Two things this week is going to begin with a hilarious conversation I had with a website owner this week about working for free. Then, when that’s got you good and angry, I will cheer you up with news of a musical about vibrators. There’s also a bonus ‘good thing’ from Erika Lust, if you have an amazing idea for a porn film.

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Two things this week starts with a veritable treasure-trove of smut – the top sex blog lists. It’s that time of year when you get to nominate your favourite sex blogs, and nosily trawl through other people’s nominations to find more hot stuff to read. I also found a seriously weird and interesting piece of research on offensive British swearwords, so at the bottom of this post there’s a little analysis of which words are most likely to get you tutted at if you’re visiting the Queen for tea. Let’s go.

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It’s been five years since I started this blog. Which is fucking bizarre when I sit down and think about it. Five entire years of my life – that’s nearly 16% of my time on this planet – has been spent sex blogging. For nearly three of those years being ‘Girl on the Net’ has been my full-time job.

So this post might be a bit meta and involved for some of you, but for others who are either sex blogging already or thinking of setting out, I wanted to give you as honest an overview as I can of what 5 years’ of sex blogging looks like. The numbers, the lessons learned, the mistakes and the occasional successes. Here goes.

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Normally with ‘two things‘ I pick one good bit of sex news and one bad bit, so I can take the piss out of the bad thing and recommend the good. Instead, this week I have two things that are ‘good’ (Vaginismus Awareness Day and Fleabag) and as a bonus I have a teeny rant about a bad thing, which I’m burying at the end so you don’t think I’m a twat. Ready? Let’s go.

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I write confessional sex stories. Which is a weird thing to say because I’m not really confessing sins or expecting absolution. I’m just telling stories and expecting readers – if they’re kind enough – to click or share or stump up some cash for my books.

Confession is a pretty horrible word – drowning in centuries of expectation. It conjures images of the religious urge to ‘cleanse’ people of their misdeeds via exposure. Telling your stories so that others can judge you: shout ‘shame!’ as you’re paraded through the town. When you call it ‘confessional’, it’s a wonder anyone chooses to write stories about themselves.

But we do.

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