So I’ve been thinking a lot lately about why people (especially sex bloggers–especially pseudonymous and anonymous* sex bloggers) blog. I know the reasons are different for different people, but I’m pretty sure there are some common ones.
I’m pretty sure we all like the attention, whether it’s to be lauded for our writing (To be fair, this should be taken with a huge chunk of extra coarse kosher salt, cos you know, consider the source of praise: Folks who spend lots of time reading smut on the internets are most likely not literary agents or publishers, and if you are, call me!), to be seen as experts on some aspect of sexuality, or purely to shock the hell out of our readers.
It’s nice to hear that people like us. Or respect what we write. Or are horrified by or envious of the things we do. It means we’re having an impact on people, however small. It means people are paying attention, and we’re pretty much attention whores.
Before I was a blogger, I was a writer. I recorded everything in my journals from grade school forward and I’ve saved every one. They’re boring, but they are my archives, half a diary dedicated to 12 year old angst over why Steve Baker liked Charlotte Spencer more than me. And why his friend Mike wouldn’t leave me alone, when I’d made it very clear I was not interested in him. That one still makes me laugh.
I wrote during my very tumultuous relationship with Craig, the undiagnosed bipolar meanie who insulted me to tears almost daily. Writing (yeah, okay, and therapy) cleared a path out. And now I can read those entries, see the one surviving photo of myself then–5’4″ and 100 pounds, all sunken cheeks and hollow eyes–and track my existence from that to this.
I don’t want to forget what insignificance feels like. I want to remind myself and others that meaningful lives take up space. That’s why I write.
But before I could write, I spoke.
I am a talker. I’m not the most talkative person in the room, but given a person or group with little knowledge of or experience with something I know a lot about, I revel in the role of expert.
This is as true about potty training and removing chewing gum from hair as it is about kinky sex. But kinky sex is much more titillating than chewing gum and toilets.
Before I had a blog I would call my friends to tell them about the unbelievably hot sex I’d had the day before or was fixing to have later that evening. I enjoyed being open about my sex life, I enjoyed the admiration and envy of my less prolific girlfriends and I took just a little bit of satisfaction in knowing that it drove my guy friends crazy.
But I would end up telling the same story several times while also writing it in my journal. This was a big waste of time for me, especially once I became a parent, and a single one at that. That’s where the sex blogging comes in. When I discovered that I could record things once and let people read if they chose to, it freed me up tremendously.
A problem with having intimate details of one’s life published on the internet is that it’s in the public domain. And like it or not, there are people who don’t want to read about me sucking cock or sliding my finger into a girl’s wet pussy.
No, really. There are.
Enter pseudonyms and fictionalized locations. The intentional blurring of the edges which we bloggers do to varying degrees lets us be more frank in our discussions. We can feel fairly secure that our blog is not going to come up at the next PTA meeting. And if it does we have deniability.
I’m pseudonymous for now. If I didn’t have children I don’t think I would be. I’m not embarrassed or ashamed of my life. In fact, I think it’s pretty great. I do think of my parents and my children and wonder what would happen to them in their own circles if I was out.
This pisses me off because two weeks ago I was subjected to a half-hour discussion about my aunt Janice’s bleeding hemorrhoids (internal and external, thanks) and no one cared, but it would have shocked the table into silence had I detailed my orgasm from earlier that day.
Which is just stupid because they’re both about things in asses.
Ultimately, if it came to it, I don’t think the world would end if I went public. I’d like to think that people have better ways to spend their time than to worry who Madeline Glass really is.
But I would like to spend a little more time with my kids to cement healthy attitudes about sex and love and relationships into their churning little brains before explaining the difference between figging and teabagging.
*pseudonymous: Writing or written under a false name.
anonymous: Not identified by name; of unknown name; having no outstanding, individual or unusual features; unremarkable or impersonal.