No Sex Marriage – Masturbation, Loneliness, Cheating and Shame

I don’t remember exactly when it stopped.

Not in a dramatic, obvious way. There wasn’t a final night where we both knew, where something was said out loud. It just… faded. Like a light left on too long, slowly dimming until one day you realize you’re sitting in the dark.

We still share a bed.

That’s the strange part. Our legs sometimes touch under the blanket, accidental, almost polite. There’s warmth. There’s familiarity. But there’s no electricity. No pull. No moment where one of us leans in and the other meets them halfway.

I lie there some nights, awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he’s awake too.

Wondering if he ever thinks about it.

Or if he’s already accepted this version of us.

It’s not that I don’t want sex.

That’s the part I didn’t expect.

I thought, maybe this is what happens. Maybe desire just fades in long relationships, like people say. Maybe I’d feel relieved. Less pressure. Less expectation.

But that’s not what happened.

The wanting didn’t disappear. It just… had nowhere to go.

So it turned inward.

I started touching myself more.

At first, it felt harmless. Practical, even. Like solving a problem quietly without involving anyone else. No rejection. No awkwardness. No conversations we both seemed to be avoiding.

Just me, my body, and the privacy of the bathroom with the door locked.

It worked.

Until it didn’t.

Because afterward, there’s always this moment. This drop. This silence that feels heavier than before.

It’s not guilt, exactly.

It’s something closer to loneliness.

I don’t think people talk enough about that part.

Masturbation is supposed to be empowering, right? Self-sufficient. Freeing.

And maybe it is.

But sometimes it feels like eating alone in a room full of people. Technically, you’re fine. You’re not starving. But something about it feels off. Incomplete.

Like your body is having an experience your life isn’t matching.

There are moments during the day when I forget.

We laugh. We talk about small things. Groceries, work, what to watch next. From the outside, we probably look fine. Maybe even happy.

And in some ways, we are.

That’s what makes it confusing.

Because how can something be “good” and still feel so empty in one specific, aching way?

I’ve thought about bringing it up.

God, I’ve thought about it so many times.

Usually late at night, when everything feels more honest. I’ll rehearse it in my head. Simple sentences. Careful tone. Not accusing, not desperate. Just… real.

“Do you ever think about us? About that part of us?”

But then morning comes.

And it feels too heavy to carry into daylight.

So I say nothing.

And then there’s the part I don’t like admitting.

The part that feels like crossing a line, even just in thought.

I’ve noticed other people.

Not in a dramatic, movie-like way. No intense eye contact across crowded rooms. Nothing like that.

Just small things.

A lingering glance. A conversation that feels a little too easy. That flicker of being seen in a way I don’t feel at home anymore.

And it scares me how quickly my mind goes there.

Not to action, not really.

But to possibility.

I used to think cheating was something clear-cut.

A decision. A betrayal that started with a conscious step.

Now it feels more like a slope.

A quiet, gradual shift where you get used to feeling unseen, untouched, unchosen… and suddenly attention from somewhere else feels less like temptation and more like oxygen.

And that thought alone makes me feel ashamed.

Because I’m not unhappy enough to leave.

But I’m not fulfilled enough to feel whole.

So where does that leave me?

Where does that leave us?

Sometimes I wonder if he feels it too.

If he has his own version of this. His own quiet compromises. His own ways of coping that I don’t see.

Or if he’s genuinely okay.

And if he is… what does that say about me?

There was one night—just one—where something almost shifted.

We were watching something forgettable, sitting closer than usual. My head rested against his shoulder, and for a second, he placed his hand on my arm.

Not absentmindedly.

Intentionally.

And everything in me reacted. Not just physically, but emotionally. Like something long dormant woke up all at once.

I didn’t move.

I didn’t want to break it.

But he didn’t move either.

And after a minute, his hand just… slipped away.

Like it had never been there.

I think that moment stuck with me more than anything else.

Because it reminded me that it’s not completely gone.

It’s just… buried.

Or avoided.

Or maybe we’re both waiting for the other person to name it first.

How long can two people live like that?

Close, but not connected in the way that used to feel so natural?

How long before the quiet workarounds—locked doors, private moments, unspoken thoughts—become the new normal?

And at what point does silence become its own kind of decision?

I don’t have answers.

I wish I did.

I wish this ended with a realization, or a plan, or even a sense of clarity.

But right now, it just feels like standing in the middle of something unresolved.

Not broken enough to force change.

Not whole enough to ignore.

Tonight will probably be the same.

We’ll go to bed. We’ll say goodnight. Maybe our feet will touch under the blanket again.

And I’ll lie there, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he’s awake.

Wondering if he ever thinks about reaching for me.

Or if he’s waiting—

just like I am.