HomoTech:: Confessions of a Sex Blogger
"So what inspired you to start your blog?" he asked on our first date.
My mind began racing: How does he know about the blog? What does he think of it? I wonder which parts he’s read...
I undergo a moment of panic, feeling so exposed, but manage to recover quickly. Keeping a borderline explicit blog detailing my quirky romantic entanglements for the past year has taught me to embrace shameless self-exploitation. So, after swallowing the terrible piece of sushi I’d ordered, I look him directly in the eye, and - owning up to my work instead of blushing - answer.
"Well, all the guys I’ve ever hooked up with."
Confessions of a Boy Toy started as a convenient way to share my often-tragic, Casanova-like misadventures with friends; before the blog, I used to e-mail them the morning after. From missing my flight in Paris after being invited to a threesome to getting locked out of my soldier-turned-paramour’s hotel room in Manhattan, my love life can be best described as a cocktail of catastrophe, fizzy right up to the rim.
Fact or friction?
All the entries were inspired by real men I’ve met over the years. Real relationships, some short, some even shorter, but nonetheless, very real. Of course, I took the liberty to dramatize specific details and conversations, but the emotions at the time were genuine. At least mine were.
Over the course of a few months, my blog evolved into something more personal. I began seeing patterns, a trajectory in the narrative, and learning more about the strange world of one-night stands.
And it left me craving more.
A boy toy is fun to play with for a while, but ultimately he’s something easy to dispose of. And when two toys play together, it’s often hard to differentiate who is using whom. It was a game I eventually wanted to stop playing.
Too big to fail?
Meanwhile, as I was realizing the downsides to the blog, Confessions of a Boy Toy began gaining traction, at about the same pace- and young guys from all over the world started writing to me. Most of them were attracted to my lifestyle - what Ivy Gate described as a "2(x)ist-wearing commitment-phobe (who) loves to have international sexcapades."
Some fans were teenagers beginning to tread the waters of dating and asking for earnest advice, which I never felt adequate giving-out considering how blind we all are swimming in the matters of the heart.
That said, I’m not going to lie: the attention felt good. It felt even better that guys in Iowa and North Carolina could identify with my struggle to shed the label of disposable boy toy and find permanent, flesh and blood love. But what I lost is more valuable.
Imagine Googling a guy you’re set to go on a first date with and stumbling upon a vault full of firsts dates, sparing no detail, regardless of how humiliating or erotic. Imagine every one of your romantic flounders, regurgitated and narrated to a fault. I learned a lot about the man I was becoming, but so did thousands of readers at a time when perhaps it was best to go through this in private- to have the space to really learn. In the end, an online diary does more self-harm than public good.
Confessions of a Boy Toy became a magnet for guys who were more interested in the allure of being written about than a relationship; they wanted to read what I did to their pair of briefs they left at my place after our hook-up. (I once tossed my boyfriend’s boxers out of a 42nd story balcony right before I broke up with him.)
I’m sick and tired of playing with toys, posing with mannequins, fighting with robots running out of batteries. I’m done with empty words that fall short of telling the whole story. I want my love to breathe. And I’m not going to find that if I keep writing about failed first dates.
I used to be a boy who was hard to read; now my every word has been plastered online. I think it’s time to stop typing and sign off.
If any of my former flings happen upon this, I’d like to say thank you- and I’m sorry. You’ll have room to tell your side of the story now.
And as for the mystery man who discovered the blog (thanks Google!) and had the balls to call me out on our first date? Well, he didn’t run away as I suspected. We went on a second date and then a third. And sometime after that we stopped counting.
"When I first found the blog, I definitely had my doubts," he confessed several weeks later. I would’ve brushed me off too, worried that I was just fodder for some blog about to blow.
But he wasn’t fodder.
"Will you write about us?" he asked. I told him no. But I could. I could write about his obsession with Batman, how I love sleeping in his "Sex Ed: It’s Not TMI" shirt. I could write about our fights, our reconciliations, our episode with a bottle of Purell. I could write a whole book. But this I’d rather keep between us.
"Besides, you’re not interesting enough," I added with a smile.
He blogs here.
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