So I wanna be a sex blogger.
I have this idea in my head that I can be a sex blogger. The kind who writes about glamorous adventures and awkward moments, who demystifies chemistry, and who makes fulfilling experiences more accessible. I have this belief that I can lay my own life out on the table, observe what’s happening in the world around me, offer a nice thoughtful layer of analysis and perspective, and make everything a bit hotter as we go.
Some people think I already do this. Some people think I’ve been doing this for years. But it’s new to me.
The truth is: sex is scary and complicated. It’s hard to get right, and it’s layered with all kinds of emotional landmines. There are things we can talk about that are completely benign, and there are conversations that will rip me open and leave me wrecked for a weekend. There are topics that will prevent me from ever running for a government office (it’s a good thing I have no interest), and there are stories that would embarrass people I care about. Sex is all over the place, and it’s loaded.
I can tell you what I’ve been doing for years. I’ve been telling my story at microphones and in literary magazines. I’m a regular at a sexual storytelling event, telling ten-minute hot adventures on stage for a delighted drunken audience. I had a Craigslist one-night stand once that started a 3-year relationship, and my account of the night is published in detail in a book. I co-hosted an open mic for the queer community for four years and helped others find their voices. I’ve spoken at colleges and told stories about messy sex, intertwined with stories about how to stand up in your own identity and be real with the people around you. And I created a growing online collage of people doing just that — being themselves in the face of a world that tells them they should do otherwise.
But what I haven’t done this whole time — this whole fifteen years that I’ve been blogging and speaking at microphones — is blog about sex. Not publicly, anyway.
Because sex is scary and complicated.
But who we fuck, how we fuck, and whether we choose to fuck at all does matter. The configurations of our relationships and our identities within them show us a lot about who we are, what we care about, and how we relate to the world. Our attractions teach us about ourselves, and asking for what we want is a powerful thing. (And when those attractions and wants aren’t what we want to want, it gets all the more interesting). Negotiation, consent, and exploration are all skills we can develop through sex and apply to the rest of our lives. These things matter enough to talk about.
Recently, I had great sex in a five-diamond hotel after a day at the spa followed by front-row seats to a Cirque Du Soleil show in Las Vegas. The pillow-top bed was so soft that it felt like a cloud trying to swallow me whole. I’m going to tell you about these things because they’re fun, and because Kyle has a lot of great knowledge in his head about how to travel like the “1%” on a modest budget. His goal is to share that knowledge.
But my goal isn’t to brag about hot hotel sex. If I slide into that position and stay there, please drag me out of that bed and kick me (or use a nice riding crop if you’ve got one), because that’s not why I’m here. My goal is to talk about how important it is for us to listen to our bodies, and how incredible it is to break through our own “safe” walls to find what we really need to feel connected and fulfilled. I want to share the messy bits and the hard parts as well as the victories, and to shine a spotlight on smart people who have other good things to share. This is a hard thing that scares and excites me, so I want to give it a shot.
And if it doesn’t work out, well, then you can find me back at the microphones. Cuz I guarantee you, they’re easier than the Internet.