Why I Will Never Write About My Sex Life On The Internet

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I Will Never Write About My Sex Life On The Internet

I could be having a Pure Romance convention up in my bedroom, and you'd never know about it.

If the Internet is really, really great for porn, it's also great for spilling the details of your sex life. The internet is full of ladies sharing a blow-by-blow of their latest sexcapade, or recounting on their sexperiments, like all those people doing the nasty every day for a month and then reflecting on it.

You can read about ben-wa balls, and vaginal steaming, and fifty shades of S&M. If you can dream it, they've already done it — and want to tell you about it in narrative prose. Sex sells.

But I'm not going there.

Sure, I'd get a bunch of hits writing about the time I broke my dildo, or how I spiced up my life by dressing as a deviant Catholic school girl. These are both theoretical, because there's no way I'm spilling my sexytime across the Internet for all to read.

I might keep a Mr. Rogers body pillow as a sex partner and you'd never know, because there's no way would I tell the internet about it.

I won't kiss and tell. My sex life is, in theory and practice, my husband's. He would die if I told strangers anything about his man parts, the performance of said man parts, or performances in which said man parts were conspicuously absent.

He'd have to consent to me spilling the details on whatever happened between us — and he's not going to do that. And just imagine having someone you love write about your sex life without your consent. No bueno.

What else is no bueno? Strangers getting off on my sex life.

Certainly, there's a fetish for everything, and some poor soul gets their jollies reading Buzzfeed's hair care tips. But the closer the topic to sex, the more likely someone's going to jerk off to it.

If I write about how I had sex every single day for a month, or why I think clitoral stimulation is necessary for female orgasm, the likelihood of someone jerking off raises exponentially, and that just creeps me out.

Speaking of creepy, I have three boys. The oldest is already learning to read at an exponential rate. It's one thing to read about your mom's ten tips to drag your toddler out of the gift shop without buying anything; it's quite another to read about the time she and Daddy decided to try some good ol' wife-swapping.

If my kids will read my stuff one day, my parents currently do. (Hi, mom. You already said you won't even read this, so I can imagine how much you'd want to sear out your eyeballs if I talked about pruning my lady garden for maximum fun time.)

The same goes for my in-laws, only they'd be reading about their son's hairy man-parts. Thanksgiving would never be the same.

We also have to be careful talking about sex. As I mentioned, we have three boys five and under. 

Clearly, we know what we're doing in the baby-making department and if we talk about it too much, we're just showing off.

Most people already consider our brood and its timing just short of vulgar. Writing about the various horrifyingly intimate and ultimately banal reasons for the timing and frequency of said brood is just too much. You could argue we're taking it back. But mostly, we'd just look too horny.

I also don't know what I'd write about. We're very boring. Is that writing about my sex life? I'm veering into oversharing here, but trust me: it happens in the bed, without fifty shades of anything, often with the lights off. No one wants to read about that.

But mostly, I don't write about my sex life because I don't want to be The Girl Who Wrote About Her Sex Life.

You know the woman who got the vaginal steaming? She's now The Woman Who Got Vaginal Steaming. Her friends see her and think, she shot hot steam up her vajayjay. Not close friends, either ... like, casual acquaintances. Imagine the conversation:

"Oh, you're a writer! What do you write about?"

"Well, for my last piece I shot hot steam up my vagina and wrote about it."

That might fly if you're a performance artist or a New Yorker. I live in the South. My vagina's place is in its panties, and unmentionably so. I'm not interested in fighting that political battle.

So, the internet will have to live without the salacious details of my sexcapades. That's a shame since sex pays so well, and I could use a new refrigerator. But I've got kids and moms and husbands and a career to think about.

I can't risk it all to overshare the top-ten favorite names for my vagina (number 6 is Clarence).

I need to have a Thanksgiving conversation that doesn't involve askance looks about my latest word-smut. 

Even if it would be sort of fun.


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