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 🙈 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 wife’s not home).
No porn, he said. Too terrified of being “caught” 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, arousal… but also, maybe, just maybe, a friendly smile.
And then…
I popped up in his feed. (Yeyyy 🥳.)
Long story short? He followed the link. You know where that led. 😉
He’s 59. Married for decades. The kids are grown and flown. The house is paid off. The bank account is healthy. The garden’s immaculate.
From the outside looking in? A perfect life.
But here’s the truth, the part no one sees in the Christmas card photos:
“My 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 don’t even try anymore. My life looks like success from the outside. But inside? I feel like the loneliest man alive. It’s not even worth waking up for.”
Let that land.
A man who has everything… 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 he’s the most delicious thing she’s ever seen.
Of a hand sliding up his thigh beneath the table.
Of a whispered “I want you” 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? That’s the hard part.
Why does he stay?
Because he’s afraid.
Afraid of breaking the illusion the world applauds him for.
Afraid of being “that man” - the one who left his wife at 59.
Afraid of losing the comfort. The routine. The safety net.
Afraid of loneliness… even though he’s already lonely.
Afraid of stepping into the unknown.
So he stays.
And his balls ache. And his heart aches more. 😪
What’s the way out?
Or… is there even one?
There’s always a way out. Always.
I’ve been listening to these mind-blowing philosophy talks from the ’60s. There’s 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? It’s gone too far.
We live in ego’s 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 doesn’t want things.
Spirit doesn’t 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 can’t be bought, owned, or faked.
And that’s where our man is lost.
He’s built the outer castle.
Inside, the spirit starves.
His aching balls? Just the symptom. The body’s desperate cry for intimacy. For aliveness. For something to break through the numbness.
There is no way out that doesn’t require courage.
There is no path to joy that doesn’t 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 it’s 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. 😉)
And this isn’t about rejecting earthly pleasures. Don’t 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?
There’s an orgasm in breathing freedom. In claiming your power.
It’s the body, the soul, the heart - all saying yes at once.
That’s 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, what’s the way out?
It’s 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 here’s the ultimate truth:
When your balls ache and she does not care…
It’s not about her anymore.
It’s about you finally caring enough to act.
With love,
Rose 🌹
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