“I’d see you casually,” says the voice on the other end of the phone, “but I wouldn’t want anything serious.” “Why?” I ask, tears welling up. “Because of your articles.” I’m about eight drinks deep and it’s probably not the best time for this conversation, but being inebriated does somewhat soften the blow: my writing has made me undateable – at least in the long-term.

Ironically, there’s a high chance that the man on the other end of the phone (let’s call him Archie*) gave me an STD. Clearly, we’re both shagging around, but only one of us writes about it. (I’m not a sex expert – my thing is more intercourse in absurd locations and UTIs than intimacy tips.)

But for anyone contemplating documenting their own exploits – on social, on Substack, or like me, in published articles – note that while revealing all about your sex life might make you less of a long-term romantic prospect for some, it won’t make you unshaggable. On the contrary, there will be hordes of men in your DMs. They respect your candour. They’d actually love to take you for a drink sometime. And that has absolutely nothing to do with them thinking you’re perpetually “up for it”.

If you’re anything like me, then naively, you’ll buy it. You’ll go for the drink, ignoring the nagging feeling that your writing really is closing certain doors – if only for the hope of those 10 magical minutes the morning after, spent gazing into his eyes and thinking you can have both: the bylines and the boyfriend.

Later that day, you’ll get the text. Since removing his penis from inside you, he’s come to the realisation that your “lifestyles don’t align”. That you “party too much”, while he “runs six times a week”. That you’re “looking for different things”. You’ll take it on the chin, but that night you won’t be able to stop picturing his aghast mum reading your more explicit articles. “ is your future wife?”

It’s not just me. Search “dating stories” on TikTok and you’ll find video after video of women recounting their “worst Hinge fails” in excruciating detail. Some are influencers, their story-time serving as the soundtrack to a #GRWM featuring a load of #gifted products. Others are not part of the creator economy at all, and it’s harder to pinpoint why they’re exposing their personal lives for public consumption. Watching from the other side of the screen, you begin to wonder about the repercussions. Won’t potential suitors worry that they too could become content? If they do, isn’t that fair enough?

There’s a frustrating tension underpinning all of this. Self-expression is self-expression – you can’t police it. Candour for clicks, on the other hand, can feel hollow. Not all oversharing is created equal, either: there’s a hierarchy. At the top are the Lily Allens of the world: artists who turn personal pain into creative output, and are respected for it rather than experiencing negative repercussions. Somewhere further down the pyramid, there’s the self-proclaimed “amateur diarist” with a Substack, one of whom I’m friends with. “Has oversharing made you undateable?” I ask her. “Pretty much,” she replies. “People think dating me is going to tarnish their own reputation, or their potential to date again.” In truth? “I’m just a nice girl who likes to yap on my blog.” And right at the bottom? The five-minute social media recap of a mundane date in Clapham.

For me, it’s learned behaviour. Long before I was writing for or , I was on Twitter, firing off comebacks to whoever took issue with how many times I’d been fingered in the local club that weekend. Ten years later, I operate under the same impulse: it can’t hurt me if I say it first.

There have been tears, of course, and I’ve had to learn how to navigate it. These days, I go on dates armed with a few stock phrases. “I ham it up” is a favourite, a polite way of saying, “I’m not mad.” I’ve come to expect trysts with a psychoanalytical flavour. “Do you think you might have a personality disorder?” “Daddy issues?” By date three or four, I might even offer a rebuttal. “Would you be asking this if I hadn’t written an article about my ‘fuck list’?” It can be tough, but it’s the price I pay for the catharsis. I won’t be hanging up my keyboard anytime soon. Not if I want that book deal.

I have thought about what Archie* said, though. Lying on a beach in Greece this summer, wondering whether or not to write about the STD he may have given me, I realised he had a point. Not everyone wants their love life in print.

I still don’t know where the line is. It was chlamydia, by the way. If that’s an overshare, at least it’s an overshare in .

*This name has been changed