I write about sex here, this is not an online life journal. It’s a sex blog. It’s an account of my sexuality and the adventures that come with that. I’m stingy with the other stuff. Very.
I’m ok writing about countless sexual encounters, my insipid dating travails, my feelings about The Neighbor and some of our relationship. I shared with you all a little of my broken heart when I lost a friend last summer and I open up a little on occasion about my ongoing frustrations with my exhusband. You might remember I have difficult, complicated relationships with my mother and sister. My father was a bastard, but is dead. I miss my baby when it’s not my turn for custody.
But what’s left to share when I don’t feel like shagging?
I can’t share what I do for a living, where I live, or who my friends are. I try to mix things up to keep the vibe of what I share truthful without giving away accurate details.
I could write volumes more if I opened the doors, but I don’t feel like I’m allowed. I’m not certain it would ruin my life, but it’s possible and I’m not at all willing to take that chance. We don’t like it when people are open with their sexuality or opinions on sex. Teachers and state representatives better never show their tits online. I certainly don’t want people I work with professionally seeing my breasts and knowing how I like it in bed. Yet, here I am, compelled to risk it all because I need this space for something. At least I used to.
I’m at an impasse. My writing has waned, or at least the urge to write has. I don’t feel negatively towards the blog, but I don’t feel positively towards it, either. I get lots from it, but it also takes a lot. I’m feeling less inclined to open up and share because I have less to share about my sex life.
I look at other longtime bloggers and see what they’ve done with their spaces. Many of them have monetized their spaces brilliantly and others have become little sexy cottage industries. I admire their fortitude and work ethic. I look at myself and don’t see it happening. I’m self-hosted and have the ability, but I don’t know what to do with the opportunity. I’m overwhelmed. I’ve thrown together an Amazon shop, but that’s it.
And these other bloggers, they haven’t seemed to paint themselves into such a corner as I have; they have other avenues of expression that they’ve worked out that don’t revolve around the sex they have.
On top of all that, I don’t feel sexy. Ugh.
I’ve gained a couple of pounds, I’m constantly tired, I’m choked with fear about my financial situation, TN and I are wading through the doldrums of stability and a long-term relationship. I’m working so goddamned hard at important, life-altering things that I have zero energy left for passion or creativity. And I’m sad. I miss being excited about my body and my art.
This blog used to be an oasis in the desert of my life, but these days it’s like it’s evaporated into a mirage. My body and its pleasures are like an old memory I smile at when lost in thought. I barely even masturbate anymore. I’m tapped out.
I have to figure out what I’m going to do here. I have some ideas — I still have hot sex on occasion — but I’m wrung out and I’m scared and I’m tired and I’m bored. With my life, my lover, myself. I’ve lost something over time, it’s slowly leaked out of me. Or maybe I’m just tired. Pinched and wilted and dry, forgotten flowers in a pretty vase.
I am a horrible mess of a woman lately. I’m painstakingly sifting through my life to untangle the negatives I was hand-fed growing up. I’m struggling, but I’m committed to being as patient as possible about the process in general, but it still takes the winds out of my sails and that fucking sucks.
I wish I could work on all the important emotional things and still want to fuck my brains out.
Fucking is fun, it’s fantastical, it’s freeing. This other work robs from me the one thing I have always felt was a way to define who I was: sex.
Growing up my mother said, No, Hyacinth! No, no, no! You’re not to feel that way! You’re not to want those things! You’re not to need this, that, or the other. Don’t be that way! And as a young adult I used sex (and drugs) to differentiate myself from her… all without her knowing. I did what I wanted the way I wanted when I wanted.
After the divorce, and a long relationship with a man who wasn’t unlike the dominant voice in my ear as a child, I used sex (and alcohol) to differentiate myself once again. Like an adolescent, all over again, wild and wanton. Dissolute.
Only this time, I had more success without all the fallout. I kept an eye on my behavior and didn’t go off the rails like I did as a young woman. I created a blog where I could channel my behaviors and become a writer, an artist, not just a woman who was fucking through her grief and secretly piecing herself together probably for the first time in her life.
My mother still doesn’t know about the woman I am, but at least I have friends and a lover who do and who love me anyway. Maybe I need to sit with this a little more and I’ll come back to my body sooner than I think and I’ll get to slip back into my sexy pants. Then I’ll have lots of sexy shit to share and this blog will be busy and thrumming with energy and sex and love and lots of Hy’s words.
All I know is that I’m ready whenever I am; to have lots of sloppy sex so I have the paint in which to dip my blogging brush and make beautiful, sexy art. I want to fill the pages here with over-flowing content that titillates both you and — just as importantly — me. This space is my blank canvas. I guess I’ll just have to wait for inspiration.