Most of what I write is true. But ‘Truth’ itself is much more slippery. Truth with a capital T can never come from the mouth of a single person, and it never comes in the form of a story, because the act of telling a story involves shaping and curating truth: picking which bits stay in and which bits get cut. What makes a story, when it comes to non-fiction, isn’t Truth but perspective.

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I’ve had a lot of internet fights in my time. I cut my teeth on an incredibly racist and misogynist forum back in the days before Twitter, then I joined Twitter, then I started to blog. Fight after fight after fight – I’ve kicked off at so many people! People who were causing harm, and others who were trying to tell me that I was causing harm. Sometimes I’ve argued well, sometimes badly. Sometimes I am right, often wrong. Some things I’ve said have been justified, others terrible. You get the idea. At no point during any of these fights did I ever intend to cause harm. But that doesn’t mean no harm was ever caused.

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You know Christmas is coming when you hear the first few chords of Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want For Christmas’ through tinny speakers in a shopping mall, and in the same vein I know Eroticon is on the horizon when meet & greet posts start popping up on the sex blogs that I follow. I’ll be at Eroticon 2020 in Camden on 14/15th March this year, eagerly hoovering up all the knowledge and advice I can from other attendees/speakers, and doing a talk on Sunday about how to turn sex blogging into your day job. And as is traditional, here’s an intro meet & greet post answering the questions Molly posed to kick things off…

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The fantasies which happen in my head are consensual. The fantasies which happen in my head are often non-consensual. It sounds like a logical fallacy: how can something be both consensual and non-consensual at the same time? The answer is that, of course, the ‘non-consent’ in my fantasies is only an illusion: the participants in my head are not real, the only real person here – the only one who needs to consent – is me. But when those fantasies leak out of my head onto the page or screen, readers – real live people – become a part of what’s happening, and their consent matters as well. Let’s talk about the ethics of writing consensual non-consent fantasies.

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He breezes into the kitchen, grins at me in a self-satisfied way and proudly tells me “look!” before whipping out his cock. And I think ‘Ahh… my muse.’ My beloved muse. My weird, nerdy, playful, dodgy, nervous wreck of a muse.

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