I mis-titled it, implying that my reasons might be those of others.

I’m sorry.

Many bloggers told me that I hit their motivations on the head; many others told me I have my head up my ass. And still more told me that I’m right, and that’s why they’re not sex bloggers (these people all have what I think anyone would agree is a sex blog, thus leaving me a bit confused, but whatever).

In any event, I apologize: I engaged in an interesting exercise, but described it poorly.

For the sake of clarification, here’s what I did: I read a bunch of other bloggers’ blogs. I asked myself, while reading, “Why is this person blogging? What does s/he want out of this?” And then, I turned the mirror on myself and asked if what I imagined I perceived in the motivation of others might be among my motivations. In every case, if I was honest, the answer was yes.

Now, this could be because I’m a projective powerhouse, because all I need is another person on whom to project my own motivations to see myself clearly. It could be because I’m utterly typical. It could be because I’m unusually self-critical (or honest). Or it could be something else.

My instinct is that it’s somewhere in between all of these: that in some instances, my perceptions are spot on; in others, not so much. But in all, my honesty trumped, and I admitted that, whatever the source of the motivation I imagined I saw, I couldn’t deny that the same motivation is present in me.

So let me back off, from the big claim I made in the title, down to an incontrovertible claim: these are my motivations, and they are the motivations I perceive, imagine, invent, when I read the blogs of others.

If you’re a sex blogger, I’m not saying you are a sociopath, or a braggart, or an exhibitionist. Only you know your motivations.

But I’m curious: if the ones I listed aren’t yours, then what are yours?

But here I sit, in a room filled with attractive women, trying to work, and the word “talent” is bouncing off the insides of my skull.

There’s the demure brunette to my left, in low-cut khakis and a green hoodie, with a solid six inches of olive flesh between the top of the pants and the bottom of the hoodie, her thong (pink) peeking up above the pants. Her right ear has a diamond stud near the top of it, and her hair is scrunched into a ponytail at the top of her head and off slightly to the left. She looks tired – her green eyes are heavy-lidded. She’s not wearing make-up. If I had to guess, I would say her first language is Italian.

And then, before me, about twenty feet away, a black-haired beauty, almost the opposite. Her hair is arranged neatly in a topknot, with bangs hanging just so over her left eye. Her eyelashes, long, have mascara on them. Her nose is angular, her skin, bright and clear. She wears an elegant scarf and understated lip gloss. Her pink silk top is stretched tight across her breasts, and her short skirt reveals her athletic legs under the table on which she is writing.

Behind me sits a red-headed beauty, in a short denim skirt and tight cotton top. As she lowered herself into her chair, it was hard to decide where to focus – on her cleavage, on her legs, on her crotch, on her ass. (She’s at almost a 180-degree angle to me – all were possible.)

All this, and I have work to do.

In which you exist for my pleasure. And you’re mine.

In which your senses are heightened. And they’re mine.

In which your arousal is guaranteed. And it’s mine.

In which your orgasms are plentiful. And they’re mine.

In which your pussy is wet. And it’s mine.

In which your whole body pulses. And it’s mine.

In which you exist in the space between scared, excited, curious, desperate. And amused. Because serious is a serious turn-off.

And….

I demand from you compliance.

Do what I ask.

Don’t ask “why,” don’t say “no.”

Be honest with me: I want your compliance, I don’t want your complacency, or suffering.

When what I do makes you wet, I want to know; when we’re nearing your edge, I want to know.

But….

Trust me. I won’t take you (too far) past that edge.

Shall we?

9) We’re exhibitionists who get off on revealing in public what usually is private.*

8) We’re attention whores.*

7) Writing about (our) sex gets us hard, wet, off.

6) It lets us participate in a broader community centered on joyful, open love of sex.

5) We don’t know (any more) how not to.

4) We secretly (or not so secretly) think we’re better than all of you readers with your vanilla, mundane sex lives.

3) We’re genuinely proud of our sex lives, and believe the world benefits from knowing more about them.

2) We’re insufferable, self-important, ego-centric, narcissistic libertines who exist without benefit of either social filter or superego.

1) We hope it’ll get us laid (by our wives, husbands, partners, girlfriends, boyfriends, friends, or strangers).

*  Note difference between an exhibitionist, for whom the thrill is in the act of the revelation, and an attention whore, for whom the thrill is in the attendant interest s/he is shown.

I don’t know that I’m an expert on this subject, or that I necessarily have a whole lot that’s interesting or new to say and, if I were smarter, I’d set this up as a wiki, so others could join in, but here’s my attempt at a manual on how to successfully write a secret sex blog and not blow up your life or be a total dick:

1) How to successfully write…

Um, this part is either really easy or really hard, depending on one’s definition of success. (For the record, mine probably includes not splitting infinitives unnecessarily, so if I weren’t quoting, it would probably be “how to write a successful secret sex blog….”) But back to the question at hand: in my case, success has everything to do with me and precious little with you. This blog is successful if it captures my thoughts – particularly, but not exclusively, those about sex – and in so doing, makes me feel better for having aired them out. By that measure it’s a rousing success. It doesn’t have a lot of readers, couldn’t generate more than a few pennies of revenue if I tried that route, and hasn’t been noticed by any real opinion-shaping (or opinion-amplifying) web sites or writers. So by those measures, it’s definitively not a success.

2) … a secret sex blog…

Secret? Secret? Well, mine’s hardly secret. What it is (for the most part) is ringfenced off from my “real” life. Though some of my real life friends and family know that I have a blog, they don’t (to my knowledge) know that this is it, except in a very few instances. Where Hy has written extensively about a relationship she has with someone who doesn’t know about her blog, this isn’t my M.O. Though my real name isn’t “N.,” the lines between N. and his alter ego are fuzzy at times.

What is secret is that alter ego’s name. I’ve done what I can to keep that so – primarily because I have a wife and son, and would prefer that they not have to confront some schmucky colleague or friend saying, “I know who your husband/dad is.” Not out of shame, or embarrassment. Just out of consideration. If I were single, and had no kids, I like to imagine I’d have no compunction about having my name out there. Of course, given my own professional life, that might not be too wise, but that’s another story.

3) … and not blow up your life…

So this gets to the keeping it secret part. How to prevent folks from learning about my alter ego. Well, to a large extent, I think I probably rely on the kindness, respect, consideration and sanity of readers. Maybe this is unwise. I’ve done what I can to make it hard to connect the dots, but I don’t for a minute imagine that I’m smart enough to outsmart the smartest detective. So god forbid that what has happened to at least two people I know happen to me: that a troll become heavily invested in harming me, harassing me, simply out of misguided malice (or imagined benevolence toward another). This could happen, and I don’t imagine there’s a whole hell of a lot I could do in that instance, other than (I guess) try to disappear. Quickly.

It’s a funny thing, this sex stuff: it gets to people. Very intense emotions tend to be triggered very easily. And so I guess it is possible that one day, “a reader [could become] obsessed and track… [me] down based on the loosest of details [I had] shared… as a friendly gesture,” as happened to the author of “Creative Noodling,” the blog Hyacinth described whose author was outed.

4) … or be a total dick….

I think this might well be the key. It is my key: I behave honorably. Always. I try really hard to be respectful, polite, kind, to my readers. Everyone who e-mails me, I respond to; everyone who comments, I respond to (except very occasionally when a very regular commenter comments in a way that there’s no real response that’s appropriate other than “thank you for commenting on my blog”). If I’ve failed to respond to a comment you’ve posted, I assure you, it’s an oversight and not intentional. Maybe one day I’ll have to revise this policy because I receive so many e-mails, so many comments, but for now, it works for me.

And I am trustworthy. There are a fair number of women who’ve entrusted me with very intimate details of their lives. Sometimes, this has been in words; other times, in photos; others, in sound files; and I even have a few videos. I think people who read this blog closely know that I wouldn’t dream of sharing, posting, publicizing, or (honestly) even writing about any of that without the explicit ok of the person who provided it.

A quick example: just about a year ago, I had a one-night stand with a woman. We met in a bar. We went for a drive. She sucked my cock. We parted ways. We never saw one another again (at her wish). I sent her a write-up of our encounter that I proposed to post here. She replied, essentially, “Please don’t, and no thanks to another date.” Six months or so later, I pinged her one more time: “It’s been so long, I wonder how you’d feel if I posted it.” And she replied, “Please don’t.” So this woman, whom I’ve met once, who blew me off unceremoniously (admittedly after sucking my cock, for which I was, and am, quite grateful) didn’t want me to post the details of our encounter. And I didn’t. More than this. A year later.

I have a very simple policy: if I write about you here, I do my best to give you prior approval of anything I write, and if I fuck that up and write/post something without your approval, if you don’t like it, I pull it down promptly. (I’ve done that a few times.) I like to imagine that even those who feel I wronged them by something I wrote feel, at least, as if I handled that fuck-up honorably.

I wouldn’t dream of sharing anything intimate anyone had shared with me in trust, even if that person mistreated or hurt me badly.

I’m a strong believer in karma. Not in the popular “what goes around comes around” sense, but in the more traditional, “cause and effect” sense. I believe that behaving dishonorably results, usually directly, in bad outcomes. And behaving honorably, in good ones.

I have some considerable trust and hope that I’m right, that this blog – which is valuable not just to me but to at least some of you – is itself a positive contributor to the universe, and that, by virtue of behaving honorably, I buy myself an effective insurance policy against vindictiveness.

I hope I’m right.

She reads over lunch.

Her skirt is so short.

I’m ten feet from her. Her black boots reach just below her knees.

Where am I supposed to look when she crosses her legs?

I think I’ve cleared/cleaned it up, but I ask you, if I’m wrong, if you see a suspicious link, please let me know in the comments. (One clever thing these people seem to do is make the web site look different to me than it does to you, as well as the RSS feed and the e-mail delivery.)

Thanks.

I’m sorry, all. Suffice it to say, I don’t have any recommendations for where to get your payday loans (other than not to), and if it looks like I do, it’s because I haven’t yet figured out how to fix the problem. I don’t have a clue how to, yet, but in my spare time, I’m trying to figure it out.

Exquisite compliance.

“More. I want more.” This is what I think. This is what I always think.

I want to see more, to imagine more.

Fucking isn’t at all what is in my mind. What I’m thinking of is pressing my face into your panties, inhaling your scent, breathing in deeply, breathing out, hot-ly, so you can feel the steam in my breath on your clit.

Pressing my finger against your clit, through those panties.

Pressing my palm, hard, against you.

Pressing you up against a wall, shoving my hand down your panties, feeling you, feeling how hot, how wet, how fucking ready, your cunt is for me, shoving my fingers deep inside of you swiftly, hard, deep.

I’m right, aren’t I? I’m right.

You’re ready.