All that's left is wishful thinking.

The May Day holiday is almost over. Because of the pandemic, I've been stuck at home every day, only going downstairs for nucleic acid testing. I almost never go downstairs. I remember back in the day, whenever my wife was home, I didn't like her wearing underwear. I could have sex with her anytime, anywhere, whether she was cooking in the kitchen or washing up in the bathroom. A few times, I was in the hallway getting ready to go downstairs for milk when I heard someone walk by in the hallway. I got excited, pulled down her pants, and had sex with her. She whispered that someone was outside, and I said it was precisely because someone was in the hallway that it was exciting. I could tell she was excited too. Now, those days are gone. My desires have gradually faded with age. On the third day of the holiday, I barely managed to have sex once, lasting no more than fifteen minutes. The next day, my stomach was sore, like from doing too many push-ups—it was so miserable. I used to get hard just seeing a woman in sexy clothes on the bus, but now I don't even react to seeing naked married women in amusement parks. Sometimes I chat with online friends, exchanging photos of our wives and complimenting each other, but there's really no excitement inside. Time, oh time, has not only turned grapes purple and fungus black, but also cucumbers withered!

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All that's left is wishful thinking.

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