And why I’ve kept my own intimate life private, until now.
I had love affairs out of pleasure, and because I wanted to, and sometimes because I physiologically needed to. From my early days of longing for Frisco Jones on, I was ruled by lust.
I’d meet someone random — interesting, forbidden, unsustainable — feel that full-body lightning bolt, and think,Most of my girlfriends had sex to please their boyfriends and were faking orgasms . They were baffled by my blazing contradictions: that I was an inherently grounded and happy person — and also a highly sexual human. As if you had to be broken to be so horny.
And they definitely couldn’t grasp how someone as anti-marriage and sexually free as meI’d say. My sex life was my own. It wasn’t my job to explain myself to anybody. Sex was a wonderful part of being alive.
I genuinely could not understand anyone who thought otherwise. For me, there’s never been “Sex Diaries” without motherhood; there’s never been motherhood without “Sex Diaries. ” Growing such a sexually charged column during the years that I became much less personally interested in sex has been a mindfuck. Why did my sex drive plummet?
Blame hormones, sleeplessness, financial stress, single-mom-with-no-childcare overwhelm — the point is, I became a well-known sex writer just as my own desexualization began, and I’ve felt ashamed about it for years. On positive days, I tell myself that I somehow transferred all my heat and horniness to “Sex Diaries” and that’s why they’re so reliably great.
And that my innate understanding of passion and reckless abandon is how I keep the column 100 percent judgment-free — that I don’t need to practice what I know inherently. Or that the whole “Sex Diaries” venture never would have been so successful had I still been ruled by lust instead of responsibility. On negative days, I feel sad that slutty me is a ghost.
That she’s not here to say “yes” to the perks and invitations that come into my inbox based on the column’s success: VIP sex parties in Tribeca; nonmonogamous meet-ups in Malibu; DMs from gorgeous, horny people withsubscriptions all around the world. That she’s not running around the city dating sexy sociopaths and kinky people and couples to subliminally give the column more texture and shade.
Mostly, I just feel embarrassed to be another exhausted, touched-out, tapped-out, perimenopausal mom … if for no other reason than it’s so fucking boring and off-brand. When I formalized the “Sex Diaries” book deal two summers ago, I worried about exposing this side of myself somewhere along the way as it was published: the wet blanket, the dead fish, the “not tonight” type. I was anxious about whether my closed relationship with a man I love was in some way disqualifying. But I didn’t want to hide behind sex-positive obfuscations or lie that I’m still some naughty little minx.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from the 600-something “Sex Diaries” I’ve done, it is that authenticity is everything. I will love, defend, and protect almost all my diarists, except for the people pretending to be someone they’re not. . Everyone hates a phony.
The book’s publisher wanted to focus on nonmonogamy, and it was hard to disagree: Ethical nonmonogamy was everywhere. I spent last summer in upstate New York, with my kids at camp, wrangling polyamorous, ENM, and monogamous-ish people. At first, it was all reporting and discipline per usual. For my Cut column, most of my diarists equal a Tuesday-night deadline.
It’s not romantic to put it that way, but a lack of sentimentality helps move the diaries along and maintain their unfiltered, un-editorialized style. Then something truly fateful happened — an unlock. As I lined up this collection of poly people for the book, the work felt more spiritual than cerebral. Immersing myself in the diaries ofuntraditional, funny, weird, and raw diarists stirred something sensual inside, a feeling that wasn’t as dormant as I’d thought.
As I edited the book, I lit candles at my writing desk. I hung a nude drawing of myself that I was always afraid my electrician or plumber would see. Instead ofI stoked the flame inside — the flame I’d understandably, exhaustedly neglected, and it’s okay — with words and inspiration. It took some reacquainting, but there are worse tasks.
Not overnight, but over the course of working on this book, I relaxed with the whole “no orgasm is as good as sleep” shtick. Maybe it made me more relatable to my mom friends or defused some subconscious insecurity about being a parent who is professionally obligated to ask strangers about cock rings and lube … but as my old mantra about my wild sex life used to go:You’d think after 600 diaries, I should know better than anyone that sexuality is not a binary.
It’s not sexless mom or slutty rock star — pick a side and live there forever. And you’d, after 600 diaries, I would know that there are 1 billion variations of something in between. You’d think I would know that people change. Life changes.
And I’m allowed to change too. So why did these particular diaries feel so transformative? Why not the horny housewives, or Carrie Bradshaws, or free-bleeding bisexuals? The poly, ENM, and monogamist community, by design, doesn’t fit into any one social construct.
Each entry overflowed with contradictions. There was a polyamorous fuckboy who would, admittedly, give it all up for love; a throuple who screwed like rabbits, then bickered about chores; an artist at an X-rated sex party who simply wanted to be held. Highly sexual people, in highly individualistic, “take what you want, leave the rest” ways. In working on their stories, I discovered my favorite contradiction yet: I’m in a beautiful monogamous relationship, but these are my people.
They built their lives around emotional honesty, with their partners and themselves, and they don’t care if it makes sense to you, me, or anyone else. It turned out that, for me, the best way to stop being a burned-out mom who deprioritizes sex was to simply stop being one. Having many friends in their 40s, and written thousands of words on relationships, I realize it’s generally more complicated than that, but over here … it actually wasn’t.
It’s not like I crashed a play party or learned shibari. I just started deliberately thinking about sex more, clocking how hot my partner is and how much I fucking love him, swapping out ratty pajamas for slinkier sets … little adjustments like that. As many of my nonmonogamous diarists already knew,. ) Believe it or not, sex is still a mystery to me.
What I do know is that sex is a major part of my life, my work, and my healthiest relationships — past and present. It feels so much better, mentally, spiritually, and obviously physically, to honor that rather than dismiss it. The newly pregnant me, back in Echo Park — half-naked with morning-after hair, iced latte in hand, praying for motherhood and lovers and writerly success — wouldn’t dream of anything less. You'll receive the next newsletter in your inbox. New York
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