Things I thought I’d never be saying to my friends:

1. Everything is true; even the stuff about the blokes that were shit in bed
2. Yes, it is that easy for me to climax (sorry)
2b. (I think I suffer from premature female orgasm)
3. I know it’s no big deal; everyone wanks.
3b. Perhaps just not as often as me
4. It’s not all the wanking that embarrasses me; it’s everyone knowing how neurotic, analytical and obsessed I am, that makes me feel so exposed
5. At least we can compare toy collections now, right?
6. Of course I would like some sex; a tall, handsome man shagging me rampantly would be lovely, but unfortunately that’s not an option, given my current schedule
7. Yes, I know what the newspapers have said; but my wardrobe is still wholly Primark-based. Still think I am rich?
8. I’m going to sound like a twat saying this, but sadly I’m too busy to meet up with you at the moment - can I ‘pencil you in’?
9. Sorry I didn’t reply to your email: it was hidden amongst the other 106 marked ‘urgent – needs an immediate response’ in my inbox, and I’m still only up to number 13
10. I know; you’re right: I do need a publicist.

Yesterday I did something I said I would never do.

No, I didn’t fuck a married man. This girl does have some principles you know. (And as Groucho said, if you don’t like them, I have others.)

Nor did I have a frig in a public place. (Being fingered by someone else doesn’t count. Right?)

Instead, I lowered myself to such a desperate level of patheticness, it was as if I have no shame at all: I moseyed on down to my local Waterstones, for the first time since its release, in the hope that I might spot my own book.

I know, it’s shallow of me, and buying from a chain doesn’t exactly support my neighbourhood independent bookshop; but I just had to see if they were stocking my book – since that’s where most people would be buying it from – so I swallowed my anti-corporate ethics for a brief hypocritical moment, and hopped on the bus down to the shops.

I didn’t expect to encounter my book in my local shop’s window display; I was chuffed to see five of them, right in the centre of it, alongside Zadie Smith and Sam Bourne. A little glimmer of excitement began in my belly (OK, and between my legs slightly too; my happy and pleasure buttons seem to be connected) and I entered the store.

To my complete joy, my book was slap bang on the centre of the first table at the front of the shop, in the ‘3 for 2’ offers. Blimey. Twelve copies on display; pushing up against Lionel Shriver and Ali Smith. Fuck me. (Seriously, fuck me; take me from behind as I lean over the table and scatter all the books onto the floor in wild, abandoned, gleeful passion).

Though my paranoia-alert button was set on low for the first time in weeks, I still tried to look inconspicuous, just in case, well, someone in there had read the Guardian interview and might know what I looked like. Not that anyone cares of course; I just didn’t want to get caught looking at my own book. That would be sad, and I have a reputation as a cool, laid-back, nonchalant author to uphold. So with a sophisticated trouser suit on, my hair pulled back into a ponytail, and dark glasses in place, I pretended I was just a normal customer and not a pathetic author inwardly rejoicing about their book being on display. So I quickly moved away from the table to continue book shopping.

Sometime later, with a pile of books in my arms (give me a credit card and a bookshop and I cannot help myself), I returned to the table. How sad would I be, I thought, if I were to pick up the book, take it to the counter, and ask the cashier pointed questions about it? I concluded that I would be very sad indeed and that only completely narcissistic, self-absorbed and ego-maniacal people would do such a thing. Which of course, I am, so I immediately grabbed the book, placed it under the heap I was carrying, and made my way to the cash register.

When the cashier got to the last book of the pile - my own book - I stopped her scanning it in.

‘Do you know anything about that?’ I asked, trying to look mildly, but not overly, interested.

‘I haven’t read it’, she admitted, ‘but it’s supposed to be great.’

‘Oh, really?’ I said, as if I wasn’t bothered either way. ‘What’s it about?’

‘It’s a personal diary,’ she replied. ‘The author has written for the Guardian’ she added.

No, I wanted to correct her, she hasn’t written for the Guardian (not yet, anyway); she was featured in the Guardian, and wrote for the Independent on Sunday.

‘Oh, I see’ I said, as casually as I could, praising a god that doesn’t exist, for my having taken some acting classes many years ago, and thus able to make a decent poker-face.

‘We’ve been getting really good feedback’ she volunteered. ‘It’s been selling very well.’

Oh my fucking god, I wanted to say, leaping for joy and leaning over the desk to kiss her. But I kept my composure by remembering that she was a sales woman: it was in her interest to make me think the book was worth buying.

‘Is that so?’ I said.

‘Yes, it’s been flying out recently.’ She began tapping into the computer keyboard. ‘24 copies in the last week’ she said, somewhat triumphantly I noted. ‘It’s very popular.’

I bit my lip and tried not to appear overjoyed.

‘So, would you like it then?’

I shook my head. ‘Nah, I think I’ve got enough for today; I’ll have a think about it and maybe buy it next time’.

I quickly paid for my books and slipped out the store, and for the first time in three weeks, I had a massive smile on my face.

1) I think it’s hilarious that some people seem to have concluded that I am now rich. I’m not.

2) Some people have accused me of being a ‘sell-out’ because I’m a blogger who got a book deal. These same people are also, funnily enough it seems, gullible, and think that newspapers speak the ‘truth’; believing everything that has been printed about me. And they’re calling me naïve…

3) It strikes me as ridiculous, some of the speculation around my being ‘outed’. I had nothing to do with it; I was utterly shocked, not to mention devastated, when it happened. I don’t know how my real name got out; I’ll never know for sure.

4) I was stunned when the newspaper that serialised my book, also ran an exposé naming me, just three weeks later. One might assume they would have some allegiance, given that they had paid (a tiny sum, the tight wads), to extract my book, but clearly not. Being an author, I had absolutely no say in them being able to buy the extracts; but as a blogger, I have complete freedom in being able to slag them off. So, yes, for the record, I do think they are backstabbing bastards.

5) What has given me loads of joy, are the 100+ of you, who emailed me, to tell me you had cancelled your subscriptions to the newspaper as protest at the gutter tabloid-type ‘journalism’ of that piece, and that you wouldn’t be purchasing the paper again. And also, the many of you who wrote letters of complaint to the editor – thank you so much. I knew they wouldn’t print the letters, the spineless arseholes, but it made me happy to know that so many people felt angered enough to complain.

6) Contrary to what many (especially in ‘mainstream media’) might believe, not all bloggers aim, or even hope, to get published. I certainly didn’t. I’m very lucky that I did, but that was never my objective: I just wanted to voice my perspective on sex, because I didn’t see it represented elsewhere. I never thought that two and a half years later I’d have a book out because of my blog. It’s very odd to now see my voice all over the place; it’s both scary, and immensely gratifying.

7) If there are any bloggers who think writing a book is easy, let me tell you, it isn’t. My blog wasn’t ‘lifted’ and pasted into bound form as some might assume; whilst I did use some posts from it, I also had to write an entire book, with shitloads of new material, from start to finish. It took me four months of hard work to get it completed. And I was working on a movie at the same time, hence my doing 100-hour, seven-day, weeks - I almost crashed my car twice from exhaustion. So it’s not exactly ‘taking the money and running’, like some might think: you do have to work your arse off.

8) I challenge anyone to turn down approaches from publishers who are offering you the chance to reach a new, wider audience with your writing. Sure, we all blog for the love of writing, but decline the opportunity to write in another medium? I’m sure most would jump at the chance. As I did: I started the blog because I was frustrated about how female sexuality was presented; to then be able to reach another, more mainstream, market with my views, and not take up the opportunity to do so, would have been ignorant, I think. So I went for it, fought to present my writing in a sexually positive, progressive, feminist way, and now the end result is on the shelves. It was nice that I got paid for it, but I would have done it for free too.

9) Doing a book shouldn’t mean an automatic end to anonymity; many authors have remained nameless, their right to privacy respected. I tried, the best I could, to cover my tracks, to ensure my and others’ privacy was protected. Clearly I didn’t do enough.

10) Want to know some of the effects of losing my anonymity?

a) I no longer have a job in the film industry; there is no career safety net for me to fall back on. Potentially bad publicity, or salacious gossip that could damage a movie, isn’t something a producer wants surrounding a crew member on a film set – no-one would risk hiring me now. And no, that doesn’t mean I have enough dosh to retire on; being a freelancer, pensions (and sick pay) are things I have never encountered. But because of the book, I don’t have to worry about paying my rent for quite a while. Which is nice.

b) All my friends now know how often I masturbate, what turns me on, and how obsessed with sex I am.

c) As does everyone I’ve ever worked with in the film industry.

d) As do my cousins, aunts and uncles as well. Beat that. (Not literally. Yuck.)

e) My sex drive has gone kaput. Having something sleazy printed about me in a national newspaper, with photographers sitting on my and my parents’ doorstep didn’t make me horny, it made me stressed, anxious, and lack sleep for ten days.

f) I cannot write on the blog, as I once did. Right now, I don’t know how, or in what capacity, I can write on here again. Thanks very fucking much for outing me, you bastards.

The scene: evening - two weeks ago
The location: somewhere in London
The characters: myself and a guy – I’ll call him ‘B’

I had just gone into hiding after learning that the Sunday Times was going to run the ‘expose’ article on me.

‘Want to meet for a pint?’ B asked, when he heard the news.

‘Fuck yes’, I replied. ‘But I don’t think I can be in a public place right now – I’m too scared - how about I jump in a cab to yours?’

He agreed; I grabbed a bottle, hailed a taxi and made my way to his flat. I hadn’t been there before; in fact, I’d never even met him. But we’d been in contact for a couple of months, via email, phone and text.

‘I really admire your gung-ho stance to dating’ he had said, after I sent him the link to my blog, explaining how I had detailed my personal life online. ‘It’s like the Thin Red Line, with spunk instead of bullets - I applaud your honesty’.

Laughing at his sardonic humour and relieved at his nonchalance, I told him about the book; he didn’t seem worried by that either, and joked when I warned him of the potential downfalls of knowing a sex diarist, ‘It’s surely just a matter of time before some thinly-veiled assault on my bedroom habits makes it into print’.

Because of his indifference, and due to our coincidentally knowing some mutual acquaintances, (‘six degrees of separation’ between us so to speak), as well as him working in a similar creative field, I didn’t feel worried about meeting him face-to-face; I knew he wouldn’t reveal any personal details about me.

When we did finally meet in the flesh that night, it was under very unusual circumstances: I was anxious that my personal life was about to be thrust into the limelight; he was in the middle of a major work tsunami. I guess it was no surprise that we both appeared a bit stressed, and that there was a little awkwardness between us.

I wasn’t expecting to shag him though. Even though we sat on his sofa, cosily chatting, drinking champagne, and eating a takeaway, I didn’t for one minute think, or even hope, that later on we would be getting naked with each other.

This might have had something to do with his spending more than an hour detailing every girlfriend of his over the last ten years, and how he was currently worrying about the level of romantic interest that another girl had, for him. Whilst I was a little bored by him going into such detail about his love-life fuck-ups, I was still enjoying his company: he’s a sharp guy, brilliantly witty, and very intelligent, so I actually found it refreshing that he was even more narcissistic and self-absorbed than me. And his private monologue was, I suppose, a momentary distraction for me, given my own, current, personal distress. To his credit, he did, at one point, display some emotional insight, remarking, ‘I guess this seems a little trivial, given your present situation’. Well yes, exactly: my entire private life was about to be thrown into disarray; forced into a furious media circus, and here was a 35-year old man fretting over whether a 24-year-old ignoring his text messages “meant anything”. And I thought I was neurotic…

Some hours passed and we both realised what the time was. He had work commitments in the morning; I needed an early start to go back into hiding. I had planned on leaving that night by cab; B suggested I stay:

‘It’s late, and I think we could both do with a snuggle’, he offered. ‘And maybe a little snog.’

He had a point. It would be nice to cuddle someone: I was stressed; he was, well, anxious in his own way. But it was odd to imagine cuddling up to him in bed; there seemed zero sexual chemistry between us: at no point in the evening did either of us touch each other in a flirtatious way, let alone kiss. Even with the champagne we had drunk, to suddenly share a bed would feel weird. Especially if snuggles led to other things…

I broached the subject best I could:

‘Snuggles would be nice’ I agreed. ‘But don’t you think it’d be a bit strange? We don’t know each other, and it’s not like we’ve been gagging to shag each other all evening; I certainly wasn’t planning on having sex with you. Not that you’re unattractive – it’s just, well, my head is all over the place, and if we were going to do it, I don’t think tonight would be the best time.’

He nodded in agreement. ‘We could have a limit on what we do’, he suggested. ‘Maybe just cuddle and kiss; no more.’

I nodded back at him.

‘And,’ he continued, ‘I’d feel a bit shit if we did shag, because I’ve been going on all night about that other girl; it’d be a bit rude if I then fucked you.’

Well, precisely. So we agreed that sex was out, but cuddles were in, and we made our way to his bedroom.

We sat on the bed, fully clothed, and I felt embarrassed. It was the weirdest thing: I don’t have an issue with my body – I’m more than happy to relax in my nakedness with a guy - but here I was, with all my clothes on, and I felt exposed.

‘This is really odd’, I said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been in this situation before: getting into someone’s bed to cuddle them, without, at least, having some prior minor flirtation. How should we do this? Clothed? In underwear? I’m tempted to ask you for a t-shirt for me to wear…’

‘You’re welcome to one,’ he said, ‘but I always sleep naked.’

‘So do I’ I replied, truthfully. We agreed to remove our clothes simultaneously, jumping into bed as we did so.

‘You’ve got a great body’ he remarked, as he snuggled up against me.

‘Thanks’, I replied, feeling his erection pressing against my thigh, the familiar throbbing between my legs begin, and I wondered how long it would be before our cuddling became more intimate.

Not long, evidently: he began to rhythmically push himself against me, and as we kissed, he pulled my leg up over his, so his thigh was pressed up against my wet groin - this was no longer an ‘innocent’ cuddle. I decided to respond to his movements, and rubbed myself against his thigh; his cock sliding against my lower belly as I did so.

‘We’re not doing very well on the snuggling’ he teased, and ran his hands all over my body, ending up on my nipples, coaxing them into hard peaks.

‘That might have something to do with the fact that you’re grinding your cock against me’ I joked, as my fingers discovered his chest hair, his solid back, his curvaceous arse.

‘Mm’, he replied, and kissed me some more. We resumed our embrace and my earlier thoughts – that I wasn’t that attracted to him; that we had no particular sexual chemistry; that I didn’t really want to sleep with him – were banished from my mind, as his fingers skilfully entered me, and a moment later I climaxed hard, all over his hand.

Later, when we were both lying back in a post-orgasmic haze, he asked me if our not having intercourse could still be included as us having ‘sex’, as if by the lack of it, it wouldn’t ‘count’ in some way. I laughed, and reminded him that regardless of penile penetration, any orgasms occurring, count as sex. (Especially the three orgasms I had had…)

Soon after, he fell asleep. I however, lay awake all night, thoughts of losing my anonymity running through my head; my heart racing in panic. I began to realise that the sex with B had offered me some freedom; a momentary, but much needed, escape from my reality. Even though I had not particularly wished to fuck him, I did, because it gave me some temporary pleasure, away from all the worry I was feeling; I wanted the gratification on offer. And he too, had his own reasons for needing my company and sexual release. We were both fulfilling our desires in different ways - having binary sex; intimacy by default.

In the morning, I curled up behind him and gently caressed him all over his body. It wasn’t long before I had his firm cock throbbing in my hand, as I stroked him lightly.

‘What are you trying to do?’ he murmured sleepily, and turned to face me.

‘Wake you up’ I lied, when what I meant was: ‘Get you horny and hard, so that I can fuck you’.

We moved together for a while, stroking each other. I noticed that he was avoiding eye-contact with me; I put it down to his tiredness, but my gut feeling was that he was dissociating for a reason. I was right: suddenly, with no warning, he pushed me away and jumped out of bed.

I ignored the internal analysis in my head, and focussed on the throbbing between my legs instead:

‘Got time for a quickie?’ I said coyly, giving him my most seductive look.

‘No’ he replied bluntly. ‘I’ve got a busy day ahead’. He stood there shifting uncomfortably, still avoiding my gaze.

‘It wouldn’t take long’ I persisted, pushing the duvet away to reveal my hand sliding between my legs. ‘I am soaking wet’, I added huskily, hoping that might convince him into jumping on top of me.

‘I’m sure you are’, he said coldly, and turned away from me before exiting the room.

The one-night stand was finished; my instincts were right - I’ve had enough casual fucks to know when a guy is done. And B’s behaviour was clear: he wanted me out; he had no interest in pursuing any more intimacy.

I lay there for a moment with my thoughts; it’d been a while since I’d experienced such outright sexual rejection, and it took me a minute to comprehend my feelings about it. Bar getting neurotic about my being overly sexually demanding, (if a guy doesn’t like my sexual appetite, well, fuck him, I say), I soon realised that his snub made me feel only a little gutted. Instead, what I felt hurt by was the way he behaved, rather than the rejection itself: I’m an adult – I can take someone turning me down.

B may have been tired and had a busy day ahead; he may have not felt up to shagging; he may have been turned off by my horniness; he may have wished I was the other girl who was in his thoughts; he may even have – in the light of day – realised that he actually wasn’t attracted to me and wanted some immediate distance; but with a little tact, some politeness and, perhaps a little honesty on his part, he could have ensured that things were left between us in a respectful and amicable way. One-night stands don’t have to result in coldness between the participants, but this one did, and as a result, whatever friendship we might have had, is unlikely to develop further.

Given the circumstances of our intimacy, along with his aloof manner, it doesn’t surprise me that he hasn’t made contact with me since that night. But because he was aware of the distress I was in, due to the impending newspaper article, I had thought he might be considerate enough to drop me a line at some point over the last two weeks, to wish me well. He hasn’t; clearly he’s just not that sort of bloke. It’s a shame, because I thought we had a decent intellectual connection, and I always prefer to remain friends with people I’ve slept with: handy if you bump into them in the future…

With B’s brusque rejection ringing in my ears, I lay on his bed, a little hurt, horny as hell, and wondering what to do. Given the situation, I ended up doing, what any normal woman would: I slid my hands between my legs, had a quick, silent, wank and then a decent, but brief, orgasm.

And then I wiped my wet fingers off on his bed sheets.

Shortly afterwards, when he came back into the room with a coffee in his hand, I was already in my bra and pants and he was none the wiser.

I departed his flat a few minutes later, waving him goodbye, with not so much as a peck on the cheek from him. I’m sure he had no idea why I had a big smile on my face; it probably looked odd, with what had just happened between us and how things were left. But as any woman will vouch, if there’s one thing to put us in a pleasant mood for the day, it’s a good orgasm - even if we are forced to induce it ourselves.

I’ve got to admit something: I need a man.

With all that’s happened recently and my life being held up to public scrutiny, spending the evening in the company of a fine gentleman would make me feel a whole lot better. I’d like nothing more than to curl up in a guy’s arms and cuddle all him night. Not to mention get fucked hard too. But – and the irony of my being a sex diarist does not escape me – even this is not very likely for me right now.

For a quick shag, there’s always the possibility I could call up a trusted fuck-buddy for some emergency sex. Broaching the possibility of shagging them, strikes me as somewhat difficult though, given their knowledge of my present circumstances:

Me [After the small-talk]: ‘So, do you fancy having some fun?’

Them: Silence

Me: ‘I promise not to write about it.’

Them: ‘On page 42 you said the guy ‘shagged like a rabbit’. Was that me?’

Me: Silence

Them: Silence

Me: ‘Sorry…’

Them: The sound of a telephone hanging up

I suppose I could go out and meet a new guy at a bar, or a party, but I don’t really fancy jumping into bed with a stranger; right now, I need more intimacy than that – I’m feeling a bit fragile. Besides, given how much I have written about other people’s bedroom habits, if I shagged someone who knew about my blog, or book, there’s always the possibility that they might consider it ‘news’ to report what I was like in bed; it’s only fair, after all.

‘You’ve got no worries about that’, an ex-boyfriend reassured me a few days ago, when I was anxious and tearful about it on the phone. ‘No-one, I repeat no-one, could ever say you were a bad lover.’

It was nice of him to say, and it boosted me to hear it, but it wasn’t enough to assuage my fears: I’m barely taking phone calls right now, let alone feeling confident enough to start up a romance, or something casual, with anyone new.

At the moment it seems I am fucked whatever I do. But just not in the way I’d like, sadly.

I am, of course, still annoyed and upset about the loss of my anonymity. Whilst it looks like the Guardian interview I did and the Independent on Sunday article I wrote, made the rest of the press give up on getting a ‘scoop’ on me (hurrah), the ‘naming’ of me has had some drawbacks which are a bit longer lasting than the photographers who camped out in my front garden.

Although I know I’ll find a way to deal with the intrusion into my own life, that’s not why I’m so aggrieved. The reason I wanted to remain anonymous was not because I am in any way ashamed of my lifestyle – the opposite in fact – but because I was worried that the people whom I’ve been intimate with, might recognise themselves in my writing.

I’m aware that detailing my sex life without permission from the people involved, raises lots of ethical issues; in 2004, when I began the blog, I moralised like crazy about how best I could write openly, and authentically, without invading someone else’s privacy. I did momentarily consider writing under my real name, but I realised there was no way I could be as open in my thoughts, feelings and descriptions of experiences. I’m sure many people write sex diaries with full consent given from those involved; I would argue that the veracity of the writing is compromised in these cases. Were I to have told all my lovers what I was writing about them, and have let them read it, my blog would have sounded like this:

I met a guy. He’s lovely. We went on a date and then kissed. He’s very sexy; we like each other. So we went back to his. Then we removed our clothes. He really turned me on. We had sex; it was great. Then we woke up, and went out for breakfast. We’re meeting again next week.

I might as well be typing that I had cheese on toast for breakfast this morning; there’s none of my normal psycho-socio-politico-babbling in the description of events. Not only that, there’s no critical insight, no emotional awareness and no introspective deconstruction either, which, to my mind, is what makes my writing so emotionally honest, not to mention explicit.

There’s no way I could have expounded on my thoughts if I knew a guy would be reading what I had written about him; I’m far too insecure to want a bloke to know, in such fine detail, what’s going on in my head. Unless, of course, he thinks it’s really cute that I always spill wine down my top; or he finds it adorable that I’m really clumsy; or he’s seen me first thing in the morning with my stupidly frizzy hair, and still wants to shag me rotten. But divulge my most intimate thoughts and feelings before then? Not a chance.

Hence my writing the blog - and book - anonymously: doing so gave me the freedom to write about all my obsessions, worries and neuroses, and explore them in relation to my own, personal, sex life; I could talk about people and situations and try to make sense of my feelings; I could be open about events and not worry that anyone involved would feel their privacy was violated by my talking about it. That is, until now. Now I’ve got a large chunk of my life – the most intimate part – available for all to see and know it was me who participated in the events. Now all the people I’ve written about, disguised as they are, also have their sex lives available for all to see.

I’ve got to admit, when I got ‘outed’ by that newspaper, I was tempted to delete the entire blog immediately; it was my first instinct to want to protect the people I had written about, as well as myself. But I’m against blog-deletion: I believe that doing so, goes against ‘blogging ethics’ or destroys the ‘bloggers’ code’, or something. Plus, it would make it seem that I was ashamed or embarrassed by my writing or my life – I’m not.

So even though I had photographers camped in my garden and journalists poring through my entire blog archives and book, door-stepping my friends, looking for ‘seedy’ stuff to print about me; even though my family, friends, colleagues and ex-lovers have been reading all about my private life; even though I have had to field hundreds of enquiring calls and emails, I decided to leave my blog as it is, take a deep breath, and deal with things head on.

When a number of ex-lovers contacted me this past week, it was with some relief on my part, that the majority congratulated me - before asking, ‘who’ll play me in the movie?!’ - rather than stating, ‘I’m really upset by what you said’. I’ve never been purposely derogatory or bitchy about the people I’ve slept with; it was the invasion of their privacy I was worried they’d be hurt by. Which is why I disguised so many of their personal details: I wanted to protect them from any embarrassment or distress.

It’s possibly too late for that now; the book has gone into its third printing; the blog has been read by, er, millions. So all I can say to the people who might feel affected by all this is, sorry. When I started this blog, I never knew I’d be here, two and a half years later, with a book out. I certainly never thought that anyone buying it would know my real name: I took great steps to ensure I remained anonymous (including the use of confidentiality agreements where necessary).

I may be happy about the current success of my writing, but it’s come at a very personal price: other peoples, as well as my own, privacy. The blog, and book, were never meant to be a ‘kiss and tell’; I regret that my being thrust into the limelight has possibly made it appear so. For that, I am truly sorry. Looks like the beers will be on me, for quite a while, chaps.

I have written an article for the Independent on Sunday newspaper:

Ten days ago, I was a nobody. A 33 year-old London woman working in the film industry, trying to juggle a decent social life with a career. Nothing special there. I just happen, over the last two years, to have written a detailed sex diary on the internet, which has had over 2m visitors and was recently published as a book. It was, as they say on the Net, decidedly "Not Safe for Work".

I was nameless though: all my writing had been done under the pseudonym, 'Abby Lee'. No-one, not even my publishers, knew my real name. (All my dealings with them were via "my agent", a phrase I never thought I would hear myself say. He had contacted me after reading my blog.) With the advantage of anonymity, I could write, with complete honesty, about the most erotic and emotional events in my life. I believed, perhaps naively, that my anonymity was safe – until a Sunday newspaper decided to reveal my true identity last weekend. Suddenly, from being a nobody, I became the scarlet woman du jour.

The first I knew of the 'expose' was when I received a bunch of flowers, and as I signed for them, a hidden photographer took pictures of me. Somehow a Sunday Times journalist had got hold of my name and address and was planning to reveal my real identity as the author of my book and blog, 'Girl With a One-Track Mind'. With them ringing my ex-directory home 'phone constantly, I decided to talk to my parents.

Of all the difficult discussions to have, divulging to your parents that you have a book out featuring your most intimate sexual experiences and thoughts, pretty much comes top of my list. Imagine: on the one hand, trying to emphasise the positive – "but my book's doing really well on Amazon!" – contrasted with: "my identity is about to be revealed, and you might be embarrassed because the book is, er, very explicit."

My parents (professional, liberal, thank goodness) were wonderfully supportive though. 'Pack a bag', they told me. 'Leave now'. I did, and then went into hiding. I'm still hiding now: photographers continue to get to know my front garden intimately. (You can leave now chaps, I'm not going back just yet.).

The irony is that the Sunday Times had serialised my book just three weeks before. If I hadn't felt so intimidated, I would have found it hilarious. But I didn't laugh when they emailed me what would be included in the article: my birth certificate; where I live; details of where I went to school; my mother's name, her profession, and location. Instead, I cried, and read out the email to my parents. Again, they backed me up, and insisted that I shouldn't reply to it.

However, I was still worried about how this news story might infringe upon, and affect, my family, friends, ex-lovers and colleagues, so I set about informing everyone when the article came out. To my immense relief, people rallied around me: messages of support came flooding in. Whilst my private life as I knew it come crumbling down, knowing that so many were backing me, gave me confidence. If the people close to me, saw my feminist perspective on sex being a good thing, then others might too.

Being plunged from obscurity to notoriety has had its positives: hundreds of encouraging comments on my blog, and other bloggers have rallied round. Of course, cynics might point out that this media attention hasn't done my book any harm. Watching it move its way up the sales chart, and being informed that it's already being reprinted for a third time, is great, of course. But the flipside of all this, is that my life is now under public and press scrutiny, as if I was a 'celebrity' of some kind and I'm still trying to get to grips with what potential effect this might have on me and the people around me.

The reason I wanted to remain anonymous, was to ensure privacy for me and others, not because I have any shame about my book, or my life for that matter. It's 2006 for goodness' sake – is sex really that big a deal? If one good thing could come out of my losing my anonymity, it would be the hope that my writing might help to challenge old fashioned and sexist views on female sexuality – an ongoing battle and one that I would be happy to be part of.

Hopefully, alongside the Guardian piece, this article might help to balance out the other drivel - of which I had nothing to do with - that is still circulating.

This past week has been hell. It’s like I am living in some alternate dimension where nothing seems real, and I am stuck in a kind of nightmare.

Let’s forget for a moment that I have had to deal with my entire family knowing that I write an explicit personal sex diary; the contents of this, publicly thrust into their faces. Let’s cast aside the knowledge that all my friends are now aware of the most intimate details of my sex life. Let us ignore the many phone calls I have had from work colleagues; their divulging that the erotic content of my life is now primary gossip on the film set.

Let us put that to one side, so that the personal reality of my current situation is made absolutely clear: I have been in hiding for the last seven days, scared to go out, because I don’t want to be confronted by the journalists pursuing me or have more ‘paparazzi’ shots taken, like that secret, hidden, shot of me last week. This isn’t just my paranoia speaking: photographers have been camped outside my home, and also my parents’ home, ever since that despicable article which named me was printed.

Journalists have also been contacting people from my past – even the vaguest acquaintances of mine - and offering them money to talk about me, or provide photographs of me. I have not known how to deal with any of this new, odd, unwanted ‘celebrity’-type interest in my life: I’ve had no guidance to assist me. All I’ve felt I can do, is apologise to everyone potentially affected – my family, friends, neighbours, colleagues, acquaintances, lovers – for any intrusion into their lives. Needless to say, I’m not sleeping very well right now.

Whilst I am still completely stunned that anyone would find me or my life remotely interesting, with this incomprehensible, yet continued, media attention, I’ve had to grudgingly accept that it looks like some more stories about me might be printed: ones that perhaps I will be just as unhappy with, as the exposé that ‘outed’ me. I had hoped that things would have settled by now, and that I could continue my life without any more invasions of my and others’ privacy, but sadly this is not the case.

Because of this media focus, I have decided to deal with the situation face on: it’s just not possible for me to sit indoors hidden away for ever. So I have done an interview with The Guardian newspaper, published today. It was an odd and slightly scary experience all round: going outside for the first time in a week; having a journalist ask me probing questions; posing for a photographer - all very surreal. (If you want to see the pictures that go alongside the article, you’ll have to buy the paper).

I am hoping, perhaps naїvely, that the Guardian interview might counteract potentially derogatory pieces run by other newspapers, or, at least, that these papers might get bored of harassing me, and move on to ‘proper’ news, say perhaps, the Middle East, Iraq, or the UK Government’s foreign policy. Well, I can but hope.

I really have no interest in being in the public eye at all, so if you do spot my presence anywhere in the media, please know that it will be, most likely, a fictional piece written by an antagonistic journalist, and not printed with either my support, or my participation. So unless I announce an article here, and state explicitly that I had input in it, you can take it as read that it was written without any consent on my part; please don’t believe that what might be printed about me is related to ‘truth’ of any kind.

Speaking of which, as I’m regularly being asked questions about the veracity in my writing, I would like to clarify, that in the book, for reasons of privacy, I fictionalised my job title; I’m not actually anything to do with camera at all (fine department though it is). Also, on both the blog and book, I have disguised people’s identities in various ways, so as to ensure that their right to privacy was upheld. Take it as given, that names, dates, locations, backgrounds and careers have been altered, mixed-up and combined, to protect this.

On a positive note, my family and friends have been amazing: rallying around me, sending me messages of support and love. And I have been overwhelmed by the response on the internet too: words cannot describe how moved I have been by all the hundreds of comments and emails I have been receiving - thank you. Though I have not had time to respond to them personally, I have read every single one, and I am grateful for them all. I’ve also been chuffed that almost no-one has used my real name in these communications - it reinforces the hypocrisy of the newspaper exposé of me: in no way was it in the public interest to name me.

I’m really stunned by all the support in the blogging community; I’m so indebted to the many bloggers who have come to my defence on their own blogs. Having so much support has provided me with a hopeful spark of light in these current dark times, so I want to show my appreciation to each and every one of you for backing me up about my unhappiness of having my real identity exposed – thank you.

Just three days after the publication of my book, my true identity has now been publicized in a national newspaper exposé.

I guess I was lulled into a false sense of security regarding my anonymity because I knew that Belle de Jour was hounded by the press, and still managed to keep her identity private. Whilst I may have a high-traffic blog, and a book detailing my sexual adventures in the shops, I’m not a prostitute like her, so why, I figured, would anyone really be interested in whom I am?

But of course people are; the subject matter that I write about creates intrigue; people want to know who the woman behind the explicit tales really is. And now, they have managed to find out.

For the last three days, a journalist has been pursuing me. They have invaded my privacy, violated my boundaries, and subjected me to constant harassment on my personal telephone number. They have also accosted me on my own doorstep in order to take a secret photograph (I had just woken up from a nap, and looked rough, of course); the photographer hid in my front garden in order to get the shot.

I have no wish to give this newspaper extra publicity, so I won’t be linking to them, but I do want to state for the record that I had nothing to do with this article, and that none of the information in it, came from me. I also want to ask the people who have read it, not to take it at face value: it’s a ‘story’, written by a journalist, and in which I had no input. And the outcome is that my life is no longer a private matter.

Knowing that the news has broken today – regardless of my wishing to remain anonymous – has meant I have now been forced to tell my family and friends my situation. They now all know about the blog and book and are aware of the explicit content of each. To my immense relief, they’ve all been wonderfully supportive whilst I’ve been hiding away from the press and trying to maintain some order in my life.

With my real identity now being thrust into the spotlight and with the inevitable onslaught of further media interest into my life, I might not be able to post on the blog at the moment. I do hope to be able to continue to voice my thoughts – in whatever way I can – on here soon. So watch this space.

Thanks for your understanding and support,
Abby

Eagle-eyed readers have informed me that posters for my book are currently being displayed on the London Underground. I understand that the posters are now up in over 80 tube stations across London and will be exhibited there for the next two weeks.

Given the book's impending release and my (understandable) paranoia about my anonymity being blown, I'm not going to be heading down the tube to have a quick peek, nor will I be snapping one for posterity whilst I am out and about. I cannot express how gutted I am about this; it is frustrating beyond belief to have such an incredible thing happen and not be able to rejoice about it in some way.

This is where you come in. Ever wanted to give The Girl a helping hand? Now you can... I would like to ask London-based readers of this blog to do me a massive favour and take photographs of the posters on the Underground and then email them to me (address is in the sidebar; remove the anti-spam text). I'll post the best one/s up here on the blog - with a credit of course. And I'll keep all the others as a memento, so none will go to waste.

Depending on how many I receive, most likely the winning picture/s will be up here in a few days. Thanks to those who take up this task and get trigger happy with their cameras on my behalf - I really appreciate it.

Looking forward to getting your pics,
Abby

P.S. Extra points will be awarded for photos including a LU logo or station name.