Hey, angels! Come here often? It’s Amy Rose, back from vacation.

Yes, I got you a present. Since this is The Cut: It’s a personal essay! Alyssa Shelasky has been running our “Sex Diaries” column since 2014. She’s sought out and published over 600 entries, each detailing a week in a real person’s erotic life. Since I started working with Alyssa last year, I’ve been fascinated by her, the person behind the column. It’s a unique woman able to meet a weekly smut deadline by convincing strangers to tell her about their spanking fetishes and vibrator preferences.

I wondered how Alyssa felt about her specific, notorious job, and how it plays into her love life. So I asked her to write about it, and she surprised me with every new paragraph. Her essay is below, online Monday. It comes alongside a milestone: The first-ever “Sex Diaries” book will be published by Penguin Random House on July 14. Preorder Sex Diaries: Real-life Stories of Non-monogamy and Polyamory here. 

Now, what about your sex life? I’d love to pull an assist. This week’s new personal ads include an honest-to-God Olympic athlete with medals to prove it, a food writer looking for a good time, and a 38-year-old videographer whose ad charmed me so utterly that you should run, not walk, before I change my mind.

Lately, I’ve been hearing excellent testimonials, like this one: “My Personals guy whom I’m dating bought me an antenna so I can watch sports at home. It’s the most serious thing since I got divorced.” Other happy, non-paying customers are infiltrating my DMs weekly with stories of romantic bliss and/or unprintable carnal ecstasy.  Why not you, too? Place a date-wanted ad through this submission form, or email [email protected]. Our terms of submission are here. —Amy Rose Spiegel, Senior Editor, The Cut

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By Alyssa Shelasky

Illustration: Sang Pak

The day an editor at The Cut emailed me about reviving a column called “Sex Diaries,” I was sitting half-naked in my boyfriend’s Echo Park backyard with morning-after hair and an iced latte in hand, preparing to pitch a dark TV comedy called Feed Him and Fuck Him.

That Echo Park boyfriend became one of my first diarists. I don’t know many people who could sit across from their man while he regaled them with the juicy details about the women he recently went down on, but it didn’t faze me at all. I knew that he had at least three other girlfriends; I was concurrently entangled with one of my three ex-fiancés, dating a movie star with a famously enormous penis, and flirting with a chef who had a pregnancy fetish. Because, oh yes! At the time, I was also a little bit pregnant by an anonymous sperm donor and on my way to becoming a resplendent single mom by choice.

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 General Hospital, I was ruled by lust. I’d meet someone random — interesting, forbidden, unsustainable — feel that full-body lightning bolt, and think, He’s mine. And then he was. And it was almost always extraordinary.

Most of my girlfriends had sex to please their boyfriends and were faking orgasms (something I found unfathomable). 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 me also desperately wanted children.

Who cares what people think?! I’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.

Until I had kids. Which was exactly when I started “Sex Diaries.”

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 with New York subscriptions all around the world. That she’s not running around the city dating sexy sociopaths and kinky people and couples (missed that boat entirely) 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. (To be clear, I have a very sexy, game long-term boyfriend with whom I love being intimate. Just not nearly as often as anyone might imagine.)

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 (and would never cheat on) 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. (Readers sometimes ask if the columns are real. I assure you, if I don’t have the bandwidth for date nights, I’m definitely not inventing new fuck machines weekly). 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 of these untraditional, 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 of Below Deck, I binged All Fours and More: A Memoir of Open Marriage and Want, Gillian Anderson’s collection of people’s anonymous sexual fantasies. I 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: Who cares? 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 think, 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, good sex is good for you, and I thank them for the reminder. Let’s just say, she’s back. Different. Definitely still tired. But back.

I don’t have all the answers. (I am not Esther Perel.) 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.

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Ads run for four weeks and are free, but we can't print every one we receive. The more specificity and character in your ad, the likelier it is to run. The Cut’s terms of submission apply to all messages.

OVERACHIEVING OLYMPIAN looking for a soft place to land. 30F, Los Angeles. As content as I am with my life, I want a 28–36M partner to share in it. I love love, I love romance, and I love a good love story. The more time I spend in the kitchen, the more I grow to enjoy it, but would still prefer takeout. The most impressive thing about me isn't medals, but how many books I read in a year and how much YouTube I consume. I'm seeking thoughtfulness, intentionality, and a person worth slowing down for. @kendi_kendall

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BEAUTIFUL CITY DISTRACTION 38F Black bi woman seeking 25–45 any gender, preferably other Black or brown people. Dealing with unusual heartbreak right now (I've been in therapy long enough to not put any of that on you) and would love to explore the city while the world burns. I don't care for sports, but will listen if you do. I love comedy, galleries, food, films, and the woo. [email protected]

GROUNDED MASCULINE FEMINIST Pediatrician girl-dad, 52M, NJ. 5'9" with an active and healthy lifestyle. On the lookout for a 40s–50sF who finds happiness from within, has truly done the work, embodies all that is beautiful about being a woman (and who’s had enough life experience to know I’m not being reductionist). If you’re a mom, awesome, but not required. Must be legally divorced (that last stage of closure and healing matters). No ENM/poly — we won’t have time with what we’re going to build. [email protected]

LET'S LIVE DELICIOUSLY 40F, writer, Los Angeles (open to long distance), looking to unlock the story of my own IRL love affair. Seeking romance & an equitable partner in the streets, but a pleasure dom in the sheets, 30–50M. (I'll never call you daddy, but I will purr like a kitten for you.) We’ll share belly laughs into the night, search for the perfect martini, and eat through my home cooking while goofin' on TV shows (you do the dishes). Perhaps we can fall in love and live the bicoastal dream? Simpsons quotes are a shortcut to my heart. [email protected] 

LEFTY JEWISH FEMME 30F, Brooklyn, bisexual with a little dog. Voracious reader, thrift-shopper, restaurant-hopper, extroverted introvert. Looking for a partner of any gender, 28–35, who’s down to co-host dinner parties, go dancing, read in bed, hike upstate, and learn to surf. Must be (enthusiastically) willing to dissect Love Island, Virginia Woolf and [insert geopolitical crisis]. Looking for that elusive combo of a fun, yet serious relationship that builds naturally over time. [email protected]

FRECKLED, FLEXIBLE, FORTHRIGHT 33F Asian American Brooklynite originally from Seattle, still clinging to my West Coast identity after a decade in NYC. I’m nurturing my creative side, spending more time outdoors (long runs and hikes), and always looking for my next favorite book. Seeking the real deal: 30–45M, offbeat jokes, mutual growth, and someone to hold my hand through park hangs, concerts, and cultural outings. @bookspluscoffee / [email protected]

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NATHAN FIELDER ENTHUSIAST 37F, Brooklyn, seeking 30–48M for reverse Rumspringa. Shrink by day who fantasizes about churning butter in the woods. I love Azaelia Banks’ Twitter, Pilates, climbing, Szechuan food, and going to bed by 11 p.m. Most compatible with those who are smart, active, ambitious, quirky, and have a wacky sense of humor. I’m eligible for an EU passport — hopefully, you’re down to clown in Europe. [email protected]

BIZARRE BON VIVANT 30M, bi, NYC, seeks enfant terrible 26–40, any gender, for chic tête-à-tête over moules et frites. Let’s drop acid at La Boheme or sing Les Mis till they kick us out of LPQ. I don’t speak French, but imagine if I could… [email protected]

TALL BUSTY BLONDE 39F seeks 30–50M who reads past sensationalist headlines. I’m a pessimistic socialist and sometime writer looking to have a fun outdoor summer with a pre-COVID flavor. Let’s get eaten by bugs at a BRIC concert; let’s watch the Coney Island sunset with our Crunchwrap Supremes. I love and work with kids, but I’m ultimately more of a cool aunt type. Message me if you have a favorite movie theater or Chekhov story. [email protected]

LESBIAN CREATIVE ISO MUSE 30F, Park Slope. Divorcée looking for a magnetic woman to be my lover and confidant, 25+F. I’m a multidisciplinary artist and designer; femme-leaning but andro; lover of parties, excitement, and a glass of orange wine at a dimly lit wine bar. You: appreciator of the arts, well-read, hate AI, serious about love but down for a messy makeout on the dance floor. Must appreciate both reality TV and foreign film; be leftist and switchy. Masc-leaning preferred. Bonus points for beautiful cheekbones. Let’s kiss at the next Strap? @cecilia.lurie

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