The last guy I dated loved that I was a sex writer. Initially, I didn’t give him my blog name and when I did, it was under one condition. I asked him to not check me out on the internet or read my stories. The deal was that when I was ready, I would read the stories to him.
And after a while, that’s exactly what happened. It became quite a fun thing. He would come over, we’d open a bottle of wine and I would read. He loved it. It was a little bit kinky and a little bit sexy. He pretended to be horrified that I might write about him but really, it completely turned him on. As long as I never mentioned him by name.
But writing about sex can make dating difficult. It can make it hard for a man to trust me. And it can also make it hard for me to trust a man.
Because once he knows, he’s going to go and find every single story I’ve ever written. Every single one.
He’s going to read about my possible penchant for sex toys, the handcuffs I may keep next to my bed and my feelings about anal sex. He’s going to know how many men I’ve slept with and how many I’ve wanted to sleep with.
He’s certainly going to know more about me than I know about him.
In fact, he’s going to think, as he reads this, that I’m sitting on my bed in my French underwear, laptop on one side, lube on the other.
He may be right.
And there’s only one way to find out…