My perspective on blogging anonymously have evolved considerably in the five years I’ve been doing it. Originally I was so freaked out about being discovered I threatened to completely pull the plug on the entire enterprise. But then when I started blogging I imagined I’d spend quite a bit more time talking about personal experience and fantasies. When I started blogging I was a completely mild-mannered urban stay-at-home dad with children in pre-school, a pleasant marriage to a genuinely wonderful partner, a high libido, an almost overwhelming interest in not just the mechanics of sex but the history, politics, and social theory of it.

Turns out that while I suspected I’d write more about lust and personal recollection and the minutia of bodily intersection I’ve instead written far more about assumptions, stereotypes, policies, and practices that either stand unnaturally in the way of bodily intersection or else unnaturally drives demand for those intersections beyond our natural desires.

When I started blogging I imagined mine was an extraordinary sex drive and an ordinary interest in the sociology of sex. Over time I’ve learned that my sex drive is actually ordinary (in the most marvelous sense) but that my interest the politics and sociology of sex, gender, and relationships is not at all usual. So while I still mean to remain semi-anonymous, and while I even think it’s a good thing to at least begin one’s blogging career anonymously if the topic is one’s sexuality and relationships, I no longer intend to be reflexively closeted about it.

The following is my original “why I blog anonymously post,” written about a month after I first launched this site.

Via Welcome to Alyssa:

"When a man sweeps you off your feet, he is in a perfect position to drop you on your butt" – Heather W.

I don’t blog anonymously to protect my reputation. I’m not particularly shy about sex, my occasionally torrid but generally ordinary past, my ill-informed opinions, or even my poor spelling and worse copyediting. If it was just me I’d use my real name.

Instead I try to stay anonymous so that I can talk about people I know without betraying their trust. I might not mind letting the world know that many years ago I once slept with a former Junior Miss America runner-up and her best friend, but I don’t know if she, let alone her friend, would appreciate me letting the world know that she slept with me!

Actually we only slept — just snuggling, just good friends, no sex, not even kissing. Most of my personal stories are similarly tame so it wouldn’t be the end of the world if someone figured out who I am. Most of the time. I do have some touchy friends and former partners. And occasionally I have something more personal to talk about. (I’ll get to that in a second, I just want to finish this explanation before I do.)

Anyway, because non-solo sex by definition involves other parties, and because I wouldn’t feel comfortable discussing them without their permission, in ways that made them identifiable, I’ve adopted this little figleaf of plausible deniability. "Yes, that does sound like something we did." "That’s quite a complement but I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else." That sort of thing.

If it’s really important to know who I am you could probably figure it out. To make it even easier, if you really wanted to know you could probably email me, tell me why, and I’ll just tell you. But to protect the privacy of innocent bystanders I’d prefer that you didn’t.

Now where was I? Oh yeah, the introductory quote.

I have a very old friend, someone I care quite a lot about, who’s always swept off her feet and then dropped on her ass. She loves the sweeping part. Mad, passionate flings with hopelessly romantic men who shower her with flowers and poetry, who spend days together in bed with her, who leap tall buildings and swim raging rivers for her, and… well, who are generally too good to be true.

And they’re not. They’re not all bad, in fact most of them have been pretty great. It’s not that they drop her so much as they finally fall, but no matter — she lands on her ass. But nobody human can maintain that level of intensity forever. Eventually comes the fall, and for all its predictability it’s painful. Not as painful to watch as to experience, but painful no matter how you look at it.

I’ve done that too, a couple of times. Been so swept off my feet, or with someone I’ve somehow swept off of hers. Those are the ones that have always hurt the worst.

All in all I prefer a slow steady burn. A long term relationship that starts out slowly and builds, where you have time to form realistic expectations rather than mad, self-reflective impressions. Ones where infatuation passes and you’re still interested in them and, equally important, you’re still interesting to them.

I know my friend is lonely. Actually I know a lot of people who are lonely for similar reasons. I know you can have it, just like I know some kids grow up to be basketball stars or astronauts. But to pin your hopes on that, to pass on long-term relationships with someone who’s good enough because you’re still waiting for the perpetual-motion-machine man… I don’t know, it’s just hard to watch. It’s even harder to watch over and over and over. Hardest of all to hear them say "I know, I ought to know better, but… when I’m away he doesn’t sleep, he just writes song after song about me…" over and over again.

Magnificent, yes, but is it love if it can’t last?