I have been writing this blog for a long time. Around her someplace is a short introduction about how to read this blog. It clearly states that you should believe what you would like to believe and that the rest of it is fiction.
Recently some totally unnecessary shit blew up in my face over two lines in an adventure. The two lines in questions basically said “I flirted with a friend of mine. We did not fuck.” And then his wife started freaking out at him, then he called me, and then he put his wife on the phone so she could flip her gasket in my direction.
Obviously you have mistaken me for someone who gives a shit. I am not a therapist and I am not someone who is going to dance in circles to amuse your wife. No!
At first I was like ‘sure I’ll pacify your wife and delete the two lines in the sentence’ but then she goes rooting through my archives to discover something that I wrote about someone she thinks is her husband only to unearth some dusty old blog post that I forgot I wrote. I write a lot, I don’t remember what the hell it said. I have no time to rip though my archives and look for shit. I assume that people read my blog for entertainment, not evidence. I’m certain that I changed the names of people involved in my antics. I always do.
The highlight of my little visit with my friend was that he was the only person I saw who didn’t have a bunch of drama attached to the meeting. Nothing went wrong, or at least it seemed that way until I sobered up. I guess I should have taken that as a sign. The encounter in question was not worth the free cup of coffee. I could have had coffee by myself and none of this drama would have appeared. Clearly my friend is not keeping his wife happy.
Some people should not read sex blogs. If you know me, if we are friends, if we fool around, if you might get upset about seeing things on the internet that we have done STAY THE HELL OFF MY BLOG. This is not a blog for the timid.
Please bitch, you are not my problem. You want to know what happened? Ask your husband. He might tell you that we had a cup of coffee together — cause that is what happened. I always assumed I would be the other woman but I assumed that I would get laid in the process. I didn’t get money, I didn’t get dick. I got a free cup of coffee with a massive side order of bullshit.
Rattling around in my mind is the question of writing about things that have happened, writing about things with people who might be upset, or outted. Is it ethical to write about things that have happened in your life? Yes, it is! All authors use material that they generate through real life experience to enhance or inspire their writing. This is how it is done. Anasis Nin did it, Hunter S Thomson did it, and so do I.
But what if my writing hurts someone?
Well you know, there are people scattered through my life who constantly tell me not to do something because it could hut my future. I opted out of making hard core porn when I was living in LA because it could damage my future in the entertainment business. I am reminded on the regular that being in the sex business could hamper my career in academia. I am warned and hushed and told to be silent by so many people who claim to have my best interest in mind. Except they have failed to notice that I am a gobshite! A big mouth! A loudmouth! I will not be quiet.
For hundred of years people have been telling women to silence their voices. I am not in the mood for this. I quietly write my blog, sometimes telling tales that you could never believe happened, sometimes telling tales where you think you see yourself. I’m pretty sure that the folks who read this blog like it. I get a small amount of fan mail and a smaller amount of hate mail. I used to get a lot of hate mail for the things I did, but then society began sexualizing everything. With the rise of sexually explicit culture the people who previously wanted to spew hate in my direction began to have more and more targets, so now I barely register a bleep on the radar of the morality police. But I continue to tell my stories. I continue to have amazing adventures and craft them into stories, that you can either love or hate. Whatever you do, please do not ask me to delete them, to make them available for a private audience, to cease to share them. Doing this is asking me to curl up and die under a rock.
You want to know if my stories are real? If I would take down a post? What REALLY happened (as thought there is some innate kernel of truth that overrides all other things that could be conceived as having been real)?Ask your husband what happened and then choose to believe him or not. I don’t give a fuck. Clearly your relationship is going through some bullshit. This is not my problem. I have some of my own problems, do I call you and try to make them your problems? No, I don’t. I keep them to myself or I tell my friends, family, or a motherfucking therapist. This is how things work.
If you think that for a second I have time to deal with your nonsense, that I care about this, that I give one solitary fuck — clearly you are mistaken.