I have S*x with my girlfriend four times a day — but I still feel insecure

Connor, a 30-year-old writer from London, used to pride himself on his hyper-independent, commitment-free lifestyle. But everything changed when he met his now-girlfriend. What started as a whirlwind romance quickly turned into a deeply committed relationship, something he never expected to embrace so wholeheartedly.

Now, he’s happier than ever, revelling in the passion and connection they share (sometimes up to four times a day, no less). Yet, beneath the surface of this dreamy love story, Connor is grappling with an unfamiliar emotion: self-doubt.

Despite the intense physical and emotional intimacy, he finds himself silently questioning whether he’s “the best” for her, a pressure he’s never felt in past relationships. So, what’s going on? And how is he navigating these unexpected feelings? Let’s dive into Connor’s story.

DAY 1: Monday – Passion, Parades, and Pure Exhaustion

Mornings with my girlfriend used to be a hard no for me, who wants hands all over them while still half-asleep and grumpy? But ever since we got together, skipping our morning routine feels like missing something essential.

Today was no different. We woke up tangled together, her hand sliding over to check if I was ready (I always am). She turned away, letting me take control gently at first, then rougher, my fingers gripping her hair, pulling her neck back as if every thrust could ripple through her entire body.

But between the jetlag from last night’s flight to New Orleans and the fact that her aunt and uncle were just down the hall, neither of us could finish. She was too worried about being too loud, too slow. I teased her, saying she’d complain if we were too quick.

We dragged ourselves out of bed and straight to the Mardi Gras parade, where her aunt and uncle were marching. I didn’t expect to love it as much as I did—chasing plastic beads (“throws”) in a sea of glitter and music, the whole city alive around us. Even my usual grumpy self got swept up in the madness.

By the time we collapsed into bed that night, we were too drained for anything but sleep. No s*x, just the deep, satisfied exhaustion of a day well spent together.

DAY 2: Tuesday – Mardi Gras Madness & Missed Connections

Our 7 AM alarm never stood a chance, her aunt burst in at 6:30, a whirlwind of costumes, packed lunches, and pre-parade chaos. Any hope of morning s*x was dead on arrival.

Back home, our rhythm is different. Working remotely means we connect physically three or four times a day, it’s our language, our way of staying in sync. But here? Jet-lagged, overstimulated, and constantly surrounded by family, the disconnect is palpable.

By 2 PM, we stumble back from the festivities drunk, exhausted, and desperate for each other. We collapse onto the bed, pretending we’ll nap, but my hands have other plans. Her eyes lock onto mine, dark and wanting, silently begging me to kiss her. Just as I lean in, we hear her aunt and uncle bickering loudly about our evening plans. The mood shatters instantly.

Frustration lingers in the air, unspoken. We’re craving intimacy, but reality keeps getting in the way. Mardi Gras may be a celebration of excess, but right now, all I want is one private moment just us, no interruptions.

DAY 3: Wednesday – Damp Skin, Dirty Thoughts, and the Need for Speed

Alone time finally arrives late afternoon, after a long run. She showers first, and as she steps out, our bodies brush in the hallway. My fingers trail across her damp stomach, still warm from the water. “I love it when you’re sweaty,” she murmurs.

A flicker of doubt worms its way in. I adore how openly s*xual she is, but does anyone’s sweat turn her on like this? If it’s that easy for her, what separates me from anyone else? It’s an ugly thought, one I hate admitting even to myself.

Sometimes, when my insecurities spill out, she reassures me she feels the same fears, but what matters is that I’m the one here with her now. Logically, I know she’s right. Emotionally? The doubt still hums under my skin.

I lift her onto the bed. She wants it fast, rough, quiet, her aunt’s presence looming over us like a mood killer. She urges me to finish, brushing off her pleasure. “What about you?” I ask, but she shakes her head. After days of pent-up frustration, I don’t argue. She arches beneath me, and I let go.

It’s over too soon, leaving me equal parts satisfied and unsettled. The s*x is electric, but the silence afterwards feels heavy. I wonder if she’s truly as unbothered as she seems or if, like me, she’s just learned to take what she can get when life keeps getting in the way.

DAY 4: Thursday – Intimacy, Insecurity, and the Ghosts of Relationships Past

Over lunch, we talk about our histories, the lovers, the mistakes, the lessons. We’re still adjusting to this new life where we spend half our time tangled in sheets, learning each other’s bodies like uncharted territory.

I believe her when she says she’s never felt this way before. But comparisons creep in anyway. Is it the same for her in bed? Logically, I know it shouldn’t matter, but I want it to matter. I want this to be as revelatory for her as it is for me.

She seems fulfilled. I can see it in the way her body responds to mine, in the way she melts into my touch. But it’s only when she’s drunk that the words spill out the raw, unfiltered affirmations that soothe my nerves. Sobriety brings restraint, and I’m too afraid to ask for reassurance outright. What if my need for validation makes me seem lesser in her eyes?

Our s*x  is usually hard, rough, a collision of trust and hunger. There’s safety in the way she surrenders to me, in the way we both explore pleasure edged with pain. We’re living out fantasies we never dared voice with anyone else because with others, it would’ve felt performative. Unreal.

“It’s the same for me,” she says, and I cling to that. But the ghosts of doubt don’t disappear just because she tells them to. They whisper: What if this isn’t as unique for her as it is for you?

The irony isn’t lost on me. Here we are, closer than I’ve ever been with anyone, and yet I’ve never felt more exposed.

DAY 5: Friday Freedom, Flesh, and the Fear of Losing It All

Finally, a day just for us. No interruptions, no family lurking in the next room. Just the two of us, and the single-minded hunger that’s been building all week.

We start slow, lazy morning s*x with me curled behind her, her leg hooked in my hand as I move against her. It’s tender at first, then urgent until she shudders apart, and I follow right after.

There’s something about her body, the way it bends, the way she owns every inch of herself that turns s*x into something transcendent. She swears her fitness routine heightens the connection. All I know is it drives me wild.

With the house empty, we reclaim our usual rhythm. The second round is louder, messier. She bites my lip hard enough to draw blood; I press her face into the pillow as I finish, which only makes her come faster.

We’ve questioned before if our s*x is too intense, too raw. But that’s what binds us. Our communication is relentless, our trust absolute. We set a safe word once, then forgot it entirely, because we’ve never needed it.

Later, at the Krewe of Oak parade, her aunt introduces me to Johnny and Chad. A gay man takes a liking to me, handing me a NOS balloon, a welcome gift he doesn’t extend to my girlfriend. Her ego stings, but what unsettles her is the thought of me seeing her insecurity.

The irony isn’t lost on either of us. We’re not jealous people by nature, but this relationship has rewired us. After years of fierce independence, we’re learning to need someone, and it’s terrifying. Every time I look at her, I’m hyperaware of how much I stand to lose.

The s*x is electric. The connection is undeniable. But beneath it all, there’s this quiet, gnawing fear: What if it’s not enough?

Or worse what if it is, and I still find a way to fuck it up?

DAY 6: Saturday – High Hopes & a Sobering Reality

Tonight was supposed to be legendary Mom’s Ball, a massive costumed warehouse party celebrating New Orleans’ wildest, weirdest souls. The kind of night where rules dissolve and magic (or madness) takes over.

Johnny, a friend from last night, shows up with ecstasy. I know it’s reckless, but the pull of sharing that euphoria with my girlfriend and even her family is too strong. We take it, buzzing with anticipation.

But the party itself? Underwhelming. The warehouse feels more chaotic than electric, the crowd a mix of dazzling creativity and… something darker. Nudity, sure, but also a few too many people here with motives that kill the vibe. NOLA’s eccentricity attracts brilliance, but also those who exploit it.

We ditch the scene early, sitting on a bench as the high kicks in, watching the parade of costumes drift by. The colors blur, laughter echoes, but the magic we hoped for isn’t there. Instead, it’s just us floating in a surreal, slightly disappointing bubble.

We head home, the night not ruined, but not transcendent either. Maybe the real thrill wasn’t the party, but the risk we took together. Or maybe we just expected too much. Either way, we’re left with the comedown and each other.