I SLEPT WITH 365 MEN IN 365 DAYS TO FEED MY SNAKE FOR WEALTH

This is the secret I have carried

the one that eats me alive every night when I close my eyes. I am confessing because I can’t keep it inside anymore. For a full year, I gave my body to strangers. Three hundred and sixty-five nights, three hundred and sixty-five men. Not for love, not for lust, not for pleasure. I did it to feed my snake — the snake I was told would bring me wealth, power, and respect.

It started with greed. I was tired of struggling. Tired of begging for scraps while others lived in plenty. That’s when I met her — the old woman with the cloudy eyes. She told me about the ritual. She promised me I would never lack money again. She said, “There is a snake that eats from the bodies of men. If you feed it, it will feed you.”

At first, I laughed. But when she described my desperation back to me, word for word, I knew she wasn’t lying. I was desperate enough to believe anything. And so, I agreed.

The first night, I brought a man to my room. I thought it was just sex, nothing unusual. But afterward, when he slept, I saw movement in the shadows. My snake slithered out, black as night, its eyes glowing faintly. It coiled over the man, pressed its tongue to his skin, and I swear I saw his chest sink as though something was being sucked out of him. He groaned in his sleep but didn’t wake. By morning, he was pale and trembling. I pretended it was nothing. But inside, I was shaking too.

The snake was fed. And it was hungry again the next night.

I became a hunter. Every evening, I searched for another man — in bars, in dark corners, sometimes even through lies and tricks. I stopped caring about their names. They were just offerings. Some came willingly. Others I drugged with powders the old woman gave me. Each night, the snake fed, and each night it grew.

Its scales became oily, slick with something that smelled of blood and incense. When candlelight hit it, I sometimes saw faces pressed into its body — the faces of the men I had brought, their mouths open in silent screams.

The rituals got worse. The old woman told me to smear goat blood on my thighs before letting a man touch me. She told me to whisper chants into their ears as we moved, words that didn’t belong to this world. At first, I stumbled. The words burned my tongue. But over time, the chants rolled off my lips like a second language.

Some nights were ordinary — the men left weak, drained, confused. Other nights were nightmares. Men bled from their noses. Some woke up screaming in terror, clutching their chests, crying that something was biting them in the dark. A few never woke up at all. When that happened, the snake wrapped itself tighter around me, as if rewarding me for the sacrifice.

For a while, I thought it was worth it. The money came. Business doors opened. People started to treat me differently. I had influence, fear, and power. I thought I was winning.

But I was wrong.

The curse began to show itself in my body. My skin broke out in sores that would not heal. My eyes grew sunken, heavy with shadows. My womb felt hollow, as if nothing could ever grow inside me again. My dreams turned into endless corridors filled with screaming men. When I woke, I found the snake curled tighter and tighter around my bedpost, its glowing eyes watching me.

By the 365th night, I was no longer myself. My body was just a vessel, something the snake used to get what it wanted. It whispered in my ear in the dead of night, its breath hot, its tongue flicking against my lips. Sometimes, it forced itself into my mouth, choking me with its hunger until I obeyed.

I thought I was feeding the snake for power. But the truth is, it was feeding on me all along. I gave it men, but it took my soul.

Now, I live like a ghost. I am rich, yes. People still bow when I enter the room. But none of it feels real. My laughter is hollow, my reflection in the mirror looks like a stranger. The snake is always with me, coiled around my life, reminding me that it owns me.

I don’t know how much longer I have before it swallows me whole. I only know this: when it’s done with me, it will not stop. It will find another fool, another greedy heart ready to sell their body and soul for the illusion of power.

And when that happens, the cycle will continue — 365 men, 365 nights, and another broken soul confessing too late.