“Are you going to blog about me?”
In Sex and the Ivy’s heyday (2006-7?), I rarely ever went out or hooked up with a guy who didn’t ask, “Are you going to blog about me?” Those who didn’t bother to ask were people with whom I had very specific arrangements (i.e. regular friends-with-benefits, which in my case, almost always refers to an actual friend, believe it or not) or people who I just didn’t care to inform about my blog (which includes some pretty strange flings like the three-week romance with the actor I met one summer in New York). Yet despite the frequency with which I heard it, I never ceased to be surprised when a guy asked the inevitable question.
“Why in the world would you think this is noteworthy enough an experience to write about?” I used to think out loud.
Most of the time, the accounts on my blog were of regular fucks, reliable fellows in my arsenal of men, “friends” I suppose you could call them. The qualifier “regular” really doesn’t mean much here. Sometimes, I didn’t see a guy for a series of weeks, and if I pined after them at all, it was never for very long (at least not after getting burned my sophomore year). In any case, I wasn’t exactly making editorial decisions based on the quality of the fuck or the level of my romantic interest in a guy. I was way more interested in figuring people out, which is why I preferred to stick to dissecting my boring, bland, and romantically-going-nowhere fuck buddies. They, at least, I could relate to in a semi-pleasant manner. I realize only in retrospect that my inability to sustain interest in most men outside the bedroom then was probably the first sign of my now full-blown misanthropy. Whoops.
And nowadays, the only thing I blog is my dog’s bowel movements.
