I’m not needy, or desperate. That’s important to get out of the way first. Despite people seeming to assume I am one, the other, or both… everyone has their own opinion, of course…

But I’m not helping myself much.

I know that, for the correct reasons, I married into a relationship with absolutely no sex. Our marriage is a happy and supportive one, with a lot of mutual care, affection and shared humour – I can’t imagine being with anyone else, despite having had three serious relationships before this. In fact, I knew there wouldn’t be a lot of sex well before our engagement.

I am (and have always been) a very highly sexual person – I’m ILB, for Glod’s sake – but, outside of cheating (not an option), opening up our marriage (also not an option) or starting a secret relationship with a fictional person (sounds too much like a novel plot to be an actual thing), there is the very real possibility that I will never, ever have sex again.

This isn’t really a problem, but it’s becoming more of a problem when bits of my life are steadily beginning to abandon me. I can no longer play the guitar; I have no regular social outlet either within or without the sex blogging community; I also have no opportunity to read into a microphone. Without music or comedy (despite vivid, but sad, fantasies about doing both) – and that’s not to mention my day job, which has changed so radically in the wrong direction that it may as well have been called something different – I am something of a shell of what I was ten years ago.

I can play video games. And I can read books. But that’s basically it.

Sex is an important part of my life and Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs will tell you so. I’d like to think that, in a way, I have a healthy enough sex life to tick that box. I don’t get to share my sexual energy with anyone, but I wank enough to give myself the release I need, and I buy porn, so the performers get something out of it too. (I’m quite focused on the porn I buy, actually; I’m still looking for an uncut version of Dungeon of Desire…) It’s not something I can do all the time, but when my wife isn’t home and I feel the urge and I’m alone…

So, this is all okay, right? Everything’s above board and nobody’s getting hurt, right? So why is this post titled “desperate” when I’ve just explained there isn’t any desperacy?

Simply put, despite all attempts to explain to the contrary, a little bit of my brain is trying to tell me that, after a decade and a half of no sex, a part of me is desperate. If I’m not watching porn (or reading a blog or erotica or writing something…), what works the best for me is a rapidly expanding list of “what-ifs”. What if I’d kissed her? What if I’d said something to her? Told her something else? Asked for her number? Bought her a drink? Become Galian Beast? They all end with having sex.

And then there are all the dreams I’m having in which I’m still in a relationship with my second girlfriend. While I’m of the opinion that she has Completely Moved On,β„’ the fact remains that we were the most sexually compatible couple that I’ve ever known – certainly ever been in – and the knowledge of this edges into my dreams, and my fantasies. If we’re going to have sex on the floor while listening to Adrian Henri, then I’m going to use that.

I’m sad afterwards – I remember how I reacted when that relationship ended and I’ve never felt closer to death than in that moment. But I don’t think about that when I’m about to come, do I?

Then there’s the trash fire that used to be called Twitter. 𝕏 is full of angry right-wingers and bare-faced abuse, but I use it to follow Zack Polanski and a number of fellow Greens, or at least that’s what I tell myself. The truth, of course, is that 𝕏 is also populated by an increasing number of horny, seductive women of about my age. While I’m aware that their constant “need cock now!” posts are mostly engagement farming, and that most of them are married anyway, once I’ve filtered out all the MAGA ones, what’s left is almost certain to pique my interest.

I suppose some of the desperate feelings are mostly out of guilt. It’s real people making me horny and the ones in porn (or on Chaturbate…) that are making me orgasm. Five of them I’ve slept with and only one of them is my wife.

I know this shouldn’t be a problem. It’s a me problem. Something that makes me think I am, in fact, desperate for the kind of sexual connection I’m not getting, although I’m not an incel or a meninist so I can’t even use crass ignorance as an excuse. I probably don’t even need an excuse, although I probably am desperate for one.

I probably shouldn’t have written this post as much as I probably shouldn’t be inventing stories or wanking to memories of my exes or following married Americans on 𝕏. It makes me sound awful, and it makes me feel terrible.

But I don’t like not knowing. Or being unsure. Or being left in the dark.

So maybe I am desperate for you to do at least one thing…

…EXPLAIN?!