Married. Loyal. Horny. Ignored. This isn’t a blog post — it’s a scream into the void with a hard-on and a broken heart. Strap in.
Okay, I’ve been holding this in for too long.
My wife doesn’t want to have sex anymore.
And it’s driving me absolutely f**king insane.
Not like “aw she’s tired tonight” — no, this is weeks, months, of dry spell desert mode. Like I’m in a monogamous Sahara.
Meanwhile, I’m walking around rock hard like a possessed hyena with no outlet. I touch her shoulder, she flinches. I kiss her neck, she stiffens up like I’m her creepy uncle. I bring up sex and she suddenly remembers 57 errands she has to do, including alphabetizing the spice rack.
What. The. Hell.
I didn’t sign up for this. I didn’t marry a roommate.
I didn’t get into this to be “a great provider” while I’m secretly jerking off in the garage next to a rake and a box of Christmas lights.
You feel me?
I Know What You’re Gonna Say: “Just Be Romantic…”
Shut up.
I’ve done the flowers. The backrubs. The “how was your day, babe?”
I’ve watched her terrible reality shows. I’ve cooked the f*cking salmon.
And I get NOTHING. Not even a mercy bang.
So yeah, I bought a toy. Actually, I bought like six.
Thanks, Sexy Pharmacy, by the way — because guess what?
If she’s not interested in keeping me satisfied, I’m gonna outsource my pleasure. Battery-powered, silicone-sleeved, vengeance-fueled pleasure.
And before anyone says “porn is cheating” — spare me.
What’s cheating is leaving your man emotionally and physically starving while you scroll Instagram and send heart emojis to Pedro Pascal.
I’m Not Mad. I’m Just… Okay I’m Mad.
I want to feel wanted. Is that so wrong?
I want to be kissed like she used to kiss me when we were drunk at a concert and she climbed on top of me in the backseat like a damn animal.
I want to have sex that feels alive, not like a business transaction with HR-approved lighting and a silent fumble under the covers while trying not to wake the dog.
I miss her. I miss us.
But I’m starting to realise… she doesn’t.
And that sh*t hurts worse than blue balls.
It’s soul blue balls.
So What the F*ck Do I Do Now?
Therapy? Maybe.
Talk about it? Tried that.
Work on myself? Already doing it. Gym every day. Protein shakes. Confidence. Abs coming back. Hairline… still fighting.
But I’m not gonna sit here like some neutered husband, “respecting her space” while my masculinity slowly rots in a forgotten drawer next to our unused sex toys.
Nah. I’m done being passive.
If she wants out, she can say it.
Until then?
I’m gonna keep being sexy.
I’m gonna keep being loyal.
And I’m gonna keep showing up… for myself.
Fellas, You Deserve Better.
If you’re in this situation — I see you.
You’re not crazy. You’re not broken.
You’re just stuck in a situation where love became laundry and desire got filed under “someday.”
Get your groove back.
Buy the toy. Use the lube. Talk your truth.
And if she won’t listen, then maybe it’s time you stop listening too.
Love shouldn’t feel like punishment.
Sex shouldn’t feel like begging.
And you, my man — you are not a ghost.
You're a storm.
Start f**king acting like it.