I have a secret sex blog that won’t be secret for much longer.

Twenty-six months ago, in December of 2011, I started this blog.  I was alone, heartbroken, sexually awakened, lustful, sad, hopeful, terrified.  I was wild with passion to mask my pain and I used men and my body to slake the thirst that oozed from me morning, noon, and night.  I was quite a sight.

For a year prior to that fateful day in mid-December a typical week would consist of 2 or 3 dates with different men.  Sometimes I would sleep with them, sometimes I wouldn’t.  I would dress provocatively, yet tastefully, allow a spaghetti strap to fall and absent-mindedly pull it back up.  I would lean in close and listen to their every important word and hide behind their disclosures, then put my hand on their knee, in control and flirty, filled up and never fooled.  I’d dip into their mouths or fall onto their cocks with abandon.   Happy, distant, very busy.

In my despair I was able to create a space of comfort and control.  I was distracted in a productive, healing way.  I did what I needed to do unapologetically.  I met good men and I met some lousy ones, but they all were a brick in the wall around my heart.  Until one day, I didn’t want to lay another brick.  I froze my acquisition spree and held 4 men in my  hands: Phillip, Kevin, Jason, and The Neighbor.

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My journey to blogging isn’t a mystery to me, though it may be to all of you.  When I was married and a stay-at-home-mom I blogged.  And when things began to change I blogged then, too.  It wasn’t until I was about to move out of my marital home that an important man I’d met online, Big Tex, suggested I write about sex, too.  And so I did.

He encouraged me to use my words in titillating absolution; he supported my silly endeavor and encouraged me to keep going when I got shy.  He helped me find my new voice, one other than that of mother.

It was a different blog name back then with very different characters, but what I discovered was that I rather liked reliving my wild trysts with Troy and others.  I switched blogs once more to better reflect my new life and kept on writing, but I had made the mistake early on of sharing my writings with Troy and Lina and others who weren’t as safe as Big Tex, so as things became less pleasant for me I found my outlet not my own.  I had made the fatal mistake of sharing my blog with people who knew me.

I shut down that blog and was creatively homeless for 2 months before I couldn’t stand it anymore.  Writing had stealthily welded itself to my marrow over the course of the previous several years and not writing created only more blackness inside of me.  It was this darkness, this need for connection, discourse, and creativity that drove me to start writing again.  I finally had to admit I was a writer.

I switched blogging platforms to WP, found a title that very much matched my behavior and feelings over the previous 12 months — A Dissolute Life Means… — and promised myself to not make the same mistakes regarding disclosure that I had with my previous blogs.  It would remain a secret, my ego forever in check, my drunken desires for confession squashed dead at arrival, my need for approval a private matter.

Two weeks prior to this decision, I met The Neighbor.

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I had no way of knowing that 2 years later he and I would be in love.  Or that he would be my very best friend.  It started out fun and surprising.  He matched my passion, appreciated my humor, and did things to my body I thought no one could.  We assured each other it would only be a friends with benefits kind of thing, but a handful of months later it began to unravel when I stumbled upon him on a date he had kept secret from me.  That night was eventful: I realized I loved him and I “met” Noodle for the first time.

A few more months and more heart-wrenching longing later, he left me for a woman I called 4 am girl (f.k.a. Pisspants for you longtime readers).  That, he says, is when he realized he was in love with me.  But because this is a tale of two flawed people, he kept it to himself and dated her for 6 short, but agonizing weeks.

In the months following 4 am girl we hobbled along.  I was still certainly in love, but furious with him for hurting me.  I was also confused, embarrassed, happy.   Yet again a big, fat hot mess, but I kept on.

I couldn’t break up with him, though I’d tried numerous times.  Our connection and proximity made it impossible.  And frankly, I didn’t see the need.

We spent more time together, learned to communicate better, and embarked on a different power dynamic that made something in me sing and we lurched yet another step forward, blind as newborn kittens but compelled to grow nonetheless.

As my anger faded my guilt rose regarding the blog: should I tell him about it?

When I was angry and we were clearly not in a relationship it was an easy answer: it was none of his business; what would it hurt?  But as we grew closer I began to question the ethics of my decision, so I battened down the hatches to safeguard my privacy and our identities.

I purchased a VPN for both my computers and my phone; I made a secret email account; I paid for StatCounter which I keep secret; I got a secret PayPal account; I refused prizes that had to be mailed to me and asked for gift cards instead; I’ve deleted browser tabs with the blog on it before I share my computer screens with TN; I opted out of opportunities to broaden my network in person via sex blogging conventions; my computers were set to save zero history; there is no auto-fill in their search boxes; I’ve avoided social media which I might accidentally get mixed up with my own real life personal ones, so I don’t do Instagram or FB as Hyacinth or Twitter as “me,”; I’ve painstakingly deleted all my copyrighted photos so as not to accidentally give away my URL; and lastly I have made up an association with a friend (Noodle) so as to not have to explain how she and I met, as well as with various other characters in my life who’ve come and gone into my personal realm (Gillian and Ella to name two who are no longer with us in our blog-o-verse here).

I never lie outright to TN, but there is a lot of omission going on.  I think I told him I met Noodle through my blog, the assumption being the retired one.  I never clarified, but left it up to him to be curious.  He never really was.

But all of this won’t matter if he feels betrayed.  I wouldn’t exactly blame him, but I hope he can forgive me and get on board.  If he feels betrayed, then I have to own that and figure it all out.

I’ve also come to believe that TN might actually be a little flattered by all of this and maybe — maybe — even a little proud of me.  I have grown my stupidly wild life and tales into a little tiny community of brilliant, open, loving, sexy people.  I’m kind of proud of me.

I can’t begin to fathom how he will react.  It’s just another unknown.

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I told myself months ago while wrestling with this secret that I would tell him if he ever told me he loved me, because in that instant it would change the scene from me brokenly pining after a man who wasn’t interested in me to me loving a man who loved me back.  I would now be accountable for us, not just me venting solo on the internet.  He would deserve to know.

In a strange twist of emotions, I can’t wait to tell him.  I want to show him Boobday and have him meet all of you.  I want him to see how I see him: beautiful, intelligent, sexy, kind, loving, quirky, funny, complicated, and above all else worthy of all my efforts and affection.  I wouldn’t be who I am or where I am today without his influence.

I want him to see the journey, how I’ve gone from fearful to daring with my heart and gone out of my way to let him tell me his story in his own way and never speak for him; I want him to know that even though he might feel that we have few real life supporters, we actually have a small army of them here.

I used to say that I knew he loved me, but would never hear the words slip from his mouth.  It is pure paradise whenever I hear it now.  Of course, I still don’t know what the future holds, but then again I never knew, so I haven’t lost a thing.

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I’m not sure what my goal is in revealing my secret blog to him other than the basic sense that it’s time to move on to the next phase of this whole thing.  I trust him with my life, why can’t I trust him with this?

I know that some of you are adamantly against me revealing this blog to him and to you folks I ask to what end?  I doubt I’ll blog here forever or even for a decade, but my relationship with him may last as long as either of those times.  I have no way of knowing.  And my blog, as important as it is to me, is not more important than my relationship with him.   Writing, on the other hand, is different.  I will always write, just not necssarily about the details of my sex life.

Having said all that, I am still afraid.  My hopefulness has its limits and I fear I will lose him, but the clock is pushing me: the longer I wait, the bigger the secret.  I have to do this.

I’ve never presumed to know what he is thinking or feeling in the past and so I’m not going to start now.  I must be brave and patient.  I will tell him and I will wait for him to show me his cards.

Maybe he’ll be holding the King and Queen of Hearts.

 

 

I sound like I’m gloating.

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What I’m about to say may come as a surprise to you: Sometimes I get sick of myself.  I sound like I’m gloating.

Particularly when I look at my Chronology page.  Here I am writing about and documenting nearly every sexual encounter I’ve ever had over the past 3 years* and they’re all all, “Oh my god, it blew my mind!  I cried and he was huge and it was A.MAZ.ING!”

I cringe now at the long list, but when I started this blog I really just wanted a way to keep track of everyone I was screwing.  Now it just seems self-congratulatory.

But that list, and the content of this site, is deliberate.  First of all, it’s all true (yep, go ahead and hate), but second, I can’t write about anything else.  Not the other parts of my life or what else happens between The Neighbor and me because I’m trying to not to be the worst person in the world.

So, what does that leave me to write about?  Well, honestly, all the really great sex I’m having, and I suspect it’s similar for most sex bloggers out there.  Others wrote about this one-dimensionalness recently and it certainly resonated with me.

My new life since leaving my marriage has been documented from day 1 and I don’t want to give it up.  The Neighbor was just going to be another notch on my belt.  He wasn’t supposed to become a great love, but he has and here we are: he’s my main character in a really steamy romance about two semi-kinky people who can’t get enough.

I protect him and his anonymity by only writing about our sex.  Go ahead, lambast me for my contradictions and ongoing betrayal, but don’t worry, I’m my worst critic.  I’m president of the Hyacinth is a Deceitful Shit Club.

It just so happens the sex is pretty fucking good.  And I like writing about it.

That leads me to this: Does this ever get old for you?  Because it totally does for me.  Post after post saying basically the same thing: Hy got the bejeezus fucked outta her.  She’s in love.  She’s really happy.  Yay, her.  Blah blah blah.

Would it be better if I told you about how every once in a while I get bored with our equation of cuddles + erection + missionary + ankles on shoulders + orgasms + hitachi + more orgasms?

Well, it’s true.  Sometimes I do.

The point is, that even though I write about having a shit ton of really amazing sex I can still feel blasé about it, even a little bored.  I’m almost eager to tell you this because it makes me feel like less of a gloating asshole.

On the last occasion I was feeling antsy about our sex I mentioned it to him and we both laughed at my ridiculous critique.  “All I’m really saying is let’s do more and different positions like we used to!” I suggested.

His response was something along the lines of, “If it’s not broke don’t fix it!  But ok, we can mix it up!”  I was grateful he wasn’t taking it the wrong way and with a grain of salt.  He was sweet enough to take me seriously, but also laugh with me.  It’s highly likely I was also slightly hormonal and a little out of my mind.

Then, as if to prove a point, he took his erection, shoved it inside of me with him on top, brought me to the point of boiling over, hoisted my legs up and hitched my ankles on his shoulders and brought me to a couple of swirling orgasms before he then lay on his side, still buried in me, and handed me my Hitachi for a couple more orgasms.

His winning remark when we were done? “Now is that really all that bad??”

I laughed and shook my head, but said, “Yes, yes it was!” instead.

The next night he did me doggy-style and I logged it somewhere on this blog as, “Yet another amazing night of sex, ohemgeeeee!” But I hope you now know it’s only because I won’t write about the other parts of me and I don’t want to bore you with the lame stuff about my ridiculousness.

I’m not bragging or trying to make you feel bad about whatever, I just lucked the fuck out this go around — big time — and I’m a writer who needs to write, so here I am detailing yet another night of the awesome sexy time for all to see.

I promise I’m not really an asshole.  I just don’t have anything else I want to write about.

*though this blog is only 2 years old, it covers the previous year, as well.

My political career is ruined: I have too many tit pics on the internet and a secret sex blog

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I read something recently that made me sit up straight. Liza, a fellow secret sex blogger, relayed her experiences behind the velvet ropes of writing about a private sex life for an anonymous audience. She wrote for xoJane about the stress of having a secret sex blog and the pressures to share nude photos (emphasis mine),

The easiest way to get more [traffic] meant traveling a path I resisted. There is tremendous pressure on women sex bloggers to show our bits to the world, to prove we aren’t hideous hags, and to fuel reader fantasies. I’m no prude, but we all have limits, and sharing naked pics on the internet is mine.

On one hand, I proved sex blogging can be sexy without sharing naked snapshots. On the other, I suspect some in the sex blogger world never took me seriously because I refused to take off my clothes. I’m glad I’ve never posted nude photos, and I’m glad the people who do take me seriously are the people who appreciate what I write. I’ve saved countless emails and comments in which readers share how my writing moved them and helped them evince a change in their own sex lives, and that feels amazing.

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First, I don’t feel pressure to expose myself because, by nature, I am an exhibitionist. Call me slutty, trampy, easy, whatever, but the fact remains, I enjoy showing off my body for no other reason than the thrill of it.

My traffic is the same whether I post nudie pics or not. In fact, some of my most-commented-on and/or popular posts are image-less (Sometimes, I want to shut it all down, I fucked a stranger. While blindfolded. And I was watched., He takes me for granted, and I know how to squirt) or rated PG (Holding my breath, Please excuse my vanity, and Neither of us could resist), therefore I feel as though exposing myself is entirely my choice, not something I have to do to feel taken seriously or to increase my traffic.

And second, I suspect I am no less respected or shown less interest from the sex-blogging community because sometimes I choose to keep it wrapped up; some of my favorite blogs on the planet use only their words (You Linger Like a Haunting Refrain, Leah Lays London, Theo Black, and Story of Alice).

I share my body with you, the world, most simply because I can and want to. It’s naughty, it’s dangerous, it’s exhilarating, liberating, and a big, fat turn on. It may also come as no surprise that I need the feedback.

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What I get from posting pictures of my body is a sense of self outside of my own head. I see who I am to others reflected in comments and positive words and a passionate kiss from a man who was lucky enough to see the pixels of me earlier that day on his phone. I admit that this is an unconventional approach to a self-esteem, but it works for me.

I reject the notion that I must be all I need to myself, that I should feel beautiful and desirable all on my own. I believe it’s a personal equation for all of us of self and other. It may be that my “other” is a bigger portion than your other, but I’m ok with that. It’s working for me.

I am hanging out to dry every last stitch of my dirty laundry and it is cathartic, titillating, and never-endingly fascinating work. It feels natural to be this open. It’s who I am. Therefore I share my body, in part I suspect, because I am an “attention whore” as N. mentions in his Top 10 Reasons Sex Bloggers Blog Sex. Perhaps that’s the easiest way of categorizing myself — I did just admit to needing attention, after all.

N. could be onto something:

9) We’re exhibitionists who get off on revealing in public what usually is private.

8) We’re attention whores.

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Which brings me to a larger issue in general about exposing oneself online: it is regarded as negative, full stop.

I have used the words “attention whore,” admitted to knowing I may be regarded as “slutty, trampy, easy, or whatever,” and it is implied that I may not be taken as seriously as a real writer because I remove my clothing.

Keeping our bodies hidden from public view is culturally normal in most industrialized countries, but we’re not “culturally normal” here, are we? We read and write about sex when we’ve been raised to believe it is a private act between one woman and one man.

Current cultural mores of our time mean we never express ourselves outside a hetero- monogamous cisgendered norm — or the bedroom — but around these parts, that’s not what we are and it’s certainly not what I am. I am a bisexual, relationship-flexible, sex-positive woman, writer, and exhibitionist. And I show lots of T and A.

I find it odd that a politician can survive sketchy political behavior, even illegal, but if his penis is found on the internet, he is ruined. I shudder to think what would happen to a female politician in a similar situation. She would be labeled “whore” (as if that’s such a bad thing) and every smart, intelligent thing that ever came out of her mouth would be ignored in the shadow of her naked tits because we are uncomfortable with anyone sharing their body with someone outside the confines of a bedroom.

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The message we’ve received about nudity is that it is bad.

It’s partly why I started the Boobday project, to show other people out there that sharing your body with others is a powerful statement of choice, power, and sensuality, that it is a compelling instrument of personal emotional change and acceptance and it doesn’t have to be regarded with such side-eye. It’s not trashy.

I am a size 12, have stretch marks and cellulite and I enjoy exposing my body to strangers. Why a person’s life should be ruined because they express sensuality via an image is completely beyond me.  And why nudity somehow devalues the work it resides next to also escapes me.

To all the politicians of the world, I say, “Just make sure the recipient is trustworthy and don’t include your face or any defining markers!”

But I respect anyone who chooses not to — it works for them — and even I am not so open and free as some. I have hard limits, too: I never show any part of my pussy or pubic hair.

I reserve that for trusted lovers only, men who have seen it with their own eyes. I need to keep something forever hidden from the internet’s prying eyes. I share so much with you all here, I need something of just my own and I have decided it’s explicit photos of my naked body, my vagina, in particular. It’s mine, not yours.

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Sharing naked images is whatever you make of it. For me, it bolsters my self-esteem and empowers me, delivers me attention I crave and provides a platform for discussion of body image, lust, and creativity. I feel no less a creative because I use my naked body in posts. It’s another level of expression, a different kind of art.

And I find those who choose to keep their bodies private for their own lovers no less delectable or interesting. Different strokes for different folks and all that. My only wish is that we could all feel wholly comfortable with our decisions, never pressured and never judged.

I’m curious to learn why others post pictures. Is Liza alone in feeling pushed to post nudity or am I the anomaly? The results will be skewed, I’m sure, since I participate in a fairly nekkid community of writers (and readers) these days. I wish I could put this out to the world at large to see what they would say, but alas, only a certain portion of the population would ever Google “How to squirt” or “I want to fuck my neighbor.”

[Ed. Note: I chose those snippets of Liza’s post because I didn’t relate to them at all. I don’t believe she’s deliberately implying anything about those of us who post pics, but it reads that way each time I go over her entire post.

I have no issue with her feelings about her own blog and herself in it; her piece just inspired me to clarify my own motivations for being such an exhibitionist and why I post naked pictures of myself.

I also wanted to make clear that I felt like my writing was strong enough on its own and that the pics are purely for my emotional benefit, not for traffic’s sake.

I think she’s a talented writer and she shares a rare writing point of view with a smaller number of sex-bloggers, but she certainly doesn’t speak for all of us — not that that was what she was trying to do.]

Sometimes, I want to shut it all down.

I am not trustworthy.

A trustworthy person doesn’t have a secret sex blog.  A trustworthy person doesn’t share elicit photographs of your body on the internet without your knowledge.  A trustworthy person doesn’t worry about being discovered and her life ruined.

Therefore, I am not trustworthy.

I live in a world of cognitive dissonance, supported by excuses and denial.  This is my outlet, I say, I need it I shrivel up without it.

I speak of things which I ordinarily keep hidden: my fears, my feelings, my lusts.  Here, as an anonymous voice, I am vocal about who I really am, not shy of my body’s quirky, leaky features and proud of my desires and the many words I choose to describe them.

This is my secret sex blog.  The sex blog of which I am at once wholly proud and deeply ashamed.  Who am I anymore if not a trustworthy individual?  Is this blog worth my integrity?

With the exception of this one thing, I am true to my word.  I never break it.  I never share information a reader divulges to me and I never break my own rules about disclosing my secret.  I don’t tell my real life friends anything about this world and I keep a controlled drip on my real life here.   I live firmly in both: my blogging universe and my real one.

I write because it is in my blood, but I chose this medium because I also need attention.  I am not afraid of facing that fact.  I don’t believe it’s a failing to need others.  Blogging allows me access to an ever-present IV of support, feedback, and creativity unlike anything else.  My real life friends have lives and are busy; I can’t always catch them on the merry-go-round of life, but here, here I can tickle a fish out of water.  It’s easy and familiar.  My readers are wise, my friends accepting.  I belong here.

I worry that what I need from life isn’t sustainable by less than a cloud of faceless names and words, that part of my wiring begets requiring an unreasonable amount of interaction and support.  Perhaps that’s the case and I will always rely on blogging to fortify me.  I don’t know.  I don’t know how this will all end.

It might end if I ever tell The Neighbor and he asks for me to stop.  When I began writing here I didn’t have anything to lose, no one had my heart.  I was recording a period of my life, but 18 months later, it’s become something much different.  It’s a living document of my love and relationship with a man who is innocent and who has never given his consent to be written about.  What’s the protocol for this??  I feel so lost. 

The choking weed of this fact has grown slowly, sneakily.  I didn’t fully realize it was happening until now, when he and I are closer than ever and I swear he says, “Hy, I love you,” in a look, through words, and his warm touch every time we’re together.  Those words would shatter my world of cognitive dissonance.  I would be unable to continue the lie of A Dissolute Life Means… if he admits to loving me.

I have played a game until now, telling myself it doesn’t matter that I do this because we’re not together, he hasn’t committed to me, I can do what I like because it’s my story, too, but those are the excuses that are built on bullshit.  And bullshit is loose and washes away.

I don’t know how he would react to discovering this blog.  Frankly, I don’t like to think about it.  I imagine it would feel flattering and a little special at first.  Then the anger would rise in him as he read all the minute details I shared, my petulant anger which seethed beneath the surface for months, my manipulations to seduce him, and the brute force of my unrequited feelings.

I would be horrified and embarrassed to my roots to be so exposed to him.  All my ugliness and insecurities, all my hopes and dreams, all my hesitations and complaints.  It would be too much.  I would die a thousand lonely deaths, hideous and bare.

And how dare I share a single photo of him without his consent?  I’ll save you the trouble of saying it: I know I’m an asshole.

Consent, which is so integral to what we do, has been absent from this blog.  Therefore, I am taking down all images of him effective immediately, even the ones that he said I could share on the internet somehow.  I will never share another image of him.  Perhaps it is possible to salvage some self respect, after all.

Becoming a blogger with even one reader has a learning curve and I’ve felt behind for some time.  There are no rules written, no How To Successfully Write a Secret Sex Blog and Not Blow Up Your Life or Be a Total Dick manual.  What do I share?  What don’t I share?  What’s  the right content for a fucking secret sex blog??

You may have been judging me for some time about this.  Well, thanks, but I’m way ahead of you.

My writing has changed as I’ve learned more about the pitfalls of secret blogs and my feelings have grown for my muse.  I’ve read numerous times elsewhere similar ethical uncertainties as a relationship begins, “Do I close my blog??  But I love it so much…”   Lots of wives have risked everything to tell their husbands of their blogs and some bloggers have just disappeared altogether, their reasons for leaving a mysterious whisper the rest of us pass along like confused school children.

When I became a sex blogger — and chose to remain anonymous — I relied on an unspoken agreement between myself and you, The Code.

I choose as wisely as I can which parts of myself to hold to the light and pray that no one will blow my cover.  I protect my location, the age and sex of my child, my profession, and all those same identifying facts about my lovers and friends.  My pictures hide identifying markers to the best of my ability and you only see ubiquitous doors and bathroom sinks, Ikea furniture that half the industrialized world own.  I hide my hair, the shape of my face, my smile, yet I bare my soul to you with the understanding that you know I know you know: if I don’t do it first, you can destroy me.

You could tell me where I live and what I do for a living.  You could find images of me on the internet and have them at the ready to spread around and connect to my sex blog.  You could steal from me the little world I have created here and I would be powerless to stop you.  But you don’t do that.

And in turn I protect you, your email addresses, and accidental uses of your real names here and there, blog addresses you decide you don’t want published after all, and you leave me in peace and take what I am willing and able to give and not one inch more.  It’s a beautiful, symbiotic relationship, one which is well-oiled in my corner.

But it doesn’t always work that way for everyone. Sometimes someone crosses the line and ruins a beautiful little world with one swipe.  There’s a galaxy in that drop of water you so carelessly wiped away.

It happened to one of our own recently; most of you miss her, too.  Her creative outlet ripped away because a reader became obsessed and tracked her down based on the loosest of details she’d shared with him as a friendly gesture.  She chose not to share his identity with us because she understands the agreement we have with you.

I pressed her to tell me who it was and she refused, citing her honor and integrity.

Being a secret sex blogger is a complicated, emotional endeavor.  I flog myself for my indiscretion, my betrayal of TN, my weakness for attention, yet I am pulled here like a riptide — to a mass of people who could destroy me — because of the friendships and creative-petting I find like a freshly tapped well.  All it would take is one individual to pull the plug on this, to freak out and be an asshole, and it would disappear as if it had never been.

It’s a dangerous dance, a dramatic play, a nail-biter, but a real live human being is behind this blog.  A terribly flawed woman, a woman of possibly questionable ethics, and attached to her are innocents caught in her narrative.  Remember that.  It’s not just me you would be unearthing, but them, too.

Goddamnit.  I am two halves living in one shell.

So what next?  Will TN and Hy ride off happily into the sunset with a signature post?  Will the blog go on indefinitely as Hy creates better rules and regulations for sharing?  Will Hy tell TN and he’ll give her his blessing?  Or will her world come crumbling down around her because eventually she was found out by a reader?  Her silly, dark needs driving her to never let go of her secret sex blog because it just all felt too good like another glass of wine, one more orgasm, or just one more minute, please, please don’t go yet.

Forgive me the frailties of my ego, protect me from myself.  I want to shout that I am better than all this, but clearly I am not.  I have no where to hide.  I admit I’m at a loss as to how to weave it all together, my blogging life and my real.  They seem so disparate, yet they are both me.  Sometimes, I want to shut it all down.  I am exhausted.

I’m afraid of my secret sex blog being discovered.

That’s me.

Look, here’s the thing: it’s a betrayal. It’s a betrayal of trust of everyone I’ve ever written about, even if all I say is that they shit rainbows and breed unicorns from their beauty and goodness. It’s a secret. And it’s wrong.

This sex blog thing is hard for me. I mean, really, really hard. My best friend on the planet doesn’t know it exists, The Neighbor surely doesn’t, no one. My career would be affected if it were ever connected to me and I’ve read enough horror stories about women whose broadcasted sex lives have destroyed their entire worlds to be appropriately leery. But here I am. Still typing away.

Last night TN and I had another terrific night together, like Wednesday night quality (I’m having a hard time deciding if the good parts of the roller coaster are when you climb up or when you get to fly down the backside). While chatting before attempting to finish Die Hard 3 (suckled breasts and hard-ons interrupted its completion once again) I mentioned a friend of mine who knows about our affair.

“You know, I thought we agreed not to tell anyone about us,” he said, his feet up on my patio table, crossed at the ankles.

“No, I just said I wasn’t telling anyone.”

“And I agreed to that. I’m a little upset that you’re telling everyone all of a sudden.”

You could have knocked me over with a feather. I’d had no idea. And until I realized I was in love with him back whenever that was, the only people who knew were my best friend and all of you. After that night I told two of my best friends from back home and then some colleagues whom I’ve become extremely close with. It’s roughly 6 people. I’d needed real life support to help me through the ordeal. However, the number of people who don’t know about him is far greater; some of the most important people in my life have no idea, people I consider family and this is what I explained to him.

“Wow, I’m really sorry. I had no idea, TN, truly. I’ve only told some of my newer friends; none of my closest friends whom you’ve met. Not R, C, C, J, K, S, L, C, D, A, Downstairs Neighbor,” and then I listed even more people in my life he’s met that are in the dark. “But I promise I won’t tell anyone else. I really didn’t know you felt this way.”

He seemed relieved. “Thanks, Hy. I really appreciate that. And I know you’re mad at me for not telling any of my friends.”

Again, a feather could’ve done serious damage. “No, not at all, I swear,” I concentrated on my face being as open and guileless looking as possible, “I know you wouldn’t tell them anyway and I really have nothing invested in that. It’s ok with me.”

“Really??”

“Yeah, it doesn’t matter to me.” His desire to keep our relationship close to his chest makes sense based on his personality. He’s extremely private, an introvert to the core, and he doesn’t share the most basic information with his “best friends”. I don’t see it as a reflection on me whatsoever, so before anyone wants to berate him for keeping us on the down low, don’t. If we were boyfriend/girlfriend, then yes, by all means skewer him for being shady, but this is a FWB situation gone slightly awry and I don’t go around shouting about those to my friends, either. He has a right to share or not share, as do I, and I’m comfortable zipping my lips from here on out.

And then I teased him about how this was the first time I’ve had to apologize to him about anything, “Yeah, this is the first time you’ve ever fucked up.”

“Yup, pretty much, I’m awesome like that.”

The conversation struck me deeply, though. If he didn’t like our friends knowing, then certainly he would be furious at discovering this blog. I would surely lose him.

On a personal level, discovery would be devastating. There would be no recovering from my dishonesty and betrayal, my sharing of intimate details of my feelings about him and of our sexual exploits, pictures of him. If my ex-husband ever discovered my writing I imagine it cleaving his heart in two to learn of my struggles with our sex life; he doesn’t know. I feel fraudulent at worst, merely shady as fuck on a good day.

I’ve thought about a 30 day TN Cleanse for the blog, but I’m not sure what good that would do. The posts are already up, Google’s archived them, you all already know about him. I’ve said before that I have two dead sex blogs (may they rest in peace) and the big lessons I learned there were to never tell a real life person about them: not a lover, not a friend, no one; and, if you’re not honest, then there’s no point. The lack of anonymity hurt my writing and stole the very reason for having a blog like this in the first place: freedom to be me in all my fucked up glory.

I’ve cultivated that very place here and I feel free to be me and express every little synaptic message, but the new discovery now is the toll: I’m paying in flesh and fear and guilt.

Professionally, if this blog were ever discovered I would take a serious beat down. I would likely recover, maybe even parlay it into something profitable (no, not like some stupid memoir about how my sex blog ruined my life), but the reveal would be humiliating. No one knows I squirt, can’t orgasm through sex, love cock, been double-stuffed. This isn’t exactly board meeting material. I could be shunned by the community or embraced. I’m not entirely sure and not at all desirous of finding out.

Most women lose their jobs, like she did, others are knocked around (I read an article a few years ago about a handful of female sex bloggers who all either lost their jobs or all their friends, but I can’t find it anywhere now). Writing about sex from a personal point of view just isn’t widely accepted. Not even close. Add in the author being female and it’s even less ok, particularly if she’s not writing about the hot missionary sex she’s having with her husband and one only partner of her life.

My point is that though I love writing here, I am still afraid. Afraid of being found out, afraid of hurting TN and my friends, afraid of the repercussions, yet I persist. Writing is in my blood, I can’t not write. After the death of my second sex blog I didn’t write for 2 or 3 months and I was lost, listless, unfocused. Deciding to switch to WP and start up again was by far one of the smartest decisions I’ve made recently; it’s connected me to wonderful, loving, understanding, challenging, sexy people. I’ve found a community of friends and supporters through this medium.

So, while I shake in my boots, I also turn my face up to the sun and spread my arms wide. I may be a target, but I’m a liberated one.