How Do I Keep It Up?

Oct 15

Kumusta Tita,

I think I’m actually broken. I’ve been wrestling with what I think is performance anxiety or erectile dysfunction. When I’m alone, things work fine. I can get hard, finish, all good. But when I’m with my husband, things fall apart. I lose my erection halfway through, or I can’t finish at all. It’s starting to mess with my head, and I’m scared it’s going to wreck our sex life. I don’t know how to fix it.

Sincerely,

Nutting Alone

Hey Pleaser,

Alright, first off, breathe. You’re not broken. You’re not less of a man, and you’re definitely not the first guy to go soft under pressure. What you’re describing isn’t some moral failing or a sign of doom for your relationship. It’s just your brain getting in the way of your dick.

You know how when you’re trying really hard to fall asleep, your body’s like, “Nah, not happening”? Same deal. The harder you try to make your body perform on command, the more it resists. Sex stops being instinct and turns into a goddamn test you think you’re failing.

Here’s the ugly truth: erections are fragile bastards. They don’t give a shit how much you love your partner, or how turned on you are, or how much pressure you’re under to make the moment work. They respond to calm, not panic. And nothing kills calm faster than that internal monologue of “please stay hard, please stay hard, please don’t fuck this up.”

That’s not lust; that’s terror. And terror isn’t sexy.

The weird part? You could be standing there next to the man you love, someone who’s seen you sick, bloated, heartbroken, and naked in every sense, but one “bad” night in bed, and suddenly you’re spiralling into existential despair. You start thinking this means something bigger: Am I losing it? Am I not attracted to him anymore? Is he disappointed? Am I failing him?

It’s a brutal loop.

But here’s the deal: your dick doesn’t measure love. It doesn’t measure connection, masculinity, or worth. It just measures blood flow and nerves, and those two things are sensitive as hell to stress, sleep, booze, shame, or just being human.

You’re gay men, which means you’ve probably already had to unpack a lifetime of sexual baggage before even getting here. Maybe you grew up learning that sex was supposed to prove something: power, desire, identity, control. And now you’re in love, safe, and your body’s like, what do I do with all this vulnerability?

Because that’s what this really is. Vulnerability. Nakedness beyond just skin. When you’re alone, it’s just you and your thoughts. But with him? It’s a spotlight on all your fears of inadequacy. Suddenly it’s not just about pleasure. It’s about performance, about living up to this image of what sex “should” look like.

But fuck “should.”

Here’s what’s real: sex is messy. Sometimes you go soft. Sometimes you cum too fast. Sometimes you’re both too tired and just want to hold each other. It’s not porn. It’s not a scoreboard. It’s two people trying to connect through skin, breath, heat, and all the complicated bullshit that comes with being human.

If you want to fix this start by not trying to “fix” it. Talk to your husband. Not like it’s some confession of guilt, but like two teammates figuring out a new play. Tell him what’s happening in your head. Tell him it’s not him, and that it’s not about desire. Because the silence around this shit breeds shame, and shame breeds more anxiety, and that’s how the whole cycle stays alive.

Then (and this is important) stop making erections the fucking goal.

I know, sounds counterintuitive. But sometimes you have to rebuild sex from the ground up. Take the pressure off the finish line. Explore everything else: touch, breath, scent, skin, rhythm. Take turns pleasuring each other without any expectation of penetration. Learn what your bodies can do without a hard-on being the referee.

How are you pleasing yourself? In the heat of the moment, are you focused on your own pleasure, or do you feel like you need to go full-on porn mode to make your husband happy? In the immortal words of RuPaul, if you can’t fuck yourself, how in the hell are you gonna fuck somebody else?

Because here’s the thing: erections will come and go, but intimacy’s built in those moments where you both stay present anyway. That’s where the good stuff lives: the laughs, the pauses, the “fuck, this is weird but I love you” kind of honesty. And yeah, maybe talk to a doctor too. Rule out anything physical. Blood pressure meds, hormones, stress, lack of sleep; they all play a part. But I’d bet my last cigarette this is more mental than mechanical.

Some therapists specialise in sexual performance anxiety; gay-friendly, trauma-informed ones who know what it’s like to carry years of sexual shame into a relationship. Talking to one doesn’t make you weak. It makes you smart.

Here’s what I know for sure: your husband doesn’t just want your dick. He wants you. And if he’s any kind of decent partner, he’d rather have you soft and honest than hard and terrified.

You’ll get there. Not by force, not by willpower, but by learning to trust that your worth doesn’t hang between your legs.

Sex, like love, isn’t something you conquer. It’s something you surrender to.

And that surrender — that deep, breathless, “fuck it, I’m here” kind of surrender — that’s when everything starts working again.

So stop fighting it. Stop judging yourself. And stop treating your body like it’s betraying you. It’s not. It’s just asking you to slow down, listen, and maybe, finally, stop trying to be perfect in bed.

Because the most powerful thing you can be during sex, the thing that makes it worth remembering, is not hard. It’s real.

Mahal kita,

Tita Slut