Like every delusional gay man who thinks his relationship is untouchable because the throw pillows match and the joint Netflix account hasn’t caused a fight yet, I thought getting a puppy was a great idea.
A small test. Something easy. A living creature that screams through the night, eats cables like spaghetti, and turns my rug into a public toilet. Perfect, right?
Night one, everything went to hell. No build-up. No warning. Just crying at 2AM, peeing at 4AM, and two grown men questioning every life choice by sunrise.
Let me make one thing clear. I’m not twenty-one. Sex isn’t a sport anymore. It’s a production. Once or twice a week depending on the mood, the wine, and how tight my pants felt after dinner. It’s intimate. Slow. Grown-up. The kind of sex that feels more French film than cheap porn.
Then came the dog.
And with him went the boner. Gone. Vanished. The only bone left in the apartment squeaks and glows neon green. It now gets more action than I do.
We tried to keep the spark alive. Once. The moment shirts came off, he jumped onto the bed, started licking elbows, and stared like a Catholic grandmother judging my life choices. Nothing kills the mood faster than a French Bulldog chewing a toy while you’re trying to reclaim intimacy.
Closing the door doesn’t help either. He hurls his body against it like he’s part of a SWAT team. Once, during what could’ve been a sweet moment, he started howling like we were committing murder. Try feeling sexy when your soundtrack is pure canine panic.
Foreplay became brushing his teeth. Romance became arguing about who had to stand in the rain while he peed. Every kiss was interrupted by whining, pawing, or the slow roll of a turd across the floor like a horror movie prop.
I love my boyfriend. I really do. But it’s been less romance, more survival. Two men in a sexless dog-themed nightmare. The bed is no longer sacred. It’s a hairy crime scene filled with dead toys and the faint smell of regret.
The worst part is how fast you forget you even had a sex life. You look at your partner and think, I used to want to lick that dick. Now I just want him to take the dog so I can pee in peace.
Then, something shifts. Around month four, the chaos starts to calm. The dog stops barking at his own shadow. He learns to sleep alone. Privacy returns. There are moments again. Little touches. Longer looks. The slow, cautious crawl back to something that feels human.
The sex doesn’t explode back into existence, but it sneaks in quietly. Hesitant. Testing the water. And slowly, the bone(r) finds its way back home, to my mouth.
So, should you get a puppy with your partner? Absolutely. If you want to test your love, your patience, and your ability to survive three months without physical affection, go for it.
But be warned. For the first few months, your sex life isn’t just on pause. It’s dead. Buried. Frozen solid.
If you survive it though, you get both the dog and the dick. Eventually.
So tell me, Shitizen: Has a pet ever completely ruined your sex life? I want the filthy details. The messier, the better. Because therapy is expensive, but oversharing here is free.
Bye turd,
