I’ve been agonizing over what to say here all day. I woke up on the couch at 6 am, fully clothed, slightly hungover and surrounded by slumbering animals. My first thought was, Holy fuck.
I walked into my room, took off all my clothes, and climbed into bed.
– Holy shit.
I checked my phone. Maybe it was a dream.
Nope. I’d definitely told him about my blog, address and all.
– Holy fucking shit.
So, I guess before I go any further I should say hi to the newest reader of my blog.
How did this happen, you ask? Frankly, I have no fucking idea.
I have been a loud voice in this community of anonymous bloggers that the first rule of Secret Sex Blog Club is, there is no fucking secret sex blog.
Never tell anyone. Never allude to its existence. Search your soul if you find yourself wanting to tell anyone about it, ask yourself questions: how will this affect my writing? what do I want to get out of them knowing? can they hurt me with this knowledge? are they trustworthy???
For 3-and-a-half years I have kept my lips tightly sealed despite pretty compelling situations to open up, but last night I revealed myself to a man whose voice I’d only just heard, whose scent I don’t know, whose kiss I’ve never tasted, whose life is a patchwork of new stories and characters I’ve never dreamed of. What I know about him is very little: he’s 6, 7 years younger, tall, very handsome, nerdy, quick witted, a lover of the tortured Russian just like me, and willing to make his match-making aunts happy at least once. He also lives closer to Marian than he does to me, 200 miles away.
– I have lost my mother fucking mind.
There are now 3 people on the planet who know who I am in real life that then gained knowledge of this space. One has been a long-time hidden presence, a dear, sweet, giant of a man who convinced me to write my very first sex blog 5 years ago after we met on OK Cupid. The Neighbor is the second. And now this new reader — who deservedly needs a pseudonym, but I am afraid to even whisper a name because then it will be all too real.
– Jesus fucking Christ.
I don’t know how to answer my own questions. I don’t know why I opened up to this man. I have no idea where to go from here. It feels freeing and terrifying all at once to know that he can dig through my archives here and see how my brain works. It’s scary to think I might be judged for one post or another. I almost want to say Read it all with a grain of salt, but that’s not entirely accurate. That’s me minimizing my work here, the me that’s here.
It hurt me that TN never wanted to read this. He claimed it was out of respect for my privacy, but I never wrote anything I wouldn’t stand behind or hadn’t already said to him myself first. I would never use this platform to broadcast my feelings. Except I’m doing that right now because I don’t have a line to my new reader.
I’m sorry, new reader! Can I call you Alexei? Or should I call you The Russian?
This space is also my art. It’s my canvas, my pride and joy. It will never make me rich or famous, but it always welcomes me with open arms. Connecting Hy with me for someone is a challenge. It’s like asking him to view my art: I hold my breath and hope he “gets it” and continues to like me in the meantime.
It extends the other way, as well. It’s odd when I meet other [secret] sex bloggers as I fight to quickly catch them up on the real [and boring] me with the literary Hyacinth who flashes her tits any chance she gets and writes about her sex life in vivid detail.
I don’t think accidents happen.
Yesterday was a good day. The sun was hot, the cicadas loud, my baby sweet and loving. Friends were in town to break bread with me. I drove through my busy city to sit on my favorite couch and process my feelings, a weekly ritual. Then something happened to my heart while I sat across from the woman I admire, wiry and weathered from her love of tennis: I decided to let The Neighbor go. For real. All the way.
I cried into my hands and she looked at me with a pained face. “This is going to be hard for you, Hy, but you’re tough. You can do it. I think you’re on to something.”
I left her office feeling composed, safe for the first time in months. I know exactly what I need to do to stop hurting and I will get it done. I always get it done.
My newly made decision instantly freed something in me and when the mountain climbing guy from a few weeks ago texted to check in on me I impulsively asked him to have a drink with me. No pressure, just curiosity.
We met at the same dive bar as our first date and he had a cider in hand for me, he’d remembered from last time. We sat and baked in the heavy heat and talked for 3 hours while the sun went down.
I can blame the drinks — though that would be untrue — but as the minutes ticked by I found myself drawn to him. I wasn’t dressed up, I had on barely any makeup. I showed up as just me, not the vixen I know how to be, and it was as if for the first time in forever a man was talking to me. I wasn’t trying to make him want me, I was trying to see if I wanted him.
At 10 o’clock our carriage turned back into a pumpkin and we got up to leave. We made plans to see each other again, shared an uneventful kiss, and I climbed into my car and checked my phone. No new messages.
I’d been texting with the new reader off and on all day and he’d butt dialed me at one point. I’d flirtatiously told him he could call me anytime — I mean, how novel would that be? I texted him that I was disappointed I had no message from him.
I drove home with the windows down and the music blaring, my thoughts on the pain I would soon be rid of and the joy I hope to find again in my future. I climbed the stairs and set my purse down on the kitchen island and pulled my phone out again. Still nothing from the new reader, until suddenly there was his face from a Tinder pic I’d captured: he was calling me!
I laughed a hello and plugged in my earbuds, poured myself a glass of wine and sat down. He’s maybe the 5th man I’ve had a conversation with in all my years of online dating. His voice was smooth and slightly lilting, a product of his hometown.
By the time we hung up 90 minutes later I’d spilled the beans. There was some magical combination of his unicorn dust, my decision to move on, and perhaps elements of the date that actually talked to me coupled with an old fashioned phone call with a potential beau/lover/whatever that made me do it. I can’t blame the wine; I’ve been drunk plenty of other times and never told my secret.
We also brainstormed ideas of how to meet.
I’m in completely uncharted waters. If he and I never meet he will have this blog address. If we meet and amazing things happen he will have this blog address. If we meet and things go in the shitter he will have this blog address. It’s a scary thought.
Who will I be here knowing that someone who doesn’t know me all that well is reading my innermost [and ugly] thoughts I share with no one but the faceless, nameless internet?
I’m feeling a dozen things right now, but one of them is not regret. It feels good to not have a secret sex blog for once.