WHO THE HECK AM I WRITING THIS FOR?

There's a problem with my blog. The people in my life can’t stand to read it.

First, there is my brother Rob, to whom I owe this whole blog thing to. He had been hocking me to get off my butt and blog for months, he actually set claudtalks up for me. Now, he is forced to avert his eyes to my postings, it's sexually explicit content penned by his sister. He wisely warned me not to write anything that I wouldn’t want the entire world to see, after I panicked about the guy I f*ck’s parents' potentially filth based first impression of me. On the other hand, Rob is still a great supporter, “I just had to set you up with the big pile of paper, throw on a little gasoline, knew you’d toss the lit match, and WFPOOF!!”

Then there’s my close friend Sam. Raised Muslim, now a grown up enlightened guy. He regularly expresses his concern over the nature of my content, blames it on the unfortunate influence of the ne'er-do-well man in my life. Yet, I have always dreamed of reporting my wickedness: the back-of-the-station wagon rides in high school, the cliché advertising biz trysts, my deep affection for psychologically challenged men. I love to see his knitted brow, as he scans through his print out of the blog du jour, like a teacher with poised red pen.

Brother Mike, he’s the business wiz of the family, who cautions me about potential employers. The HR folks who hold the purse strings to the six figures I seek, who Google perspective hires, turning my blog exploits into a damning resume. Fact is, many of my former bosses are friends on Facebook, herald my blogposts, yet never mention the possibility of freelance. Could it be that the claudtalks brand of leather harnesses, sex toys, and panties implies a lapsed affinity for the core brand values of toothpaste, cookies, and asthma remedies?

My ex-boyfriend Brian has expressed discomfort about reading about current love-making with my give it to the hilt and ‘til it hurts leathered-out hardcore man. An invaluable source of input, he is a gifted English teacher, a great writer in his own right, his sister a New York Times bestselling author. His insights are now withheld, save for his “applauding” my sickening to him fearless personal disclosure. Although should I take a three day break from posting, he’ll send an email inquiry signed “The Stalker”, so I suppose he is still a reluctant fan.

Then there are my girlfriends. Like Kristine, who over dinner last night winced at the mention of my blog. She recently added a deft comment under on of my blogposts, but said she only skimmed the piece she remarked on. She’s firmly in the camp of TMI with her BFF.

Yet, I get anywhere from 80, to 370 visits a day. Who are my fans? There’s Owen, A.K.A., “The Owen Show”, possibly my strongest supporter, and not just for the ego building blogposts that extol him as a sexual Demigod. Always at the ready with the compliment of a stiff c*ck, his praise takes an even deeper dive with specific, constructive, actionable feedback, the kind of enthused encouragement that usually one only receives from a loving parent; not to mention the priceless, side splittingly outrageous blogpost comments he adds that often eclipse the content and ignite flame wars that burn well past midnight. My dear friend Mel, who has been a rock star supporter from day one, who insists that big bucked published female authors of autobio-smut have nothin’ on me. I question her bias, as she is brilliant, and exceedingly well read – but nonetheless allows me to buy into the fairy princess-in-a-push-up-bra fantasy that my smirk of a photo could one day appear on a book jacket. I also must mention my friend Amy: a cynically sage, deftly funny, dauntingly intelligent critic. She sifts through the sexually transparent content, fishes out the bigger, more personal ideas, and explains the differences to me. Then there’s Sue Schongar Whitten on Facebook. A girl I was once nice to in the 3rd grade. She always gives the thumbs up on my blogposts on the Book of Face, and reminds me that I’m not just writing for my hard core audience. Vinny P, a fan, a friend, a vocal supporter on Facebook, and one time muse. Vinny U, who’s exuberant praise feeds my insatiable ego. And Giles, Owen’s brother, who I suspect has been a silent follower, who’s “well written, Claudia” can make my year. His disarming wit, MENSA intelligence, and subtly brilliant Facebook discourse makes me suspect that he ‘s simply being kind to the woman that gives his brother emotional support, exceptional head and incomparable weekend breakfasts.

To all the rest of you, the followers of claudtalks, I thank you. I am a slave to your visits, I pander to your need for filth, and pay the price with disenfranchised family members, grossed out friends, and potential employers.