I went to bed last night after a short exchange with a new fan. This happens often when someone subscribes: their first message is a strange cocktail of wow š and happiness that somehow rises from deep sadness.
Let me explain.
He told me he masturbates regularly, but always in secret (usually in the shower or when his wifeās not home).
No porn, he said. Too terrified of being ācaughtā and labeled a dirty old man (his words, not mine). Instead, he uses his imagination. Old memories. Faces from the past.
But recently, something shifted. Maybe it was courage. Maybe it was desperation hitting harder. Either way, he opened an Instagram account, his first ever.
And you know what happens next. The algorithm read him like an open book. It fed him exactly what he was craving: temptation, novelty, arousalā¦ but also, maybe, just maybe, a friendly smile.
And thenā¦
I popped up in his feed. (Yeyyy š„³.)
Long story short? He followed the link. You know where that led. š
Heās 59. Married for decades. The kids are grown and flown. The house is paid off. The bank account is healthy. The gardenās immaculate.
From the outside looking in? A perfect life.
But hereās the truth, the part no one sees in the Christmas card photos:
āMy balls literally ache for touch. For closeness. I crave the warmth of skin, the softness of a kiss, the simple act of feeling wanted. And every night, I go to bed rejected. Again. And again. And again. To the point I donāt even try anymore. My life looks like success from the outside. But inside? I feel like the loneliest man alive. Itās not even worth waking up for.ā
Let that land.
A man who has everythingā¦ except the one thing that matters when you strip it all down: connection.
And so he stays.
In the beautiful, hollow house. In the performance of a marriage that stopped being real a long time ago.
And he dreams.
He dreams of a woman who looks at him like heās the most delicious thing sheās ever seen.
Of a hand sliding up his thigh beneath the table.
Of a whispered āI want youā when no one else is listening.
Of lips that find his neck, soft, slow, hungry.
Of skin on skin. The heat. The electric charge when someone finally wants him. When touch makes him feel alive again.
Of fingers tangled in his hair. Nails grazing his back. The weight of a body saying: you matter.
He dreams of waking up to warmth beside him instead of that empty gulf that separates him from his wife.
But dreaming is easy.
Acting? Thatās the hard part.
Why does he stay?
Because heās afraid.
Afraid of breaking the illusion the world applauds him for.
Afraid of being āthat manā - the one who left his wife at 59.
Afraid of losing the comfort. The routine. The safety net.
Afraid of lonelinessā¦ even though heās already lonely.
Afraid of stepping into the unknown.
So he stays.
And his balls ache. And his heart aches more. šŖ
Whatās the way out?
Orā¦ is there even one?
Thereās always a way out. Always.
Iāve been listening to these mind-blowing philosophy talks from the ā60s. Thereās a story that stuck with me:
Once upon a time, man was deeply connected to the spiritual realm. But not so connected to being human.
Something had to change.
Something had to pull him into self-consciousness. Into I am.
And so man developed the EGO. The mind.
Little by little, he separated from spirit.
And now? Itās gone too far.
We live in egoās world.
Chasing status. Money. Comfort.
Stuff we can touch. Stuff we can see.
And the spirit? Numbed. Abandoned.
Things are never enough.
Because the ego always wants more.
But spirit?
Spirit doesnāt want things.
Spirit doesnāt crave the next car, the next raise, the next shiny toy to fill the silence.
Spirit longs for connection.
For meaning.
For truth.
For something real. Something that canāt be bought, owned, or faked.
And thatās where our man is lost.
Heās built the outer castle.
Inside, the spirit starves.
His aching balls? Just the symptom. The bodyās desperate cry for intimacy. For aliveness. For something to break through the numbness.
There is no way out that doesnāt require courage.
There is no path to joy that doesnāt demand you burn down the illusions first.
There is no salvation in waiting for the other to change.
The spirit will never be satisfied by more of the same.
Not another gadget.
Not another glass of whiskey.
Not another midnight porn clip.
Even the orgasm, when itās just another item to tick off the list, leaves you hollow.
Sure, it helps for a moment. (He did tell me he had the best orgasm on my page. Just saying. š)
And this isnāt about rejecting earthly pleasures. Donāt read me wrong.
But the truth is that the real orgasm, the one that leaves you breathless, trembling, cracked wide open, belongs to the spirit.
Not all orgasms are sexual, you see?
Thereās an orgasm in breathing freedom. In claiming your power.
Itās the body, the soul, the heart - all saying yes at once.
Thatās what the spirit longs for.
Not more stuff.
Not more status.
Not more empty victories.
The spirit wants you. The real you.
The one who dares to choose truth over comfort.
The one who stops playing the good husband in the dead marriage.
The one who whispers, finally: I want to live before I die.
So, whatās the way out?
Itās terrifyingly simple.
You choose it.
You choose to stop betraying yourself.
You choose to stop waiting.
You choose to feel the fear, and walk anyway.
You choose life over the slow death of comfort.
Because hereās the ultimate truth:
When your balls ache and she does not careā¦
Itās not about her anymore.
Itās about you finally caring enough to act.
With love,
Rose š¹
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