Today’s guest blogger has a moving and pretty heartbreaking story about relationships, privacy and sex blogging. It’s a really powerful, personal piece and it touches on a lot of things that I have worried about as a sex blogger, and that I suspect many other bloggers in similar situations worry about. She also talks a little about her relationship – which has a DD/lg dynamic, using the honorific ‘Daddy’ to refer to her partner, similar to the kind Cara Thereon wrote so beautifully about here a few weeks ago. If you’re likely to find that triggering, please don’t read on, but if you’re curious about it she’s kindly included more links to other bloggers who’ve written about this sort of play, so you can find out more if you’d like to.
I bet sometimes Clark Kent wants to punch Superman. And I know this because I would happily punch Girl on the Net if she weren’t also basically me. I don’t hate her all the time, or even most of the time. But right now I hate her. And this is not the same thing as self-hate: it is richer and deeper and more intense. A purer kind of hatred, because GOTN isn’t me. She isn’t even real, so I can revel in the delicious satisfaction of hating her in the same way I can hate Voldemort.
When I introduce myself to people, I use a different name. I have quite a few – I like them. One of them I wear so often it feels more comfortable than my ‘real’ name – I wrap it round me like a blanket, and it makes me feel safe.
Unfortunately, one of the questions I’m asked most frequently is: “is that your real name, though?” Like somewhere deep in my heart there’s a secret and special name, and the people I’m speaking to will be elevated above the status of mere acquaintance and into, I don’t know, God, if they can determine what the deep and immutable truth is. Problem is, knowing my real name doesn’t give anyone special powers, it just gives them a fact. And hand-in-hand with that fact comes a fairly big problem for both of us.
When I first started blogging I decided that anonymity was the best way to go – for a whole host of reasons, but primarily employment. We still live in a world where talking about buttsex on the internet and holding down a job at a company that gives a shit about your social media life is, if not impossible, at least tricky. As time wore on, there were more reasons, and then more. Recently, Kilted Wookie wrote a post about anonymity on his sex blog and it got me thinking about a lot of stuff. The primary thing was that there are far more reasons to be anonymous than I’d considered when I first began.
I am really excited about this week’s guest blog, because it is written by the brilliant Zak Jane Keir, who I met at Eroticon and who gave me all the sexy shivers with a short story about nerdy dice, strip games and blow jobs. She is a writer and editor who has been involved with erotica for over 20 years. She has written countless articles (for magazines such as Penthouse, For Women, Swingmag and Desire) short stories and several novels, both as Zak and as Sallyanne Rogers. She currently runs the Dirty Sexy Words erotica slams in South London. You should check out her blog (which is on hold at the moment but there are plenty of past entries) and follow her on Twitter, as well as buy some of her lovely smut.
Today she’s here to talk about something very close to my heart – the ethics of taking photographs at kink/sex events, and how to do it without being a massive arsehole.
The internet is a dark and dangerous place – it hides far more of your secrets than you think, and with infinite time even a monkey at a Mac could collate a dossier of your drunken, mis-typed shame.
So why put more of it out there? Why start sex blogging, and wash your torn, jizz-stained knickers for the world, his wife and your mother to stumble across when they’d rather be watching the iPlayer? Why write not just a few blogs about love, Valentine’s Day and HuffPo’s shockingly bad advice on dating but the more sordid things too? Piss-play, swinging, getting spanked by hot boys, etc. For many people the idea of posting sexy things makes their blood run cold, but I’m obviously happy to do it, and here’s why:
Everything you do can be watched, recorded, put online, commented on, mocked, and forgotten next week. Your nearest and dearest might not be able to follow you into a swingers’ club but there’s always a slim possibility they’ll be sitting in the back room, cock in hand, when you show up. Everything you do has an element of risk. Send me an email? I could copy it. Take a picture of your dick? Someone could steal your camera. Have a wank on a train? Those electronic door locks might just fail as a horrified fellow commuter walks in for a pee. You take calculated risks every day.
OK, so writing down my exact thoughts on masturbation, and the majority of my past sexual history might be an unnecessary risk. The problem is that the benefits – being able to be open and honest about things, share stories with people and have them share theirs with me in return – feel like they outweigh the risks. As with everything in life, it’s a judgment call. Risk getting diseases from a hot guy because you haven’t got any condoms? Fuck no. Risk letting my parents find out that I like to do dirty things? Hell yes. The absolute worst that could happen is that they find out a bit more about me than they want to, and what’s a freaky sex life between blood relatives? They’d be more upset if I had a drug problem, or a terminal illness.
Why are we so much more worried about people knowing the sexy secrets of our life? Why are we supposed to be ashamed? These questions are rhetorical – I know why we’re supposed to be ashamed. It’s because sex is gross, it’s freaky: it’s something that women in particular shouldn’t admit to a need for. It’s a tool for advertisers to make us purchase things and a currency with which we might want to buy affection but it can’t be something we enjoy just for the hell of it.
The thing is, I’m not ashamed – I tell people. Probably more people than any of my partners think. I tell people because I’m proud, and horny, and because shagging two guys at the same time is one of my life’s happiest moments. I tell people because every now and then I get high-fived. I tell people because sometimes the boys I’m fucking like me to whisper stories in their ear.
If we’re talking about shame, I’m more likely to cringe when I remember times I’ve lied, or deliberately hurt people, or growled at tourists who stand on the wrong side of the escalator. Over the past 29 years I’ve done many things that are cruel or stupid or misjudged – things that have upset complete strangers, made friends miserable, or hurt the people who care about me.
With all that sadness sitting guiltily on my shoulders, why would I ever be ashamed of the love?
I wrote this blog to explain the subtitle of my book – My not-so-shameful sex secrets – because really, given all the awful things we humans can do, sex is a hell of a long way down the ‘shameful’ list. Here’s how the book begins.