The end of me

I wonder if I’m dying.
Not literally. I’m not that self obsessed and dour.
But a part of me.
A big part of me.
The sex part of me.

Nearly 7 years ago, when I started this sex blog, I was hopeful that there would be sex in my future. I made efforts to reintroduce sex into Our marriage and was optimistic that at some point, my Wife and I would have a sex life that at least vaguely resembled normality. When opportunities to have sex arose, I took them with enthusiasm and invested them with fated optimism. In those early years, I could easily rattle out more blog posts about sex – exploring not only my relationships with my Wife and my exes, but also with sex itself – than could be reasonably published on a daily basis. And most days, even if I wasn’t getting to fuck my Wife, my fist would be slick with my own cum at least once, if not twice … or more.

Years have passed.

Now, I wonder if a piece of me is finally dying.

Over the last two or three months, I have been blogging less and less. It is easy to find things to fill the space both in my consciousness and day that used to be filled with sex. Without Molly and Sinful Sunday, I sometimes wonder if I would lack the momentum to continue.

I have deleted the Tumblr app from my phone. For a couple of years this has been my goto source for porn, and has fueled my lust for latex. I would thumb through hard-core gifs and rubbery delights several times a day, and not infrequently jerk off over my perverted feed. Then I removed the app, albeit initially out of convenience as I was running out of space on my smartphone. But after a little data housekeeping, I could easily have restore it. If I cared to. Which I don’t seem to.

In the last couple of weeks, when I have necessarily walked into my Wife’s bedroom – it formerly being Our bedroom, some of my clothes are still stored there – I have felt no impetus to interrogate Her underwear drawer.

In the months running up to our recent family holiday, I was wearing my ball stretchers every night. On our return, I have felt no desire to bolt them around my junk whatsoever.

And what seems most significant is that I am less and less The Accidental Masturbator. I am masturbating less and less. If I have cum once a week in the last month or more, I would be surprised. Sure, when I lie in bed at night, my hand still unconsciously gravitates to my cock – if it is flaccid, I rectify that, and if it is not, I thrash at it abusively. If I wake in the night with an erection, I will attend to it. And my relentless morning wood is rarely ignored. But something is profoundly different – I don’t cum. It’s not that I can’t – I dare say I could – there is no indication of sexual dysfunction – I just can’t be bothered to put the effort in. I might beat at my tool for 10 or 20 seconds, but I quickly become irritated and violently twist in my bed, burying my face and my eager member in the mattress.

I’m starting to realise I’m just not as interested in sex as I was.
Or at least not in a participatory way.
Is something in me dying?

You will have no trouble divining how have I come to this parlous state, Loyal Reader. Years of enforced celibacy have cut me deep. The bloodied knife and what is left of my eviscerated sexual identity lie at the feet of my own Lady Macbeth, and I wonder whether it is truly done for.

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