Four-and-a-half years ago, fingers hovering over a keyboard, I did something that, unbeknown to me, would change my life forever: I began to write about my sex life in explicit detail and then publish it, anonymously, on the internet on a blog entitled Girl with a One Track Mind

Back then, I felt frustrated by the view that women needed to have an emotional connection to fully enjoy sex: that certainly didn't apply to me. We might be living in a post-Sex and the City generation, surrounded by magazines offering tips on how to have better orgasms, and vibrators recommended to achieve that, but those same publications still tend to frown on women who relish and pursue sex outside a long-term relationship. Being able to write secretly on my blog allowed me to highlight, through my female and feminist perspective, that if a woman enjoyed casual sex it did not make her 'dirty' or a 'slut' or pathological: it just meant she liked sex - and there was absolutely nothing wrong with that.

Writing anonymously and not having to worry about people judging me, or about my violating others' privacy, I recounted, explicitly, the sex I had had, be it good or bad. I spared no detail, because I wanted to reflect the reality of sex in the most truthful way possible, in the hope that other women who read the blog would relate to my experiences, and that the men reading might unlearn some of the bad habits they'd seemingly picked up from the falsities of porn.

Little did I know that, a couple of years down the line, all my lovers, exes, friends, neighbours, colleagues and family would be reading the blog too. But that's exactly what happened when I lost my anonymity in August 2006. By then, visitors to my blog were in excess of two million and I had scored a book deal out of the blog's popularity. Quite a few people, it seemed, were interested in what I had to say about sex and, unfortunately for me, certain elements of the press were too: they decided to find out who was the 'shameless' woman behind the 'sordid' tales, and three days after the book was published, a national newspaper did an exposé on me and 'outed' my identity to the world.

It was tough suddenly being thrust into the public eye and having to cope with a media onslaught; and I struggled to pick up the pieces of my private life. Suddenly I was deluged by people appearing out of the woodwork whom I hadn't spoken to in years; I'm not sure whether it was worse fielding calls from exes who wanted reassuring that I had disguised details about them, or that the men who had broken my heart got to read my feelings about that, in all their gory detail. Either way, whatever privacy in the intimacy I had had was forever lost.

After people discovered who was behind the infamous online secret sex diary, it seemed that everyone wanted to comment on the merits, or not, of me, and especially about how I looked. I'd get dozens of emails from men - strangers from the internet - telling me I was 'gorgeous' and asking me out on a date. But then I'd also get the same amount of hate mail. If you did a web search on my name, you'd come up with scores of comments about my appearance, almost all negative.

Given I believe that self-worth comes from within, I'm fine with people thinking me not beautiful; I accept I'm not 'pretty'; I know that feeling good about myself - who I am - is far more attractive and sexy than surface beauty; and I don't base my self-esteem on external validation about my attractiveness from men. One might assume, then, that I wasn't bothered about the vitriol thrown my way. Privately, though, I reeled from the onslaught of personal attacks, and even now I am conscious that every time my face appears - alongside this article, even - I will be judged on how I look, rather than on what I say. And a part of me started to care about this, which contradicted everything I wrote about and hoped to achieve on my blog: that it was OK to be a woman expressing her wish to desire a man, rather than be the object of desire.

I've always relied on my sarcasm, stupid witticisms and nerdy clumsiness to have success in romance and sex and now I was faced with potential dates from men who I neither knew, or trusted, but who had read the most intimate details of my sex life and then told me they thought I was sexy and attractive. With my confidence at an all-time low, and afraid that these approaches were due to guys who wanted 'a piece' of the action they'd read about, I lost all trust in dating, and men in general, removing myself from the dating arena entirely. The months after my 'outing' in the press were spent mostly on my own - ironic for such a previously 'active' sex diarist.

But women have needs, and eventually I ended up bedding a series of Z-list (OK, perhaps M-list) celebrities who approached me through the blog and who I knew wouldn't spill the beans, due to our shared desire for privacy. Hotels were obtained, condoms procured, and an author, a rock star and a TV personality were all ticked off my nonexistent list. The excitement and novelty of these secret trysts soon wore off though; I began to realise that I did need external validation from someone - but of the emotional sort. The aftermath of losing my anonymity had left me feeling fragile: I needed to curl up in someone's arms, not just shag them senseless.

Expressing that want to the world though was not something I wished to do: it was bad enough having to ignore the hate mail without then revealing my vulnerabilities to others. Falling back into the embrace of an ex-lover was almost inevitable, I suppose: their familiarity was reassuring to me and the trust we shared was implicit. I was able to relax and just be myself, without worrying about how I might be perceived, or judged. Indeed, one night I burst into tears while having sex - a first for me - and rather than freaking out as a casual fuck-buddy might do, my ex just held me close and kissed me; it was the intimacy I needed. While enjoyable, the encounter was short-lived, sadly, and I knew I wanted - and needed - something more meaningful and long-term now. Eventually I decided to take the plunge and risk dating again.

At first, I thought the best option would be to meet someone through friends. My mates, bless their hearts, would introduce me to a potential suitor by saying, 'This is Zoe, she's the sex diarist!' and, almost every time, said man's eyes would widen into an expression of startled shock. It wasn't the most productive method in obtaining future dates: almost every conversation would continue, 'You're not going to write about this, are you?' and I'd have to point out that describing sharing a pint of beer doesn't make for particularly interesting commentary. The one time I did end up in bed with a friend, he spent the whole night telling me that he was worried he wouldn't 'be as good as the other men' I had written about, while I was fretting over what an anti-climax I might be - literally - to him, with his knowing about my supposed sexual notoriety. Suffice it to say that the time we spent together under the duvet was fraught with anxiety, rather than hot sex.

These issues meant I soon gave up friends as sources of dates, and given I had now lost all my face-to-face confidence with blokes, I figured that perhaps in an environment I felt comfortable with - the internet - I might have more luck with them. So I joined a number of dating sites, wrote what I thought was a reasonably witty profile, put up the obligatory one-inch-sized photograph, and crossed my fingers, hoping that perhaps I'd encounter someone who found me interesting enough to want to meet for a date.

What happened shocked me. Soon after I joined the websites, I was then emailed by handfuls of men who would open their messages with, 'Aren't you Girl with a One Track Mind?' Evidently, the medium in which I had become known had propelled me to be a little too well-known for my liking and I'd politely decline and ignore any further emails. When guys then wrote to me and didn't mention the blog, I would raise my hopes, only to have them dashed when I met them, and they'd admit to me that, like the other men, they had recognised me from my picture and were also 'fans' of the blog. Because of their massively intimate knowledge of me, I felt there was no foundation on which to build an equal, healthy, romantic relationship: I backed away from those men too, nice though they were, and shut off my computer, calling it a day.

If it sounds like I would never date someone who's familiar with my blog, that's not the case. But if they're British? That's now highly unlikely. Faced with a woman who's written about sex, Brit blokes are more liable to stare at the ceiling and nervously share their insecurities, rather than just getting stuck in, so to speak. 'I feel weird being in bed with the Girl with a One Track Mind,' one English guy said to me, as we lay side by side, not touching. 'You're not,' I sighed. 'You're in bed with Zoe.' My experience over the last two years has shown me that we Brits are a little hung up about sex. We seem to stagger from a saucy, 'Carry-On-ooh-matron!' type approach to a stigmatised, disapproving and critical perspective with not much in between. To talk about sex among British folk causes red faces; a woman who talks about shagging can expect to be severely chastised. I'm still stunned at the terminology the press - and others - used to describe me, just because I wrote about my sex life.

Contrast this to New York, where I've been spending increasing amounts of time, and the difference is amazing. When I was last there, I happened to pick up a free paper on a street corner, and read something just as explicit as anything I had ever written. For a moment I was surprised, and then relieved: it showed a much more progressive attitude to sex than Britain; I can't imagine an evening paper here carrying an article advocating mutual masturbation.

This open-minded outlook was even more evident to me when I recently met some New Yorkers and told them I was a sex writer. 'Oh, so your book's like the real Sex in the City?' they'd reply. Well perhaps, minus the expensive shoes, and with a lot more shagging, yeah. And then they'd add, 'Who isn't a sex writer, nowadays?' and they're right: in New York so many folk are. In fact, there's a whole community of them: a group of New York-based sex bloggers who meet every month to chat over a cup of tea. I can't envisage the same happening here in the UK, good cuppa or not; we are a disparate, embarrassed lot, who write in secret, because, when we speak openly, we're met with disapproval.

The nicest discovery I've made about New York though is the men. In a city where people date in tandem, and only 'go steady' with one person when they're ready to be 'exclusive' to them, the guys naturally have a much more open-minded attitude to sex and dating. Refreshingly, most of the men I've met there have never heard of my blog or book, so getting to know one of them on a more personal level offers up an equal starting point from which to learn about the other person - which makes for far more romantic possibilities down the line. What's even better is that, when I have mentioned what I've written about, the blokes seem nonplussed by my past, and it's comforting to know that actually, it's really not that big a deal. In fact, one New York man I slept with shrugged away any interest in reading about my sex life, preferring instead to 'experience it first-hand', as he put it, when we were in bed together. Result.

Through my 'outing' I've had time to reflect on my own life a lot and examine my thoughts on sex and relationships. I still don't subscribe to the view that women should devote their time solely seeking a spiritual connection to enjoy desirable sex, because I don't think that is true. However, I'm at a point where I now accept I have a need to be fulfilled emotionally as well as physically with someone; I feel ready to be with someone special for the long-term. I'm just not confident that is possible for me to achieve in the UK now; too much of my personal life has been on display and the English attitude towards sex is reflected in how men view and relate to me: awkwardly.

In contrast, because of the openness of its residents and since I already have some dates lined up for when I am next there, I'm hopeful about what New York - and my future - might hold for me: I am planning to move there as soon as I can.

It may seem that my view of New York is idealised, but it's not: I know that there's superficiality and shallowness in the city and most likely I will still encounter people who feel uncomfortable or threatened by me. But overall I'm hopeful that I can make a fresh start and meet a man with whom I can settle down. At the very least, being there will help me shed the insecurities and inhibitions that I've developed as a result of losing my anonymity - and that's no bad thing. Hopefully I'll be able to slip quietly into the background and become just another single woman - albeit with the advantage of a London accent - looking for, and finding, love in the Big Apple ... and writing about it, of course.