I guess I’ll start at the beginning.

Once, I was a young man in a happy marriage, pursuing my dreams. Those dreams ate up almost all of my mental space, causing some friction at the time, as my wife’s drive for sex was higher than mine.

That changed seven years into the marriage, when she demanded children. Held our sex life hostage, in fact, until I agreed. A child was born, I became the primary caretaker as my wife began working harder to keep us afloat. I entered a period of severe depression that I haven’t quite exited fifteen years later.

Those dreams ultimately failed to come to fruition, which fueled my depressive state, and in the absence of another effective coping mechanism, I began to use sexual fantasy as my escape route. The fact that this coincided with the availability of broadband at the time may or may not be related, but in whatever moments of unsupervised freedom I got, I was on the seedier side of the internet.

I tried to actualize some of these fantasies with my wife, with mixed success. I resented her for her part in frustrating my ambitions, and so more often than not I just had sex with fictitious people. To the point that ultimately I began writing erotica, eventually gaining a publisher and selling collections under a pseudonym. With deadlines to meet, I spent most of my days in a sexualized mental state in order to create scenarios to titillate readers.

Eaten up by unrequited lust, I was a pretty easy mark. And predictably, trouble showed up.

She was ten years my junior, pretty, and also hypersexual. Or at least she was when she was chasing her latest obsession, which happened to be me. After twenty years of fidelity, I had a moment of weakness and experienced one of the best nights of my life. The rush of chemicals was utterly intoxicating after years of resignation, and I thought the next beautiful phase of my life was about to begin.

Our next night of passion ended with the worst argument I’ve ever experienced in a relationship. Big surprise, she wanted more than just a fling, and immediately began threatening me with exposure. I was only working part time, and couldn’t support myself if my wife discovered my transgressions and kicked me out. And now, belatedly, I began worrying about the effects on my child’s well-being if I put him through a divorce. In fear, I put up with the emotional abuse from my paramour for another year and a half while I jockeyed to obtain full time employment for the inevitable moment when I would be outed as an adulterer. I got used to the deep pit of pain in my stomach. The paranoia, the rationalization.

Eventually I stopped being able to pretend that sex with my wife was anywhere near what I was getting from my crazy mistress, who, although almost impossible to deal with psychologically, remained fiery in the sack. There were other factors that had made my marriage shine start to dull over twelve years since the kid was born, and ultimately the former love of my life asked me if I wanted out. She still didn’t know what I’d been up to, and consequently it was a peaceful parting. At least between us. My child’s trauma at the separation is ongoing, and I curse myself every day for putting him through it.

For what? My sexual gratification.

The minute I moved out, I started hunting for prey in earnest. In my Stockholm syndrome state, I had convinced at least part of my mind that I wanted to stay with the original mistress, but years of fantasies were unfolding in my head. Maybe I could make them real. I found as many kinky girls as I could, and explored their various desires greedily, insatiably. While ostensibly it was casual sex, I could feel them forming an attachment, but I reasoned that they knew I was on the prowl and couldn’t expect fidelity from a newly single man.

All this time, I still wrote erotica and spent almost all my time in sexual thoughts of one type or another. These desires had almost completely supplanted any other ambitions I’d had. It alarmed me at the time, but the influx of fresh flesh on the regular kept my mind from concerning itself with those issues.

And then, out of nowhere, I met a very special girl. Young, beautiful, sweet, talented…perfect, really. We had a drawn-out text courtship for a couple of months, and when we finally got our first date, the fireworks in the bedroom were stellar. I became addicted specifically to her, and over a few weeks, cut things off with all my other partners, most explosively with the crazy one who’d led me on this path to begin with.

Thus began a month-long sexual indulgence fest that left me breathless. We couldn’t get enough of one another, and I thought I’d found heaven. I stopped writing erotica, and didn’t seem to feel that pull towards other women as I had previously. Maybe I’d finally met my match.

I am now on year three with her. I am still in love, and she with me. But the frequency of our lovemaking has decreased steadily in the past few months, and I am struggling to cope with the feelings that are overtaking me whenever an opportunity for sex dissolves. I get depressed, angry, resentful. I am beginning to have dreams of other women, and my online escapism is increasing. Last night it reached a point where I couldn’t sleep, I was so worked up with frustration.

Rather than finding fault with her, I am entertaining the possibility that I have an unhealthy obsession with sex. That perhaps it has entirely replaced my previous career ambitions, and that I have somehow decided it is my reason to live. On days when there is even the slightest hint that I might get laid, I will forego all other activities to make sure I’m available. Then if that window closes due to her being busy or tired, I will resent the time I wasted waiting for it.

I realize it is perhaps unreasonable for me to expect our sex life to be as incessant as it was when we first met. But then what is our fate? To become as staid and passionless as my marriage became? I would rather be single than have that again.

Is my dogged pursuit of sex having the opposite effect on her? But then I worry that if I leave instigation up to her, it will barely happen at all. Because like me in my younger years, she is hyper-focused on achieving her dreams. It’s not her fault that mine have already died, and that her body is where I’ve decided to place all my aspirations.

I think I have a problem. I hope I can find a way to solve it. Thank you for listening.