Henry, 41
We could have an open relationship, but I don’t want that kind of intimacy with anyone else.
Luis and I met on Grindr 12 years ago, right after he moved to the UK and I split from my ex-husband. The last time we had sex was six months ago, and before that, a year. Luis usually initiates—even though he’s a bottom, he’s the one in control. I hold back now, afraid of rejection. When I do try and get a straight-up “no,” it stings, but I know not to take it personally.
Five years ago, Luis was diagnosed with depression and started medication. His sex drive disappeared after that. We could see other people, but the less we have sex, the less I want it with anyone else. That intimacy is something I only want with him. Still, once a week, I’ll slip away and take care of myself, indulging in fantasies with men on Grindr. When Luis hooked up with others, it didn’t bother me—he was just chasing that physical release, which is simpler with strangers. No emotions, no expectations.
What I love most about Luis is how caring and supportive he is—to everyone. He’s an incredible teacher, pouring himself into his work, but that dedication sometimes leaves little energy for us. He gives so much to others but forgets to take care of himself.
Even though he doesn’t feel attractive right now, I’m still deeply drawn to him. I hope that when he lowers his medication, his libido returns, his confidence comes back, and he feels sexy again. I want us to rediscover that connection we had before his diagnosis.
We’re at a crossroads. Luis is my best friend—I can talk to him about anything—and when we do have sex, it’s the best I’ve ever had. But we need more intimacy, even if it’s just touching, without pressure to perform. I’m waiting for him to feel ready.
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Luis, 46
Since my depression, I’ve felt unable to have a sexual relationship. My own needs are the first thing I push aside, and the high dose of antidepressants I’m on makes it hard to get an erection. I hate not giving Henry what he needs, but it feels easier than trying and failing.
My fear of not being enough started young. Growing up gay in Spain, I felt I had to be perfect to be loved. Now, when Henry… (text cuts off)I worry about having sex because I’m afraid I won’t get hard or finish, which might make Henry think I don’t want him. Sometimes I’d rather say no than risk disappointing him later.
After my diagnosis and my dad’s death, Henry and I grew physically distant. I felt insecure and unhappy with myself, struggling with intimacy. My weight changed, and I didn’t feel good in my own skin. I was scared Henry wouldn’t love me anymore—that I wasn’t enough. The few times I met men from Grindr, it felt more like a transaction, but with Henry, it’s emotional. Still, it was never about my pleasure—I just focused on theirs.
The last time we had sex, Henry started it. We were in bed, cuddling and kissing, and for once, I wasn’t stuck in my own head. Usually, I have these thoughts telling me I can’t have sex or that I won’t enjoy it, but that day, they didn’t take over.
Henry is really patient and doesn’t pressure me. When we do have sex, he tries to make sure it’s not stressful—he just wants me to enjoy it too. I put too much pressure on myself, but I hope to reach a point where sex doesn’t feel like a performance, where I don’t have to be perfect, and where I can just be open to pleasure in different ways.
