He used to care so much about whether I came, and seemed almost obsessed with making sure I got there. Now? His focus is entirely on finishing himself off.
It’s fine,I tell myself. He still loves me.Sex isn't everything, and when we have it, it’s still fun.But I can’t deny the frustration simmering beneath the surface, the subtle disappointment that grows every time he rolls off me, satisfied, without so much as a second thought for whether I was satisfied, too.
Also, he’s kind of stopped getting on top of me, preferring me to be on top or do what he calls a ‘side bang’, bragging that it’s all ‘less work’ for him. I enjoy all the ways, but the fact he wants to get off for the least effort feels a bit unfortunate.
I decide to take matters into my own hands—literally. I order a rose vibrator, determined to reignite my own pleasure without needing to rely on him. When it arrives, I pull it from its sleek packaging, feeling the cool silicone between my fingers. It’s a small, flower-shaped thing—innocent-looking but powerful. In soft lilac, his favorite color, of course, because I figure that way he might be more inclined to use it, and because it’s now become habitual for me to purchase everything in that color.
I show it to Timmy, bracing myself for how he might react. I half-expect him to be defensive, maybe a little offended, like I’m pointing out some deficiency in him. Instead, his face lights up with curiosity. He takes the toy from me and turns it over in his hands as if it’s some kind of ancient artifact, his expression full of childlike fascination.
“Whoa,” he says, grinning. “This is cool.”
Relief washes over me. He’s not offended—if anything, he’s intrigued. And when we’re in bed later in the evening, he eagerly grabs the rose and sets to work, holding it against me with almost scientific precision.
His eyes are glued to my face as if waiting for some grand reveal—like he’s discovered a cheat code to pleasure that requires minimal effort on his part. He watches me intently, his expression a mix of satisfaction and amusement.
And to be fair, it does work. The rose is incredible, a small miracleof technology that brings me to climax faster than I expected. But something about the way he wields it makes me feel… off. It’s as though my orgasm is no longer something he wants to help me achieve—it’s something to tick off a checklist.
“That was good, wasn’t it?” he says with a smug grin, walking off to the bathroom to shower as soon as I’m done. No more lying tangled in each other’s limbs, whispering sweet things to each other.
Instead, I lay here, panting, alone, trying to process the moment.
It’s not that I’m unsatisfied exactly. The orgasm was good. Great, even. But it feels transactional—like he’s more relieved than pleased that he’s managed to get me off without having to engage too deeply.
And there’s a growing awareness that this rose has become a substitute for effort. He now reaches for it almost automatically, like it’s a tool to finish a job he doesn’t feel like doing by hand, cock or tongue. The intimacy that once existed between us feels like it’s slipping away, replaced by something colder, more utilitarian.
And every now and then, I get there without it—like sometimes when I ride him. It’s those moments, the ones where I find my own rhythm on top of him, that make it clear he’s not entirely selfish. He enjoys the way I move, the way I lose myself in the moment. I can tell by the way he watches me with a mixture of hunger and awe, his hands gripping my hips like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
Sometimes, he even preempts me, asking, “Do you want your toy?” with a grin that’s more sweet than smug. Those little gestures show that he cares, in his own way. He might not be the most intuitive lover anymore, but he’s willing to make the effort, and that counts for something.
So even though the way I get there is often a little anticlimactic compared to the fireworks he seems to experience every time, I still end up feeling satisfied.
Still, being with Timmy makes me feel sexy—alive in a way I didn’t realize I’d been missing. There’s a charge between us, a sense of adventure, even if it’s a little reckless. It’s not perfect, but it’s ours.
I tell myself it’s fine. At least I’m getting what I need, right? He’sopen to using the toy. He’s not dismissive or rude about it. But still, there’s a nagging feeling—something quietly eating away at me, whispering that this isn’t quite right.
I try not to dwell on it too much, focusing instead on the moments where things still feel good, where he still feels like us. But I can’t help wondering—is this just the natural evolution of sex in a relationship? Or is it a sign of something deeper—a widening gap between us, one that a tiny soft lilac vibrator can’t quite bridge?
It’s not like he doesn’t care about me. I know he does. But his eagerness to hand off my pleasure to a machine leaves me feeling... lonely. Like I’m slowly becoming a spectator in my own intimate moments. And the worst part? I’m not sure he even notices the difference.
After all, from his perspective, he’s still delivering what he thinks I want. And maybe that’s enough—for now.
But as I lie in bed, listening to his soft snores as he drifts off to sleep, I wonder how long it’ll be before this quiet disconnection becomes something I can’t ignore. Just another thing that started off beautiful, but has very quickly eroded.
82
THE ONLY THING HE SURFS IS THE INTERNET
At this point, the resentment of having to be at Matty’s isn’t just simmering beneath the surface, with the occasional sputter where it rears its ugly head. It’s cascading, frothing over, constantly. Each day, I seethe, feeling like something precious has been stolen.
My routine is still my salvation in the earlier parts of the day—yet, by the afternoon, like clockwork, I feel the need to speak up, and it inevitably creates a daily conflict.
Timmy is resentful that I’m resentful.
I try to drink it away, numbing myself with booze, trying to stop caring that this is my new life. But it doesn’t work. Sitting in the dark room, nursing vodka or whiskey or hard seltzer, does nothing to satisfy my craving for sunshine, fresh air, writing, and joy.
My resentment just continues to brew from an endless supply, as if pouring from a limitless cup of poison.
“Timmy,” I say, on yet another afternoon, “we can’t just sit around here every day. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”