Very little here will be smutty today. If you only read for the kinky fuckery, try this post instead.
It’s been a while since I was both real and unsexy. I’m always real here, even if it’s a fantasy, because I’m not very good at fiction. And I try to be sexy about everything, especially since time and life only allow one blog post a week — and hopefully you’ve noticed which day I never miss.
But real and decidedly unsexy? It always feels the most authentic and leaves me feeling the most vulnerable at the same time. Like all my sensitive spots on are display, stinging from the contact with air and sunlight. It’s terrifying and necessary, all at once.
I almost quit blogging last week. Podcasting, too. Done. Over. Move on. Walk away. Can’t do this anymore.
The question has come to mind before — do I give up on the sex-blogging-as-a-career dream and focus on what actually makes me money? It’s something I consider every so often. Normally, the thought of quitting is rejected before I can fully form the thought. A visceral rejection, unfathomable.
For the first time, it was a viable option to be weighed and measured. But I still didn’t want to give it light and sunshine, in case it grew and became reality. So instead, as these things do, I let it fester in my head, looming larger, becoming scarier by the second.
I shut down, keeping everyone out. Even John Brownstone.
To say the thoughts out loud would give them power and meaning, make them real. Somehow I convinced myself if I talked about it, I would act on it, and I didn’t really want to — at least I think I didn’t or I didn’t want to want it. Even though it held an allure that I can’t pretend to ignore.
No more agonizing over every word.
No more feeling like a failure for all the things I don’t do — the content not published, the conversations not had, the general “stuff” not done that feels important in the moment.
I’d no longer feel like I couldn’t keep up, like I’ll never actually meet this goal, and like it’s a fantasy I’ve built in my head. The self-imposed pressure would be gone.
But so, too, would the connection. Knowing words can change the world — my words. The utter delight with the right turn of phrase. Controlling my life (as much as any of us has control), knowing that whatever success I find along the way comes at my own effort.
The striving and hoping, the planning and dreaming, the struggling and the triumphs — there would be no more of that if I walked away.
Talking to people, sharing, existing in the world in a way that I can’t (don’t want to) do in my vanilla life.
Of course I didn’t realize any of this until John Brownstone got me to talk about it. The first few words were a struggle, as they often are, and then they poured out. Every fear. Every worry. And all my hopes and dreams.
Once I said it, there was nothing left to fear. Saying it didn’t make it so, and admitting that I’d hit a brick wall didn’t negate everything I’ve done or everything I want to do.
But I am exhausted and overwhelmed. And yet, also hopeful and (as always) filled with ideas and plans. But today’s plans are more about how to better navigate this weird life I’m trying to build and less about all the things I haven’t done yet.
P.S. Yes, I know everyone goes through this and yes, I know, I’ll be fine.
Welcome to Masturbation Monday. I’m genuinely sorry this wasn’t smutty. We had sex this weekend, in a haze of cough medicine and prescription-strength Flonase so still not very sexy but still sex-ish. For the actual sexy stuff, you know where to go.