Why Do I Blog?


Why do I blog?  Why do I spend my free time writing on this site?  Why do I spend so much time trying to promote this site, and get frustrated when the traffic doesn’t come in?Blogs fail

These are questions I ask myself all the time, and I don’t think there is any definitive answers to any of them.  Though I’m sure I could give some pretty reasonable ones if I just tried hard enough.  😉

I have found it somewhat fascinating to read on other blogs about how they blog, or their rules of blogging and so forth.  And if memory serves me right, I believe there a flurry of such articles/blog posts on similar topics around the same time last year.

Maybe it’s a New Year’s thing where bloggers and writers are doing their best to motivate themselves and remind themselves why they do what they do.  We all set goals or resolutions for the New Year (Click HERE to read mine!!), and perhaps all this self-analytical and self-motivational writing is a way to keep those goals alive now that we’re part way into January.

Or perhaps that particular writer just felt like writing about that subject.  😀  And that’s a great thing.

So why the hell do I blog anyway?

Well… why not?  As I’ve mentioned plenty of times before, I initially started this blog as a way to keep friends and family back home up to date on my travels and the adventure I was having after moving to London.  It was a simpler way to keep my loved ones aware of how things were going without having to send a million separate emails.

Obviously over time this has evolved into what we have today – and will probably evolve into something new at some point in the future – but it’s been a somewhat organic evolution and (I hope) hasn’t seemed forced or contrite. 20140111-100531.jpg Or even too self-serving at times.

But mostly why I’ve continued this blog is it’s allowed me to write on a variety of topics, even sometimes of a personal nature, and it has given me a forum to voice my opinions on things I see around me.  It gives me an opportunity to practice my passion (writing) while reaching out with my voice to connect with others out there, and hopefully start some meaningful and interesting conversations.

And yes, by practicing my passion for writing it also feeds my fantasy of one day becoming a full-time published author/writer, and someone will give me the time (and money) to do this for a living.  *Sigh*  Maybe one day…

Despite that dream, I do find that I don’t tell a lot of people (in person) that I have a blog.  There’s been a few times where I’ve told people of this site only for them to give me looks of pity and slight discomfort on their part, like they felt some kind of humiliation for me.. or perhaps for themselves for talking to me.  Like there was something shameful or a bit sad about being a blogger.  Yeah, whatever..

Then there are those who are overly excited about it and try to give me ‘ideas’ of topics to write about without really knowing what my blog is about.  I’ve had people tell me I should never talk about my own personal life or experiences, or that it should be more about being a bear (gay sub-culture that I don’t fit into I feel..), or that I should show more pornographic content, or any other numerous suggestions. CheekyNone of which really fit what I’ve already got going here.

There was even one person recently (who has read the blog.. and is a dear friend) who suggested that I basically turn this into a sex blog, recounting different people’s sexual experiences, because that would totally drive viewers to the blog.

Admittedly, I do have an idea for a series of erotic fictional short-stories, but I don’t think I’ll be posting them on this site, as I’m not sure they would fit with the tone or crowd that is already here.  Last thing I want to do is to alienate regular or longtime readers while bringing in a more ‘pervy’ crowd.

But of course I have to write them first to see how they turn out.  lol

One of the things I’ve been doing a lot of lately is trying different ways to promote my blog and drive up traffic.  This has been through a variety of websites like Blogsurfer (there’s a button on the right.. ), networking on Twitter (@MPWilson73), and by creating a Facebook page (Click HERE to like the page) for friends to like and share without cluttering up the feeds of those who don’t want to see or read my posts.

Have my viewers gone up since the holidays?  Yeah they have a little, but funnily enough it doesn’t seem to be from the Facebook page which I would have thought would have helped, and there’s only the occasional Twitter hit.  There’s a been a few people to find the Facebook page through their friends or get invites from others, but they don’t seem to be clicking the links over to here.  And they’re not really commenting, liking or sharing the posts.. that I can see anyway.

Of course, all of that will take time and I just need to be patient while continuing to write my little tush off and keep this passion going strong throughout the year.  And need to get off my ass and start writing that fictional series already.  😉

Really hope all of you (and your friends, and your friends’ friends.. hint hint lol) will continue with me on this journey to gawd-knows where.  😀


Repost: Untitled Fiction


Note: I originally wrote this back in 2007, but never revisited to continue the story (and yes, it is completely fictional lol).. Should it stand alone as a complete short-story?  Or can you think of where it could go from here?  Ideas and thoughts are always welcome. 😀

“Will you hurry up already?  I don’t want to stand here all night,” whispered Darel as he waited for me to pass him the coke.

It was just a typical Saturday night at the Big U.  Darel and I were crammed together in one of the bathroom stalls doing bumps of coke as the electronic-laced dance music thumped in our ears.

To be frank, it’s all his fault.  Darel was the one who first introduced me to the ‘magic white powder’ about a year ago.  Now, whenever I go out, I usually have some with me.  It’s almost a requirement these days just to get through the night, especially at this hole.  Tragic, really, how I don’t remember the last time I went out without it.

“Hey, don’t snort the whole fucking bag, dumb-ass,” I hissed at him. “I didn’t say I was going to get you fucked up, just a little bit buzzed.”  I snatched the little bag back from him and gave it a flick to see how much was left.  The little bitch left me barely enough for another bump later if I needed it.  What a fucking drug-whole he’s become.

Sometimes I truly wonder how the two of us even became friends in the first place.  We’re absolutely nothing alike.

Darel started pouting as I put away my meager stash.  “Aw, come on Sasha.  I barely did any.  You never share your drugs.”  His whining was getting on my nerves as he opened up the stall door to leave.

Without a word, I closed the door in his face so I could take a leak.

This was typical Darel behavior.  To him, the entire world was conspiring against him so he wouldn’t have a good time.  Meanwhile, he never has enough money to pay his cover, let alone for drugs.  As much as I love hanging out with the guy, he was starting to get way out of hand.  I couldn’t keep paying for both of us.

Flushing, I zipped myself up as I left the stall, which was quickly snatched up by a couple of muscle queens.  At the sinks, once I’d washed my hands (a rarity in bars somehow), I gave myself a quick once over while I wiped my nose to ensure there weren’t any stray flecks for all to see.

Not to toot my own horn, but I wasn’t looking too bad for a guy who just celebrated his 32nd birthday.  I still had a full head of messy black hair, barely any wrinkles, and all those hours in the gym had finally given me that coveted ‘short-n-stocky’ build I’d always wanted for all those years I was overweight.

Hell, even I’d fuck me, if I weren’t such a bottom.

Looking around the bathroom, Darel was nowhere to be seen.  Not a surprise.  He was probably off to find someone to either buy him a beer or give him more drugs.  Or both.

Just to catch everyone up to speed, Darel and I met through a blind date.  One of his best friends was a co-worker of mine a few years back and thought the two of us would make a cute couple.

Admittedly, we did hit it off right off the bat and we spent the next few months screwing our brains out.  But we were never exclusive.  We eventually stopped sleeping together and decided just to be friends.

Sure, the sex was great and all, but I wasn’t looking for a fuck-friend at the time.  I’d been in husband hunting mode.

“Shit,” I muttered under my breath.  As usual, there weren’t any paper towels in the bathroom, so I walked back to the bar for some napkins to dry my hands off.

Tossing the crumpled napkin on the bar, I waved a ten spot at the barman to get another drink.  As I glanced around at the crowd, I easily spotted Darel in one of the corners with his hands down some guy’s pants.  Again, this was typical Darel.  As coked up as he was, he probably wouldn’t even be able to get a hard on.

Leaving some change on the bar for a tip, I grabbed my drink and decided to take a tour of the club.  Like every other Saturday night, it was packed with all the usual people.  It has always amazed me how these people are so reluctant to do anything different on a weekly basis.  As if this was the only club in Montreal.

Can you tell I’m bored with the place?

Walking around, I stopped briefly to say ‘hi’ to the few people I know.  I wouldn’t call these people friends at all.  They were just people I’d bump into from time to time, and it wouldn’t be anything more than a quick peck on the check and bland pleasantries.  It’s not like you’re able to sustain a meaningful conversation with some drunken fool while the music echoed off the walls.

It’s a wonder we’re not all deaf already.  Think about that.

This will definitely sound clichéd, but all I was trying to achieve in my tour of the place was to catch some cute guy’s eye, have a little flirtatious chat, maybe make-out a little, and hopefully take him home to fuck me silly all night long.

Was that really too much to ask?  It’s not like I was looking for a husband for Christ’s sake.  Well, maybe.

Anyway, I was swaying on the edge of the dance floor to the latest pop-princess remix when I spotted Darel again.  He was being carried out of the bar by two security guards, completely passed out.  Again.  I don’t think this has happened in at least a month or so.

So, of course being the good friend that I am, I left my half-finished drink and ran after him to make sure he was alright.  I caught up to all of them by the front door but Darel wasn’t passed out after all, he was just too out of it to walk on his own.  Stupid jackass.

“Hey Sylvan,” I said to one of the bouncers, “guess he’s done it again, huh?”

Sylvan is this hunky, beefy straight guy that works security for the bar, and every guy I knew there would jump at the chance to get their hands on him.  “Sash, how the fuck does he get so messy every time he comes here?” he asked in that gorgeous French-accented voice of his.  “The boss is almost temped to ban his ass for good this time.”

“I don’t blame him, and sometimes I wonder why he doesn’t.”  Sylvan helped me get Darel down the stairs to street level.  “So, how long is he banned for this time?”

Making sure nobody could hear him, Sylvan whispered, “Actually, the boss was the one feeding him shooters and shoveling coke up his nose in the back office.  When I went into the office, your buddy was in la-la land while the boss and his boyfriend were double fucking him.”

For fuck’s sake!  What the hell had Darel gotten himself into this time?  “His ass will definitely be sore tomorrow,” I joked.

“You could say that again.”  Sylvan chuckled as he helped me get Darel into a cab and I gave the driver my address.  “Take care of that idiot, will ya?”

“I will.And thanks for the help tonight.”  I closed the cab door and off we went to my place.

At least this time Darel wasn’t puking his guts out.  The last time something like this happened, the cabbie wouldn’t even let me put Darel in the cab.  We had to walk to my place instead, and it wasn’t pleasant.  I didn’t enjoy stopping every couple of blocks to wait for dumb-ass to finish puking and then listen to his whining about how it was all this person’s or that person’s fault that he was so messy that time.  At one point, I got so sick of hearing it all that I kept walking despite his screams for help because he’d fallen down in a puddle of his own vomit.  One of these days, I may actually leave him there.

Luckily, this time Darel just sat back with his eyes closed and didn’t say a word or move a muscle.  If it wasn’t for the fact that I could hear him breathing, I might have thought him dead.

Copyright 2007 – 2013 M P Wilson