You think your bedroom is yours? That sex is the one place where at least you’re free? Don’t lie. Even there—you’re still acting. Copying. Performing for an invisible camera that isn’t even there.

Tell me—when was the last time you invented something with your lover? Not borrowed, not recycled, not imitated. Invented. When was the last time you fucked under the bed just for the thrill of it? Or bent her over the kitchen counter because the smell of rosemary on her fingers drove you insane? Or maybe just lay naked together without rushing to perform, without turning intimacy into a race to climax?

No—you didn’t. Because every moan, every pose, every rhythm is borrowed. You’re an unpaid actor in someone else’s porn script.

Do you even know how those movies are made? The “one-hour fuck” you jerked to last night—it took three days to shoot. Cut. Angle. Change condom. More lube. The guy lost his erection six times and swallowed pills to stand back up. The girl’s moans weren’t ecstasy—they were directions. Louder. Faster. More fake. The cumshot you idolized wasn’t even his—it was lotion squeezed into the frame. And yet here you are, trying to be a porn star in 20 minutes.

No wonder it feels hollow when you’re done. No wonder your woman feels like a prop instead of a queen. No wonder you turn away in silence after finishing, both of you staring at the ceiling as if something sacred just slipped through your fingers. Because it did. We jerk off our energy on dopamine hits from our phones, and fuck off our potential by binge-watching someone else’s curated life instead of building our own.

And don’t think I’m speaking from some high place. I’ve been there. I’ve copied the fake thrusts. I’ve chased the dopamine high. I’ve fucked like a porn actor in a room with no cameras. I’ve finished and felt dirty—not from the act, but from the emptiness. Because it wasn’t mine. My orgasm wasn’t mine. Her moans weren’t hers. It was all a shadow of strangers I’ll never meet.

Do you ever talk during sex? Do you whisper things? Do you ask her what works better for her—or do you just assume you know, because PornHub crowned you the king of techniques?
What if she’s been waiting for years to hear you ask? What if her body is screaming to teach you, and you never once gave her the permission?

Your relationship with your wife has grown to such a point—because you are not your you-you and she is not her she-she—that sometimes, just to stay standing, you needed to close your eyes and picture Phoebe from “Schoolgirls in Uniforms.” Oh, I shocked you? Don’t lie, my friend. Don’t lie. Check your history. You’ve marked those categories as “favorites” even in your forties. So now you drift apart from your partner in the same room, and you need to close your eyes and picture teenagers in plaid skirts just to get an erection. I call this the jerk-off/fuck-off style. As if sex has become a toll you are obliged to pay to pass. We try to fit into a mold like forcing our square avatars into circular app icons — pretending to fit while every corner of us screams ‘wrong place’.

There were times fighting her would have been more pleasant than making love as an obligation. Don’t lie. Don’t tell me you’ve never felt that. How many of you despise your partner in secret but still penetrate them out of duty? How many times did you fake affection while fucking, just to avoid another argument? Sometimes, seeing her in a moment of weakness or pain stirred more intensity in you than when she was naked in your bed. Sometimes her tears gave you a sharper rush than her moans. And you hate yourself for it. But it’s true.
That’s how far the lie has spread.

And porn fed the fire. Porn rewired you. Even in the bed, you’re not thinking of her. You’re thinking of that scene in the award-winning porn film “The Girl with Four Nipples.” You’re thinking of the lotion-cumshot. You’re not fucking your woman. You’re jerking off inside her. Two bodies pretending to be present while their souls are logged out.

No wonder you’ve forgotten what real intimacy feels like. Real intimacy isn’t theatrical. It doesn’t have a script. It doesn’t care about the angle or the sound. It’s when you come home destroyed from the day, and the moment her nipple brushes against your chest, the entire weight of the world dissolves. When her scent pulls you into hunger without a single pose. When her skin against your skin is enough to flip your world upside down. That’s addiction. That’s worship. That’s what porn can’t teach you, because porn was never designed to give you truth—it was designed to enslave you.

Your body doesn’t belong to you anymore. Your desire is rented out to a system. Even your orgasm—the most private explosion you could own—has been hijacked. You don’t climax for yourself anymore. You climax for them.
So tell me… when was the last time you fucked raw, without copying? When was the last time you moaned because your soul ripped open, not because you thought that’s what moans should sound like? When was the last time you created something in bed instead of imitating pixel ghosts?

Don’t answer too quickly. Sit with the discomfort. Let it burn.

I remember telling her once—“Tell me before you climax, so I can sync with you.” Because I didn’t want to finish alone. I wanted our peaks to collide, to merge, to tear through us like lightning splitting the same sky. I hated her nails, man. Those long nails. Because at the moment, in the middle of it, you don’t feel it. But under the shower, when the water touched my back, I felt the sting. I felt the bruises her nails carved into me because she dug them in so deep when we climaxed together.
If only it was your you-you living—then, my friend, you wouldn’t feel just the orgasm of the body, but the orgasm of the soul. You wouldn’t just release salty, proteinated lotion—you would release light. 

One day, just one day, if your you-you surfaces in the room, and you give him the spotlight, then you will finally know what making love feels like.

Have you ever had tears coming at the same time as your orgasm? The body losing all control, because the intensity is too much? That’s when you know it’s not just sex—it’s an earthquake. A collapse of everything fake.

But most of you won’t get there. Because you’re too busy being actors. You’re too busy being technicians. You’ve outsourced your intimacy to strangers. You’ve let yourself become a shadow in your own bedroom.

And here’s the ugliest part—sometimes she’s doing the same. Don’t think she’s innocent in this. Women watch porn too. Women copy too. Sometimes she moans because she saw some pornstar do it in a clip. Sometimes she closes her eyes and imagines another man too. Don’t think you’re the only fraud. You’re both faking together, and calling it marriage.

This is the part where you feel the knife twist in your gut. Because deep down you know it’s true. You’ve felt the emptiness. You’ve rolled off after finishing and stared at the ceiling, both of you silent, both of you pretending it was enough. But it wasn’t.

You’re not alone. I’ve lived it. I’ve been the fraud. I’ve jerked off inside someone I was supposed to love. I’ve copied the script. I’ve played the porn actor without the cameras. I’ve done it all. And it left me empty.
But the difference is—I’m telling you. I’m not pretending anymore.

The question is: will you?

Because if you dare to drop the act—even once—you’ll realize how starved you’ve been. You’ll realize you don’t need PornHub’s categories to teach you desire. You’ll realize your body is capable of a language so raw, so wild, so personal, that no porn director could ever script it. You’ll realize that real intimacy doesn’t look like pixels—it looks like light trembling between two broken souls daring to be naked without shame.

And maybe—just maybe—you’ll realize that what you’ve been calling sex all these years was nothing more than a fuck-off.




Next Week : Chapter 5: Hope on Life-Support