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.