Are you doing it for yourself, or the plot?

True stories from people who used their love lives for content—and those who didn’t see it coming

Hi guys! I’m doing a new series where I interview my readers about their love lives, giving you a window into other people’s experiences with sex, dating, and desire. You can submit suggested topics HERE; all submissions will be anonymous, so include your contact info if you want to be interviewed.

We’ve all done it: Spin our latest sexcapade into comedy gold, skewer our situationship in the group chat, or channel our dating woes into a viral TikTok. But in the era of social media, where do we draw the line between public and private—and how much discretion do we owe the people we date?

As a sex columnist, I get asked this question all the time—mostly in the context of my own love life. But you don’t need to be a writer to be grappling with the same dilemma. On social media, everyone is a storyteller—and whether you’ve got a major platform or just main character energy, the line between experience and performance is increasingly blurred.

It’s not just technology that’s reshaping intimacy. In a time where it’s easier to get gig work than a steady job, a personal brand is no longer optional but obligatory—and many of us are sharing our experiences not just to entertain, but to pay the bills. So when it comes to making content from our love lives, what’s the line between exploitation and empowerment—and how can we tell when we’re experiencing authentic desire, or just doing it for the bit?

One man’s kink is another man’s content

This hit home for me recently, when my friend told me how he introduced his hookup to impact play—only to find the details of his sex life laid bare on their podcast. “I’m sitting there, listening to this episode, and realizing it’s about me,” says Robert, whose name has been changed along with the others in this piece. “I didn’t know that what we were doing together was podcast fodder. It made me wonder: Was this sexual exploration about the experience itself, or were they doing it for he story?”

Taking back the story—and Julia Fox’s ex

For some, “doing it for the plot” is an essential part of their identity as a single person—a way of owning their own experiences, and bonding with their friends over them. “I like collecting stories,” says Eva, a Pleasure-Seeking reader who once dated a guy who also dated Julia Fox, mostly for the bit. “He was a reformed hot mess and I liked him for a while, but it was the Julia Fox thing that made him not-just-another-street-urchin in my eyes.”

These stories became a part of her public persona via a blog where she shared juicy stories of her romantic life. “In our circle, it became a guessing game: who was who? I heard that a couple of guys were sad about their stories—they were all anonymous and exaggerated,” she says.

Privacy: Preference or prerequisite?

In Eva’s view, privacy is a personal preference. “If you do not have a trusting relationship with someone, it is too much to ask that you safeguard your own experiences,” she says. “However, we should try to treat each other with respect.”

But that’s the thing: respect looks different for everyone. Robert, who once hooked up with a celebrity, has no problem dropping that anecdote at cocktail parties—but he draws the line at discussing personal details like dick size. In contrast, Eva was baffled by her boyfriend’s refusal to share dick pics. “Don’t be so uptight, I thought. The only person who would care to see them is me and a tight-knit circle of seven friends.”

From content to conquest

Another Pleasure-Seeking reader, Teagan, broke up with her long-term partner and found herself on a journey of sexual experimentation. “I figured I was doing it for two reasons: To have sex with hot people and figure out what I liked in my newly single context—and to have great stories to tell my friends,” she says.

At first, it was fun: “I was like, I’m Carrie Bradshaw—I have to clock into the sex stories factory,” she recalls. She felt a duty to entertain, and telling stories about her exploits made her feel desirable, adventurous, and interesting. But after a summer of sleeping around—mostly with women who weren’t her type—she started questioning her own motives. “I noticed that I was sharing more about the encounters that were unsatisfying. Like, it would take me a minute to remember those women’s names,” she says. “It was fun to be a frat boy for a while. But then I was like, Oh no, I’m talking like a man. It’s like a conquest thing, a little bit.”

When passion becomes performance

This came to a head one night when—after live-tweeting a date to her friends—she wound up back at the girl’s place. “I was like, I’m reporting live from Brooklyn, going on a date with a Bushwick software engineer. Let’s see how the sex goes,” she recalls. “I’m not attracted to her, I thought, but let’s just try it.”

She was doing it for the story—but afterward, she hardly remembered the sex. “I couldn’t tell you a single thing, because I was out of it the whole time. I was so dissociated, which had never happened to me,” she says. “I remember the next morning, watching her put on her trendy little white lace socks, and thinking to myself, I can’t keep doing this.”

For Teagan, treating dating like gonzo journalism had gotten in the way of authentic connection. She found herself entertaining people she didn’t really click with, more interested in the story than the experience itself—exactly the kind of situation Robert wanted to avoid in his own love life.

For his hookup, sharing details about their sex life on the podcast was non-negotiable; so after an honest conversation, the pair parted ways. “I’m not here to shame anyone for ‘oversharing’—we’re all navigating this new landscape of social media,” he says. “It just got me thinking about the people I’m seeing online, and wondering how much of the experiences they’re sharing are something they did so that they could talk about it later.”

Main character energy, or a Carrie Complex?

Personally, I love hearing anecdotes from my friends’s love lives. But some view compulsive sharing as a sign of what Tiana Randall terms a “Carrie complex”: “There’s a fine line between discussing the plights of your love life alongside chats about work and life and incessantly reeling off stories about your dating escapades,” she writes in an article for Dazed.

Eva agrees—stating that even though she loves collecting stories, she’s also been on the receiving end of friendships that hardly pass the Bechdel test. “Sometimes I have somebody come to process, and they’re so upset about a first date. I’m like, this is a person you talked to on Hinge that you met once for a drink for an hour. These types of short-term interactions with men don’t merit a three-hour conversation.”

As Sex and the City taught us, dating is a form of self-exploration—and sharing our romantic missteps can be a way to make meaning from our experiences, even if they didn’t turn out as you’d hope. For some, talking about our love lives is a way of owning the narrative. And doing it for the story isn’t always the bad thing.:My job as a writer has led me to chase wild stories, putting myself in situations I never would have otherwise—like interviewing my ex-boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend, or sneaking into a $12,000 sex party.

“That didn’t strike me as a party that you would have gone to, had you not been able to make a story out of it,” Robert points out. “But it’s not always that clear cut. Let me put it this way: If you were on a dating app and you saw West Elm Caleb, would you swipe right?”

My answer is immediate: “Unfortunately, yes,” I admit. “I’m not single—but for the content, I would.”

I want to hear from my readers. So tell me, where do you draw the line between public and private when it comes to your love life? When does performing our identities interfere with authentic intimacy—and how do we tell when we’re living in the moment, or for the story we’ll tell later?

Sound off in the comments, or submit your answer anonymously here.