I’ve spent the last two days looking at the weird and the ugly sides of a year of sex blogging. Today, nothing but the unalloyed good.
1. I’ve had such a lot of fun opportunities this year. When I write on nearly a daily basis about sex, I’m always looking for sex to write about—if that makes sense. For the last twelve months, when faced with the choice of, hmm, what shall I do this afternoon, go looking for ass or sit around watching Earth 2 on streaming Netflix?, I’ve been more likely to leap on the chance of a sexual encounter than to sit around on my ass. There’ve been plenty of times when I’ll do something sexual—follow a guy into a restroom, for example, or hook up with someone I might ordinarily perceive as way out of my league—simply so that I could write about it for you guys.
I know. My journalistic dedication to my readers’s happiness is nothing short of breathtaking!
Writing has made my readers reach out to me for hookups as well. I had a handful of those throughout the year and loved every single one of them; there’s something very sexy about connecting with a guy who knows that I’ll be writing about him afterward, and that I am very probably composing the entry in my head as I screw him. Hearing his reaction afterward, when the entry is posted, is also quite gratifying. If I have a goal for the next year, it would be to have even more of those kinds of encounters.
I can’t overlook, however, the other sorts of opportunities that arose over the year because I blogged so well. I had a blast writing for a week in a study that might see publication later this year. (I can’t divulge details yet. We’ll see what happens when the book comes out.) And the good people at the really excellent and Anal Magazine solicited a story from me for the pages of their high-quality publication.
2. I’ve written about things I’ve never addressed before. When I started writing A Breeder’s Journal, I thought I’d have several topics that would be forever off-limits. One of those untouchable topics I breached almost immediately with my Mikey posts; the issue of my sexual assault I tackled mid-year. I've been writing about my relationship with Earl in a way I'd never before contemplated.
Like many assault survivors, I made the assumption in the weeks and months after the incident that if I didn’t talk about what happened to me—if I never mentioned it or recorded it in my diary—that the silence would gradually elide it from memory and history alike. Unfortunately, that’s not what happens. Maintaining hush over something so heinous doesn’t erode its harsh edges. The vacuum only preserves them in all their lethal sharpness.
Writing makes one brave, though. It really does. It gives one the confidence to address what should be unspeakable, to reduce to human proportions what might feel overwhelming and out of reach. It sorts out the jumbled. When an incident is so terrible and wicked that the person involved seems almost an incidental character in an unstoppable tide of events told coldly and without feeling, writing and becoming the narrator, lets one take control of the story—and one’s life—once more.
I’ve known these things about writing, all along. I’d never before thought to apply them to my own experience with assault. I’m glad I did.
Here’s something I haven’t confessed in public, before. A couple of years ago I thought I’d learned my lesson about blogging on difficult topics. On another, more mainstream blog that I maintain, I’d written a longer series of pieces about the awkward and abortive attempts of mutual seduction between my sixth-grade homeroom teacher and myself. They went over, I was dismayed to find, like a lead Hindenburg. Oh, the humanity. I stumbled away from the wreckage convinced I’d never write about any adult topics ever again . . . and look what happened. I spent a year writing in a public space about almost nothing but.
3. The people. Hands-down, the single best reason to keep blogging. Making the acquaintance of so very many good, smart, funny, strong, handsome people has been my greatest pleasure.
Over the last year I’ve made new friends from all walks of life and from all over the world. A few of you have become very close; although we might not have met in the flesh, I still think of many of you as very good friends.
I’ve always been somewhat astonished how very open and kind is the vast majority of my readership. In my comments you often astonish me with your insights and your praise, even as undeserved as I think it may often be. (This is not, by the way, an attempt to fish for compliments.) When I receive emails from readers with unexpected gifts—by which I mean your good wishes, your unsolicited photographs and videos, or photos of your asses—I’m always touched and moved, and feel a little bit like a giddy kid on Christmas morning. When some of you have reached out with long emails containing your entire life’s history, or with questions or heartfelt sorrows and troubles, I’ve felt overwhelmed by the responsibility of it, but touched and honored by the esteem that it betrays.
My readers are great people. Not everyone always agrees with me. Not everyone indulges his sexual whims in the same way I might. Almost all my readers read me thoughtfully, however, and respond with respect, understanding, and with consideration to the opinions I throw out on a daily basis.
I couldn’t ask for anything more beautiful than that. I honestly couldn’t.
Despite all the weirdness of the last year, and all the ugly moments that made me wonder about the futility of it all, the good stuff is what keeps me returning to my keyboard, day after day. The good stuff is thanks to you guys, my readers. The good stuff is you guys.
All I can do is thank you for a great first year, and hope that we can keep it going, together.