I have more stories to blog about now than ever before, including the early days when everything in the gay world was new and exciting and confusing. I’ve got stories of drugs, sex and rock & roll (and I’m not just using a famous phrase, I mean that). There are porn stars and sugar-daddies. Three-somes and bribery. Complicated relationships. Infidelity and HIV. Celebrities of all stripes. Travel, jealousy and family issues. Dating drama, money woes, and health concerns. Fabulous parties and once-in-a-lifetime experiences. Funny predicaments and substance abuse. New hobbies and new vices. Friends and happiness and a lot of gratitude. And, of course, LOVE. And loss.
If I do say so myself, my life is really interesting now. And it has all the elements that would make a good blog. Plenty of moral dilemmas about which y’all could opine (and slam me and my friends, as you do). Plenty of learning experiences for the young ones. Plenty of craziness through which others could live vicariously. Plenty of variety and room for growth. I regret that I’m not writing it down so I can remember it when I’m old and boring.
But every time I feel like sitting down to write something, which is often, I think about all the people who are reading it. And it’s not that I’m becoming a more private person, or that the stakes are higher (for me). It’s just that I don’t feel like I’m in control of my story any longer. I always made calculated risks in what I wrote, because almost no story is JUST about me. There was always a slim chance that I’d offend somebody in real life. But lately, every time I make that calculation, it isn’t worth the risk.
Part of it is that a small but increasing number of the cast of characters whose lives intertwine with mine DO have a lot to lose. I can’t tell some of my best stories because they’re also their stories, and I’m not about to be that guy who tips off TMZ. For example, a couple months ago, [____] admitted to me that [____] had [____], right after they [____], which is a pretty damn far cry from the Jesus-freak he portrays himself to be. And it’s a really fucking hot story, too. And just last weekend, I had this FANTASTIC story about [_____] and [____], wearing [____] and [____], naturally, since it was Halloween, getting walked in on by [_____], of all people, while we were busy [_____] in a [_____], just after I [_____]. And just a few hours before that, [_____] came within inches of [_____], not to mention [_____], because he was [_____]. It was all very exciting and sexy and extremely funny, and my first thought was to come home and blog about it. But it’s not really that funny with all the details beeped out, is it? No, it’s not. At all. Even I’m annoyed when I use [____], which is becoming increasingly common. It’s not that I couldn’t disguise things enough that you couldn’t guess. But if it ever did get out, I wouldn’t want to have to explain to my friends why I told the whole world [____], even in a disguised form.
But that’s only a small fraction of the stories that don’t make it here. I guess, for the most part, it’s that I don’t want to have to explain myself in real life. I’m not ashamed of anything I would write about, because I’m not ashamed of anything I’ve been doing. But back in the beginning, I knew I’d never have to answer for it. It’s one thing for tens of thousands of strangers to get a laugh about some masturbation mishap, or whatever I used to write about. It’s another thing to have somebody bring it up at dinner. And even the knowing glance is more than I want to deal with.
If you keep a diary, you’ll understand. You wouldn’t particularly care if some random guy in Indonesia who you’ll never meet reads it. But you wouldn’t want your friends reading it, even if it were totally vanilla. If you thought they might, you wouldn’t write very much. You want to control the release of information to those you love, not because you want to hide it, but because that’s how relationships are supposed to work. I want to WATCH my friends laughing about [_____] when I tell the story in person, rather than have them laugh in front of their computer when I’m not there. I want to explain to somebody how they hurt my feelings, rather than have them read about it as if it were a news story. Blogging used to feel like I was writing a private journal. Now it feels like I’m writing an email to my friends. And there are certain things you just don’t say in an email to friends.
Anyway, if you’re a new blogger starting out, my advice is this: NEVER reveal your identity. It’ll be the death of your blog. If I could hit the reset button and erase the memory of my blog from everybody in Chicago, Boston and New York, I’d do it, and then I’d write a lot more (wait, is there a way to do that? Can I block the IP addresses of whole cities?) I guess I could start over with a new blog, and try to build new readership. But that’s more work than I’m willing to put in.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not quitting. Every now and then I think of things I want to write about, and I’ll continue to do so. I guess I just felt like lamenting. It’s not what it used to be, and that makes me sad.
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