What Playing The Violin Has Taught Me About Sex

Morgans pasty white body alongside their pretty pink violin. You can see most of their boob, but not their nipple, because... artsiness?

So, if you read my blog post about the coronavirus pandemic, you’ll know that I’m not exactly coping well with the apparent end of the world. 

So I bought a violin.

I could dissect why I bought a violin. I played violin for about a year when I was ten, almost entirely because my mum told me that if I could stick with it and learn the skills it was meant to teach me – reading music, tuning an instrument, doing things even when they’re hard – we could see about getting me an electric guitar. Except I didn’t stick with it, and when my mum did get me an electric guitar five years later, I didn’t stick with that, either. Maybe I bought a violin in the midst of the pandemic because I wanted to right that wrong and prove I can stick with difficult things. Maybe I bought a violin because I wanted something that reminded me of my childhood which, while turbulent, did not feature coronavirus at all. Maybe I just bought it because it was shiny and pink and matched my phone case.

It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that, so far, I am sticking with it. And I’m learning some skills which I’ve realised I can apply to sex – skills I’m going to tell y’all about, in case you were on the fence about your own ridiculous violin purchase. 

The first of these skills is, of course, perseverance. Whether it’s the BPD or just who I am as a person, I’m extremely sensitive to the feeling that I’ve failed, and will usually avoid activities I’m not already good at for the sake of my sanity. Avoidance works well, as dysfunctional coping strategies go, but it means that I never practice the skill of taking on the information I’ve learned from “failing” and trying something different. Practising violin has meant a lot of wincing at notes I’ve played “wrong” (as much as you can ever go wrong when doing something artistic) but then readjusting my fingers and trying again. Similarly, in sex, it’s important to be able to take feedback on board, readjust your fingers and try again, preferably without crying. Playing violin has taught me that I might not be instantly good at everything, but that I’m capable of improving and that trying again is worth the effort.

Playing violin has also taught me to slow down when something isn’t going my way, rather than to panic. Taking one’s time is important during sex, even during quick, desperate fucks, because it’s the difference between putting a condom on correctly or having it split on you, or between bumping someone’s cervix with a dildo and not doing that, or between sustaining an injury and coming out of the fuck unscathed. 

On the topic of injuries: violin is teaching me the hard way to listen to my body. I’m very good at ignoring or muscling through alarming levels of pain, but I can’t do that with the violin, because in the long term (“long” here meaning “a few hours” – I’m still not good at conceptualising the future beyond that) I know it will bite me in the arse. See, I’m excited to be learning the violin, and that means that I have to stop when it hurts, so that I can play some more later that day. (And oh my God, does it hurt – it works muscles in my back I didn’t know existed, and leaves me clutching my wrist or shoulder and wincing if I overdo it.) Stopping activities when they start to hurt me is not something I’m well-versed in, but it’s important even for a masochist like me to be able to read their own body and react accordingly. (Or accordionly… because, you know, musical instruments… I’ll show myself out.)

Then there are the “hard” skills violin is teaching me. My joints fucking suck, but I’m pretty sure I can already feel my fingers getting stronger and my shoulders stabilise a little. I’m also constantly improving my hand-eye coordination whilst playing, as well as my ability to multitask and do different things with each of my hands. (I will leave it to you to imagine why this might be helpful during sex.) I can also read music again, after more than a decade of refusing to even look at a stave; reading music isn’t a useful skill for sex, but it’s a useful skill to brag about to the people with whom you’re having the sex. And bragging about my violin progress has boosted my confidence! People find confidence sexy, or so I’ve heard, and all the skills I’ve learnt from the violin have made me more confident in every department – including the sex department. Maybe that’s what I needed from the violin: confidence.

It doesn’t matter, because my violin is shiny and pink, and I can play Mary Had A Little Lamb on it now.


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Separating Art From Artist

A stock photo of paints, pencils, etc on a messy desk, cause you know, every artist is a hot mess

There is some bloody good art in the world. Loads of it, in fact. And some of it is made by horrible people.

Maybe “horrible people” is a bit strong, but people make choices that harm others, and artists are no exception to this rule. Sometimes these are horrible-people-level bad choices, and sometimes they’re misspoke-in-an-interview-level bad choices, but the fact remains that artists, like everyone, have the capacity to do harm, but unlike everyone, have a much bigger audience to whom they can do it. Doing harm to people is, of course, bad, but good art is good, and so we face the question: can I still enjoy the art? Or am I being a heartless bastard?

There is often a call, when a celebrity or author or actor or whoever fucks up, to “separate the art from the artist!”. It’s my view, though, that art is always shaped by its artist, that every tiny bit of every one of their works has them baked into it, and that you literally cannot “separate” the two. What this call actually seems to mean is, “Consume the art and stop complaining!”, which is a very different kettle of fish. Yes, sometimes the art is bloody good, but should an artist’s behaviour affect art they made before their shitty actions? Can I still enjoy the art, or am I being a heartless bastard for even wanting to?

When I’m trying to decide whether or not to carry on consuming the work of any particular artist, I like to ask myself three questions:

  1. Is it my place to forgive this person?

First things first: does it matter what I think? This post was inspired by J. K. Rowling’s recent transphobic word-diarrhea, and in that case, yeah, I get a vote; I’m trans. In other cases, though, like those of racism or of sexual assault, I prefer to listen to the people who are actually being harmed, and always err on the side of caution when it comes to supporting the artist in question, even if they apologise or donate a bunch of money somewhere or hire a skywriter to scrawl, “People of colour are okay, actually!” across the sky. If it isn’t my place to offer an artist forgiveness, that’s where my line of thought ends – but if it is, I keep thinking.

2. What real-world difference does my consumption of this art make?

Vivaldi may or may not have been a nonce. One could argue that I’m not really hurting anyone by jamming to Spring, because he and all his victims have been dead for a very long time, but I like to look a little closer: who is seeing me knowingly enjoy the work of a nonce? More broadly, I ask myself: Will my consumption of this art hurt people’s feelings? Make them feel alone in their struggle, or like I don’t care about their pain? Will it make them think that their bad behaviour is maybe a little more okay? Where is my money going, and will it be empowering more shitty people to do more shitty things? Essentially: will I be doing more harm?

3. How badly do I need this art?

Like I said before, this post is about JKR. I was huge into Harry Potter back in the day, devouring the same seven books over and over again, muttering along with the movies’ dialogue, planning my first Harry Potter tattoo – the works. Harry Potter was my solace for a lot of my life, and it helped me to find community when I was otherwise struggling to. The thought of losing Harry Potter hurts – but, really, it’s already lost. I clearly don’t need this particular art enough to ignore its artist’s transphobic bullshit, because I find myself now thoroughly turned off by every Potter reference I see. And it’s obviously not the same art I thought it was when I was younger, if we’re subscribing to the notion that an artist is baked into their work, because art coming from someone with a worldview that allows for transphobia is very different to art coming from somebody else.

I actually can’t imagine a scenario where I would ignore harm done to others for the sake of a good book or banging tune, but I like to ask myself this last question just in case – and also to remind myself that, actually, it’s no big loss if I have to cut the artist in question out of my life.


It hurts when an artist who made something we love behaves badly. It feels like the art has been taken away from us, even though what’s actually happened is just that we’ve learned more about who that artist is as a person. It stings, and it can be tempting to grit your teeth through the pain and keep enjoying the art. I’m not saying you have to follow my lead in asking yourself these questions and ditching artists who do harm, but I am asking you to consider the impact of your art consumption and to, you know, care about other people. Please?

Things I Wish I’d Known Before Starting A Sex Blog

Hi! If you’ve found my blog for the first time via this post, my name is Morgan, and I’ve been sex-blogging since March, 2018. I can only imagine you’re here because either 1. You want to start your own sex blog or 2. You don’t, but you’re still really interested in the process of writing and running a sex blog. Either way, you’ve come to the right place! I’m going to share some things I wish I’d been told before starting up a sex blog, and I hope they’re of some use – or just interest – to y’all.

1. You will run out of ideas.

You may think this sounds impossible if you’ve just started to sink your teeth into the idea of sex blogging. “But Morgan,” you cry, “I have so many ideas! I filled two notebook pages with ’em!”

Yes, my beloved, it feels like you have so many ideas that you will never be stuck for inspiration. But then you’ll look at your list of potential blog titles, muttering, “Boring, played out, already covered that topic in a different post, boring, boring, irrelevant now,” until all you have left is some half-legible scribble that appears to only say Dick veins???

The thing is, when you first start thinking about putting together a sex blog, you’ll be excited, and you’ll probably brainstorm a whole bunch of topics that you could potentially write about. But, as that excitement mellows out a little, you’ll start to realise that some of them just aren’t viable, interesting or fun to write about. And you’ll have gotten used to having dozens of ideas in the pipeline, so once you’ve covered all your initial inspirations… you’ll be kind of stuck. It happens to everyone.

Everyone has a different way of overcoming it, though. Personally, I have been known to go through the alphabet, thinking of sex-related words for each letter and then thinking of whether I want to write about any of those. Other people recommend always carrying a notebook in case inspiration strikes, but I just use my phone – which then syncs everything to the ever-mystical Cloud so that my ideas don’t get lost down the back of an armchair.

The most important thing is to be kind to yourself, and acknowledge that this is a normal part of the sex-blogging learning curve. If you really wanna start a sex blog, you have to be prepared for the days you really don’t wanna write your sex blog.

2. It’s easier to start self-hosted than to change over later on

All the talk about self-hosting versus using WordPress or similar sounds technical and intimidating – as does actually going self-hosted. The only things I’ll say are: self-hosting is easier now than it has ever been, and I’ve never had a problem I couldn’t Google my way out of; self-hosting means your site won’t get removed for being naughty; it’s a pain to move your blog to any new URL once it’s established; nobody actually cares whether you’re self-hosted or not except for algorithms, you and your bank balance. Self-hosting isn’t hugely expensive, but it’s beyond some people’s budgets, and that’s fine! If you choose not to host your own site, nobody is judging you, I promise. (If they are, tell me and I’ll kick ’em in the shins for you.)

Basically: self-hosting has its advantages, and you should keep your options open where you can.

(You can also just buy the domain name you want to make sure nobody else snags it, go WordPress-hosted and save self-hosting for another time.)

3. Writing erotica is… weird. And not sexy

Okay, I’ve known this since before sex blogging, but it kinda feels weirder the wider your audience is. During my fanfiction days, I only had to worry about the responses of a handful of IRL friends and another handful of internet nerds who were just as confused about the mechanics of anal sex as I was. But knowing that nearly 1,000 people now see my weird sexy writing each month makes it all the harder to sit down in sweat- and menses-stained pyjamas and type the word “shaft” with a straight face. Finding words for body parts in erotica will have you cringing out of your skin, but d’you know what else will? When you get so deep into the flow of writing that you write something weirdly dirty or kinky, that’s uncharacteristic of you but that gives you a spiky little tingle in your pants. For me personally, the cringe factor overrides my arousal and I don’t use my own erotica to wank, but maybe you’ll find it less weird than I do upon starting a sex blog! I really hope so, ’cause it’s fucking weird!

4. It’s really rewarding to run a sex blog

For all the complications you might run into (internet weirdos crossing your boundaries, self-hosting stress and more!), starting a sex blog was so worth it for me. Every now and then, someone reaches out through my Contact Form or my Twitter DMs to tell me how much my writing has benefitted them – be it through helping them have better sex, teaching them something new or making them feel less weird and alone for being kinky/autistic/queer/etc. Those messages are what drive me to work on my SEO and site design, to help me reach as many people as possible – and they’re what you should be hoping for if you’re looking at starting a sex blog. Sex is super politicised in our culture, and you have to be aware that sex blogging is a political act – but one that can really, tangibly improve other people’s lives.

So, what are you waiting for? Go choose a cool pseudonym!


The pandemic and subsequent lockdown that’s going on right now means that I’ve lost a lot of work opportunities (because every other fucker at my agency is snagging jobs before I can). If you want to help me out, please do consider buying me a coffee or commissioning transcripts or captions from me!