In which I fail to shut up

What a crappy day… still, I think I’ve gotten through this indecision. I know what’s going to happen next in the short story I’m publishing this weekend.

Kathy’s World hasn’t sold a single copy yet, which does not in any way surprise me, though I really wish I could see the damn statistics on how many people viewed it at least. I’m tempted to make it free for a day, to see if I can get some feedback on it.

Such is the price of effectively leading a double life, I guess. I have to do this on my own merits, not on the back of my other work. I wonder if it’s worth it. I wonder if I should pay the price of being a known erotica author instead, and having my family and my friends know that I write about sex for a living.

I’m not really ashamed of it – okay, maybe I am, a little – but my bigger worry is that I have business contacts. I have professional circles that cannot be allowed to know. I can’t run the risk of losing all that just because I want to write about sexytimes for a living.

It sucks so much that I have to do this. It sucks that sex is still such a goddamn taboo that I can’t just be a writer of sex without it being an issue to some people. It means, dear friend, that you will never really know if I’m telling the truth or if I’m telling a convenient story to hide something that could identify me. It means you’ll probably always wonder which parts are lies, and which parts are real. It’s all a bit tragic, when you think about it.

But there is a positive side to all this.

We all wear masks. No, stop shaking your head, silly – we do. All of us. I’ve met one person in my whole life who lived without one, all the time, and they were a strange and rare individual. Everyone else makes do with masks, of various kinds, and they are never really themselves. That’s because being yourself is terrifying. It’s like walking naked into a room full of strangers. We fear that anyone should know who we really are, on the inside, as if that knowledge will be used against us.

It’s all just psychological games, though. Come here, and I’ll tell you the secret: nobody wants to admit that what exists behind the mask is different from the mask itself. The mask is the acceptable face we show, the one that lives up or down to expectations. No one wants to say that their inner self, composed of all the things they shouldn’t think about and all the thoughts they can never say out loud, is vastly more startling and interesting. Someone might judge them, then, for ‘being weird’, and we can’t have that.

But everyone only knows the mask. They don’t know the person behind it. So here I am, on the Internet, blogging under a name that didn’t exist two weeks ago… and I don’t need a mask any more. I have no identity, no history, no reputation to protect. I’m already writing about taboo subjects. What do I care if I’m judged for that? Me, someone without a face?

Alright, I think I’m boring you. Blame Harry Harrison’s death today, it’s hit me harder than I thought if I’m wandering off into ‘maudlin drunk’ territory. Let’s get back to the fun stuff.

The new story will have oral sex in it. I have decided that this will be so. No, not a blowjob – the other kind. Why? Because of reasons.


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