I Can’t Masturbate During Social Isolation with All These People Around Me

Coronavirus and family are major cockblockers

I sit here, sexually frustrated, shoveling crackers in my mouth like an addict who quit smoking.

Last week I wrote about a missing sex toy in my house. I found the toy in a drawer that I most certainly didn’t put it in; now I’m keeping it there forever because if my husband did it I don’t want him to know that I know that he knows that I have a sex toy.

I have dozens of them. The Womanizer is my favorite, but I have plenty of others thanks to my dead bedroom. Pre-COVID, it was easy to find time to pleasure myself. Now, all my options are gone. I have no privacy, no sex life, and no chance to take care of my sexual frustration.

Before the pandemic, I worked from home occasionally. With my kids in school and my husband at work, it was perfect. I could even squeeze in a nap after. Complete silence and the absence of other humans set the mood when you’re by yourself and you want to handle your business.

Flash-forward to now: two kids and a husband around me all the time. All. The. Time. As I wrote that last sentence, my daughter barged in and cried about her stomach hurting. I prove my point.

In the past, my husband didn’t even sleep in our bed for over five years. I could get myself off late at night in my bed with everyone asleep. Since social isolation, he began using his sleep apnea machine (my requirement for him to ever come back into our bed) and return to our bedroom. Now my opportunity to do late-night masturbating is out too.

Inmates in prison get more privacy for sexual release than I do.

Today I decided to finally take action. I’m clawing the walls in sexual frustration (no, initiating with my husband isn’t an option). I hear everyone downstairs. TV is blasting. That means my husband is busy with work and the kids are distracted. I had to strike while the iron was hot.

I grab two sex toys. Didn’t want to risk the battery running out on one and fumbling to grab another. This is a high-efficiency operation. I need to bang out a bunch of orgasms before someone realizes they haven’t bothered me in more than fifteen minutes.

I lock the bedroom door, get under the bed covers despite the summer heat to muffle the sounds of the clit sucker motor. Frantically, I scroll through porn on my phone. I desperately try not to hear my husband downstairs asking the kids about snacks and the booming sound of Captain Underpants on Netflix.

I’m interrupted again right now by another child. Had to get up and solve her problem, now I’m back trying to remember my train of thought without screaming at the top of my lungs. Not only can I not relieve my sexual frustrations, but I also can’t write about them without interruption.

I’m multi-orgasmic and know what I’m doing. It shouldn’t be hard for me to crank out some toe-curling orgasms. Just enough to scratch that itch at the very least.

One. I got in one orgasm. Imagine starving for months and someone gives you a single raisin. Like, thanks for the raisin asshole but I’m still hungry. Within seconds of cumming, one of my kids is banging on my locked door trying to get in. I scramble to cover all the evidence and attend to my parental duties.

How do other people do this? I can’t even use shower time because the door stays unlocked in case my husband has to use the closet connected to the bathroom. I’m unsuccessful without toys so I can’t use my fingers like some Harry Potter magic shit.

I want to rant about irresponsible people not wearing masks and the reason social isolation is dragging on. I want to moan that it’s their fault I can’t find alone time to masturbate. That’s not the real issue though.

The problem is that I’m married with no sex life. It died within days of our marriage. In an alternate universe, my husband and I could toss the kids some iPads while we sneak upstairs for daytime naked fun.

Instead, in this reality, I’m eating my sexual frustrations while crying at the keyboard. Maybe later I’ll run out and buy some more brie; it’s going to be a long pandemic and I’ve got a lot of snacking left in me.