badinfluencegirl

there is something about writing a sex blog that seems almost inevitable. this long, slow slide from hot smut into sexual introspection.

at first you are filled with erotic tales of wonder and sex. this applies especially (i suspect) to people who aren’t getting any but probably applies to everyone to some extent or another.

you tell your stories and you get out your fantasies, not all of them but a few favourites and then the thinking starts. the thinking because someone says that you write about something a lot or because you notice that you attract a lot of a certain kind of reader.

you post a little about your life and you tell stories and you start a ton of stories and then you look up and it’s six months later and your blog is changing.

not everyone’s of course, dirty little girl (of dirty little mind) and dirty boy still write fantastic smut and not much about their real lives at all.

others like anastasia (of sexualite) have fantastic and horny archives and are evolving into people who talk about sex in a more anthropological way… and i can feel that happening to me.

i’m testing sex toys now (and oh boy is that ever the best sideline ever) and i’m thinking about sex in a different way. more analytical. i’m also, as chelsea so succinctly pointed out, narrating my sex life while i’m having it.

sometimes, i think i do some of the things i do *just* for my blog… and i think that’s awesome!

no, i really do. i’m historically a pretty repressed person and whether it’s the sexual peak bullshit actually kicking in (and if it is? hallelujah!) or the search for my sex drive or the pilates to reconnect with my pelvic floor and through my pelvis or the lover who is totally clear and rational and likes to talk about sex or…

you get it, there are a lot of factors at play here.

but i feel like this blog is an important one.

it’s forced me to whip out a lot of old and discarded sexual fantasies and it’s necessitated a look into the deeper corners of my psyche. i remember liking sex. i mean it was a youthful fancy for sure because i had no idea of the potential of the event but i liked it.

it was fun.

and i had an innocent exploration that went along with that sense of fun that i lost somewhere along the way. can i put a finger on which bad sex did that? which time it was all just a bunch of work and no reward that i lost that little sense of glee that my original nineteen point five year old self had when she tripped that boy she’d known for years.

or he tripped her, the truth is lost in history.

somehow writing about sex makes you think about sex, talk about sex, read about sex, have more sex. it’s amazing.

of course the flip side is that in the middle of the best orgasm you’ve had maybe ever you’re thinking ‘i bet i can work this into a story if i can just figure out how to describe it’ and that changes the moment. that infamous act of observation is at it again.

is the smut still there? oh yeah of course it is, every smut writer probably keeps it up somehow or someway for a long time even if they stop with their original medium. it’s just tempered now, diluted by thoughts and musings and the occasional tag to fill space.

and that’s not so bad right?

after all, if things don’t grow they die…