Let’s talk about writer’s block. A more twisted and diabolical condition I know not of.
Nine months ago, I began a little experiment. My husband and I decided to open up our marriage, and after friends, neighbors, and coworkers failed to fall naked into my lap, I decided to give a few of those dating websites the old college try. I made profiles on many and varied sites, not even sure what I was looking for. The possibilities were endless, it seemed, and I wouldn’t know what or who would tickle my fancy until it was presented to me. I met a few people this way, chatted online, exchanged a few emails. Soon, I found myself entranced. I had happened upon what I wanted, and believe me, I was more surprised than anyone by what it turned out to be.
I’ve been writing a series of novels for the past few years, filled with every fantasy my demented little mind could come up with, and yet I didn’t see the forest for the trees, the ultimate fantasy upon which the whole first book is based: my main character falls in love with two people, and doesn’t feel the need to choose. Yes, dear pervert, I have taken a sharp right turn off of Swingers Street and ventured onto Polyamory Avenue, with all its bumps and potholes, as well as its sublime view. I’ve fallen for a married couple, and I know that sounds kind of strange; at one point I would have raised my eyebrow, too. But I’ve come to realize that for me, it’s the most natural thing in the world. I’ve lucked into three beautiful romances, and it just feels right.
Anyway, because I can’t make anything easy for myself, the relationships I fell into are not only precarious and mind-blowingly complex, but also long-distance. And so we have turned to our good friend, the interwebs, for much of our communication. I’ve written letter after letter, day after day, month after month. And with Dionysus especially, I have created a very comfortable space to express my thoughts in writing. A safe place of perfect acceptance and appreciation.
And then I turn to Scratch. Like a wide gaping maw, teeth sharp as razors, the void of the Internet demands to be fed more, more, that my words might be chewed up and spat out, or just disappear into oblivion, never acknowledged. And I shrink from it. My writer’s block is a knot of anxiety in my stomach.
I’m sure you understand that it is difficult for me to expose my perversions in a forum like this. Most of the time I can walk around without a care in the world and be all: oh, I have a piss fetish, la di da. But this post has been a long time in coming, and it’s been hardest of all for me to write, letting you in on this part of my life. It’s sometimes a little too easy to think of this space as a diary, and so I overcompensate. I remind myself constantly: there is a remote possibility that what I say here could adversely CHANGE THE WORLD: my sexy talk devastating downtown Tokyo, like Godzilla on MDMA.
What? It could happen.
But also, I know that what I say here could vanish into the ether, words lost on the wind, to have no affect on anything. And I honestly can’t tell you which prospect is more terrifying for me.
I’m tired of making promises to you and to myself that I can’t keep. I want to write here, I really do, and I will endeavor to continue to do so. I will beat off this devilish block inside of me, and do it just as lasciviously as that phrase sounds. I want to continue to expose all my naughty bits to you, because it does thrill me oh-so-much, but you’ll have to be patient with me. What’s that they say? Distance makes the cock grow harder?
Besides, I think that by disappearing for two months, I finally figured out how to get comments out of you.
Image found here.