Masturbation is one of those quietly accepted rituals of modern life—normal, harmless, and even beneficial to your health. I’ll be honest: I’m no stranger to it. On most days, I indulge once or twice, depending on my mood or how idle I feel. If science says it’s good for you, why would I deprive myself, right? But there have been extended chapters in my life when, for one reason or another, I gave it up completely.
Sometimes, it was emotional. Post-breakup sadness, for instance, left me with zero interest in any kind of sexual release. Other times, depression swallowed up all energy and libido—just managing to get out of bed felt like enough of a battle. But not every dry spell came from emotional shutdowns.
There were periods—especially when staying at my parents’ house—where the idea of masturbating felt out of bounds. And it’s funny because that’s actually the place where I first discovered the joys of self-pleasure back in my teen years. Still, now as an adult, being under that roof somehow shuts the whole desire down. It’s like certain walls just don’t allow that kind of intimacy, not even with yourself.
Whenever I’m traveling for months and sublet my apartment, I usually crash at their house until my place is available again. These stays sometimes last four, five, even six weeks—and during that entire time, I don't masturbate. Not once. No toys, no fingers, no fantasy detours. What’s surprising is just how much your body and mind change when you cut off that outlet.
Dr. Janet Brito, a well-known psychologist and sex therapist, points out that masturbation is more than just a feel-good activity. “It’s a form of self-care,” she says. “It’s about pushing past societal shame and tuning into your own body.” She also notes that after orgasm, most people feel relaxed and happy. That post-release sense of bliss? Gone when you abstain.
So what happens when you go five weeks without your favorite stress reliever? Here’s exactly what I’ve experienced, broken down by week.
Week One: Getting Through the First Days
The beginning is always deceptively easy. The absence of masturbation doesn’t even register as a problem. Physically, I feel the same. Emotionally, I don’t notice any withdrawal. On a mental level, sure, I’m aware I haven’t done it—but there’s no real craving yet.
I do find myself analyzing why I can’t bring myself to do it at my parents’ house, especially given that it was where I first discovered it as a teenager. But I eventually let that go. I accept the strange boundary. Some things are simply off-limits in your childhood bedroom. Sex and solo play just don’t belong there anymore.
Week Two: The Frustration Kicks In
By week two, the tension starts building. And I mean real, palpable frustration—not just sexual, but emotional too. I feel like I have an itch I can’t locate, let alone scratch. Every little thing gets on my nerves. I become more reactive, more sensitive, more jumpy. My patience thins out, and it’s as if my tolerance for small talk or minor inconveniences has vanished.
I know exactly what’s causing it. My body wants that release. And yet I stay stubborn. I’m still under my parents’ roof, so I repress the urge and refuse to sneak off and do anything about it. Then I get mad at myself—for denying it, for needing it, for caring about it.
And the irony? I write about sex professionally. This is literally part of my job. Shouldn’t I be comfortable with the topic? Shouldn’t I, of all people, be able to masturbate on demand like some liberated pleasure warrior? But no. I berate myself for being hung up, which only adds to the pressure.
Week Three: Riding the High of Creative Energy
Something odd happens during week three. The frustration morphs into something else entirely—creative energy. It’s as if all that tension, all that pent-up libido, is redirected into my brain. Suddenly, I have more ideas than I know what to do with. I’m sketching out outlines for books I’ve never even thought of before. Whole chapters come to me while I’m brushing my teeth. I’m convinced I’m a literary genius.
Now, I finally understand why some athletes abstain from sex or masturbation before big events. There’s something about redirecting all that energy that makes you feel superhuman. Of course, in my case, that superpower is mostly overconfidence about my next writing project.
By the end of the week, the thought of sex—or even masturbation—has drifted into the background. It’s like my body and mind forgot it was ever an option. The daily urge has vanished, replaced by a strange sense of productivity and flow.
Week Four: Wet Dreams and Weird Triggers
Without fail, week four brings something both strange and magical: a full-blown orgasm in my sleep. Not a dream about sex, mind you—just a random moment in my dream where I smell something pleasant, and boom, that sensation triggers a climax. It wakes me up, leaves me blinking at the ceiling, trying to process what just happened.
It’s not like a real orgasm, though—not like the ones you work for. It’s dreamlike, distant, almost symbolic. And while it temporarily satisfies the body, it doesn’t offer that same sense of post-release serenity. So, despite technically having an orgasm, I still feel like I’m abstaining.
Interestingly, during this week, I also start to lose interest in the idea of sex altogether. I’m too deep into the no-masturbation mode. Writing about sex now feels a bit silly—like I’m describing someone else’s life.
Week Five: Countdown to Release
By the time week five rolls around, I know I’m nearly at the finish line. I’ll be back in my own apartment in a day or two, and the moment that door shuts behind me, I already know what’s coming first. Not unpacking. Not laundry. Not ordering groceries. My vibrator.
That first orgasm back feels almost ceremonial. No edging. No buildup. Just raw, intense release. It’s fast, chaotic, and deeply satisfying. The way my body surrenders to the sensation reminds me just how much I’ve missed it. Afterward, I crash on the bed, euphoric and dazed, then drag myself up to unpack and—of course—order a New York pizza.
Honestly, five months without that city’s pizza was almost worse than a month without masturbation. Almost.
