I Was Always Wired for This: A Lifetime of Acceptance and Realization

 I've been reflecting on my journey and realizing that I was always wired for this. It wasn’t something I had to learn or be taught—it was just who I was, even before I had the words for it.

Looking back, there were signs early on. I had crushes in high school, but I was never the guy who aggressively pursued. When my best friend dated one of them and became sexual with her, I didn’t feel anger or resentment. I just accepted it. If anything, I fantasized about it. I spent so many nights alone, masturbating to the thought of them together, knowing that she was experiencing something I never would. Even then, masturbation was my real sex life, not actual intimacy with a woman.

College reinforced it. I spent most of my time on the outside looking in, watching other guys get the girls I wanted. While they were out having sex, I was alone, masturbating into a sock, over and over again, wishing I could be one of them. But I wasn’t. And yet, I didn’t feel bitter. I wasn’t angry at them. I just accepted it as my reality and learned to find pleasure in it rather than frustration. Other men had women. I had my hand. And deep down, that’s how it was always meant to be.

When I got married the first time, that contrast only deepened. I always knew I was small, but I don’t think I truly understood how tiny I was until my wife started seeing other men. She had a minimum size requirement—if a man was going to fuck her, he had to be at least seven inches. There was no discussion about it, no concern for how that made me feel—it was just a given. That rule alone told me everything I needed to know about where I stood.

My wife had a long-term lover, a younger man who eventually moved in with us. I knew he was fucking her more than I ever had, and then one day, while sitting in a restaurant, she casually told me he had started taking her bareback. That moment hit like a punch to the gut. She wasn’t on birth control. He was finishing inside her. There was no barrier between them. I had to sit there, wearing panties and sissy socks under my pants, while she told me another man was filling her in a way I never could.

And that wasn’t just a one-time thing. This was my life. The man who fucked her raw, who claimed her body, who spent more time inside her in three years than I had in nine—he was living in my home. At night, I would hear them in his room. In the morning, I would walk by and see them in bed together, him spooning my wife, his cock pressed against her body, while I just existed in the background. While he was with her, I was alone, in another room, jerking my little penis, knowing that was all I was good for.

We even went to a swingers club once, and it was obvious I didn’t belong there. I’m introverted, not someone who takes up space. My wife was the opposite—"look at me" energy while I move through life hoping not to be noticed. If I hadn’t been there, I think she would have played. The men there were confident, natural, completely comfortable being exposed. Meanwhile, I was just walking through the motions, unnoticed, irrelevant. And later that night? I was in bed, stroking myself alone, while she laid there untouched, knowing I wasn’t the man she truly desired.

Now, looking back, I see it clearly. This isn’t something I learned—it’s how I’ve always been. More than 95% of my sexual life has been spent masturbating, wishing I were someone else, but knowing deep down that I’m not. Most men feel jealousy and turn to anger. For me, jealousy never led to anger. It just was. I never fought against it. If anything, I leaned into it. And over time, I realized that’s exactly where I was meant to be—not as a man who takes, but as a man who watches, waits, and strokes.