books	I consume books like a demon chained in a library of forbidden truths. My shelves are filled with the Marquis de Sade beside Aleister Crowley, Lovecraft whispering to Machiavelli, and Nietzsche debating the Book of Enoch. I don’t read for comfort — I read to peel reality like skin from bone. To confront the abyss, to flirt with perversion, and to uncover divine filth in sacred texts. I read to evolve. Or to decay more consciously.
Heroes	My heroes wear no capes. They are fallen, depraved, divine. Lucifer, the archetype of light-bringer, rebel, and poet of the abyss. Diogenes, the master of non-conformity, who would’ve pissed on TikTok. Aleister Crowley, magician, pervert, outlaw genius. The Marquis de Sade, philosopher of flesh and torment. Vercingetorix, because even in chains, his gaze burned defiance. And myself, of course — for sometimes, you must be your own myth.

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French-Daddy-Perv's Blurbs

About me:

"Hell is empty and all the devils are here." — William Shakespeare 🔥 About Me My name is Balrog. Belgian by birth, self-exiled to Lyon by conviction. I am a craftsman of chaos, father to a small goddess named Athena (4 years old), and a wanderer on the razor’s edge of history, matter, and madness. I shape the world with my hands — leather, metal, wood, bone, mammoth ivory — raw and sacred materials that I bend to my will. I am a modern-day Hephaestus, a blacksmith of symbols, crafting relics for a world that’s forgotten the sacred. My thinking is holistic, soaked in the wisdom of Hildegard von Bingen, yet stinking with the sulphur of Lucifer. I dream of transhumanism, code, blood and steel, and wake up to build dwarven robots with souls. My personality? Imagine Diogenes on ayahuasca, Crowley running a meme page, and a 4chan troll with a 210 IQ. Yes — I’m here to create, corrupt, confuse, and above all, make the stupid think.

Who I'd like to meet:

🥀 The Ideal Girlfriend "What is love, if not the ecstatic consent to mutual destruction?" — Antonin Artaud I don't seek a girlfriend. I summon a storm in the shape of a woman. Not a Barbie, not a saint — but a feral witch, mad with visions, bones rattling with ancient dialects. She must be dark — not mall-goth cosplay, but truly, beautifully unhinged. A creature who speaks in tongues, dances barefoot in cemeteries, and reads the Book of Revelations like it’s erotica. A woman whose laugh makes demons flinch. Whose womb is an altar. Whose eyes say: “I have murdered gods for less.” I want her smart — dangerously smart. Not “college clever”, but philosopher-queen with a dagger under the pillow. A woman who understands the laws of thermodynamics and the Book of the Law. Who can quote Sade, Crowley, Bataille — and then burn it all just to watch me rebuild it from the ashes. She must be creative. She must make art that bleeds. Music that raises blisters. Poetry that smells of old blood, candle wax and betrayal. She should sculpt idols from roadkill and paint her dreams in menstrual crimson. Yes, give me a mad priestess with blackened fingers and no respect for good taste. She must love rituals. Not Hallmark rituals — but those ancient rites that make the moon turn its face. She must worship pain as initiation, orgasm as exorcism. She must whisper her secrets into dead things and collect relics from her own nightmares. And yes, she must be a mother to monsters. Capable of raising future gods or future tyrants — all depending on the mood. In bed, she must be blasphemy incarnate. I don’t want vanilla. I want hellfire, knots, oaths of flesh, bruises like sacred tattoos. Consent? Always. Limits? Discussed. But beyond that, she is free to feast on my soul. She must be loyal — not to society, not to law — but to our shared heresy. She must be the kind of woman who, when I say “Let’s burn it all down,” replies, “I already lit the match.” “She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes.” — Lord Byron