Category Archives: Writing

What’s with the Blogging, and Why Pseudonymous is a Better Word.

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.

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Filed under Blogging, Parenting, Writing

Oh, So Pretty

Well, not exactly. I’m sick. So Feh.

But.

My kids are overnight at my brother’s place, I’m under the duvet all cozy and looking tres francais in my Clapotis scarf, finished several weeks ago and now serving as my neckwarmer in all manner of situations.

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Pretty, huh?

I’ve been productive today, despite the nagging cough and accompanying phlegm (I just like writing that–phlegm). Good things are happening to me.

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Filed under Knitting, Quiet, Writing

Think on These Things

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  • Being awake at 5:30 AM when it’s way quiet.
  • Organic espresso at $7.99 a pound.
  • Drinking said espresso whilst eating chocolate cake at 5:30 AM when it’s way quiet.
  • Wearing the most comfortable Old Navy lounge pants during above food orgy (I love that they say “intimates,” because they are the closest things to my skin, not because I’ll ever use them to woo a consort.).
  • New baby nieces, yours and mine.
  • Friends who say “I love you.”

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Filed under Quiet, Writing

Crawling Through

You know the feeling when you’re skin to skin with someone and you’re not close enough? The feeling that you want to forge your bodies together like steel, strong and impervious against the elements? You know that feeling?
I’m not talking about fucking.

I’m talking about lying together kissing, touching, hands traveling, breath catching, lips sucking, noses tracing making out. And you have this feeling that you want to be one person together. And you hold tightly to them and you will this thought–this wish–to be granted by the universe.

You can’t verbalize it. So you shut your eyes tightly and you wish it.

Sometimes you’re lucky. Sometimes you’re with that person and they’re making the same wish.

And sometimes you’re already the same person. You just inhabit two earthly bodies.

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Filed under Love, New York, Writing

Quitter

I don’t quit.

I am awfully stubborn in my determination to make things work. I come by this naturally, from my father. He will spend two weeks poking around the control panel of the dishwasher, forcing the family of eight to hand wash dishes until, finally, he finds the problem and fixes it. Or buys a new dishwasher. The man exhausts all possibilities before he throws in the towel.

I’m like that.

Sometimes it’s a good thing. I’m persistent in my work and my clients reap the benefits. I enjoy coming up with new ways to think about old problems. And when I make a commitment I will do everything it takes to honor it.

Sometimes it’s not such a good thing. I over-analyze. I exhaust myself thinking of ways to solve a problem, change a situation or make it work to my advantage, when I probably should walk away and forget about it.

It’s like my marriage: Counseling and homework and communication exercises and all that. I did them. I tried. I kept going. And I still felt horribly betrayed and hateful toward the person who wasn’t smart enough to realize that I will suffer nearly anything as long as it’s not a secret.

The problem wasn’t him, it was me. But I kept trying to get okay with being deceived and humiliated. Surely there must be a way to just let that go.

There was.

I let him go. I made him go.

The fact that he continues to deceive me and disappoint our children is a testament that I made the right decision.

Letting go of something or someone is hard for me because it is tantamount to admitting failure.

I do not fail.

I miss feeling secure with a partner. I miss believing in someone and trusting them with my life. I miss doing something particularly unpleasant and enjoying it, simply because I was not alone in my misery.

There are times when I am very alone.

And I do not want to admit failure.

So I keep going.

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Filed under Frustration, Writing