One of my sex goals for 2020 is to be brave enough to flirt and to see if putting myself out there on dating apps can lead to good fucking. To share something that will surprise no one, I have a high libido and would like regular sex. However, when I’ve come to draft profiles for these dating apps, I’m left wondering if I should out myself as a sex blogger.
Content note for brief mention of rape threats and sexual assault.
My sex blog is a huge part of my life. A year ago I joked that my blog was my primary partner, and I was in a relationship with it in a way that I couldn’t see myself being in a relationship with another person. Now, of course, I’m in a romantic relationship – though my enboifriend still knows that my blog is a significant part of my life and patiently lets me talk about my plans, projects, and posts.
My partner knew from the start who I was – wearing a Doxy t-shirt tends to out you as a sex nerd. I’d already met one of their other partners at Eroticon, so by the time we met up for our date the next day they’d found my twitter. I didn’t mind: I am proud of my blog, for one thing, but I also trusted them. We had met at Smut Slam after all, where I’d sat cross-legged and wide-eyed as they talked about their first time doing knife play, so I they already knew I was a queer, kinky perv.
But as a woman it’s not always safe to out myself as a queer, kinky perv. It’s not always safe to tell people that I’m a sex blogger.
That’s partly why I blog under a pseudonym, of course. My anonymity is important to me, even though I’m introducing myself as ‘Quinn’ more often in queer, sex-positive spaces. I introduced myself to my enboifriend as Quinn, foolishly hoping that they’d be into the outspoken feminist Quinn sometimes finds it easier to be than I am, but – more importantly – trusting them not to abuse that information.
It’s not easy being a woman on the internet – let along a queer, disabled woman, let alone a queer, disabled woman who talks about sex. There are rape threats in my DMs – though I’m lucky because there’s not many. People give me unsolicited advice of course – especially about my vaginismus – but I don’t get many unsolicited dick pics. I’ll have folks who reassure me that they would be up for hurting me lightly not realising that beginning their message with “at the risk of being creepy” doesn’t reassure me at all.
Do my potential partners even need to know that I have a sex blog if we’re having more casual sex? I think that ultimately they do, because writing about my sex life is something I do almost daily and I’d need their consent to write about them. Maybe not for a one-night stand, if enough time had passed, but I even when having casual sex I like intimacy, and I want to fuck someone someone with whom I feel comfortable being vulnerable.
Vulnerability is a double edged sword, of course: opening yourself up to someone you’re fucking can lead to amazing, intimate sex – but they can also hurt you. If I’m honest, I’m less scared of getting my heart broken than getting sexually assaulted… or outed as a sex blogger. So I shouldn’t tell them, right?
But I want to write about sex – and kink and feminism and sexuality and gender and dating – full time. Sex is important to me. I once went on a first date where the enby I met for coffee was confused and surprised when I brought up sex. While I hope I didn’t make them uncomfortable, I am glad I brought it up before things went any further. At that time I was looking for someone who made me hot in an ‘I want to fuck you right now, pretty please’ way.
In fact, I’m still looking for that. I’m looking for that in a way I’m not looking to fall in love again. I don’t mind if I do – though managing a sex-blog side hustle, my mental illness and two relationships might be more than I’m capable of – but I’m not seeking it. It definitely matters that I fuck folks I like talking to, but when it comes to online dating, sexual compatibility comes pretty near the top of the list.
So when do I tell folks I meet on dating apps that I’m a sex blogger? I haven’t worked it out yet, and until I do I’m probably going to err on the side of caution. I don’t think I want to give someone the power to look through a bunch of lewd photos I’ve posted before I’ve sent them a nude, which rules out telling them what my sex blog is called. However, I could mention that I have a sex blog without naming it… and I’m still hesitating to do that.
As important as sexual compatibility is to me, I don’t want folks to take the fact I write about sex as a reason to jump straight into dirty talk. I don’t want them to assume that I’m down to do any and all of the things I’ve written about here with them. I want to be able to take things at my own pace – even though the reason I’m making dating app profiles is so hopefully get to fuck more – so I probably won’t be telling anyone about my sex blog up front.
This is me taking a deep breath before jumping into dating – let’s see how many people get to know I’m a sex blogger, shall we?
This year I’m joining in with January Jumpstart, which is run by the brilliant Violet Fawkes. Click on the badge to see how everyone else is starting their sex blogging this year.
Vulnerability is hard, y’all, and it would mean a lot if you could support my so I can keep baring my soul on the internet. If you liked this post, please consider leaving me a tip so I can keep my blog running and keep bringing you my confessions and sex stories in 2020.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.