I’ve been on Lupron for about a year and a half now. If you asked me ten years ago whether I could imagine a version of myself who hasn’t had an erection in over a year — and calls that fantastic — I would’ve laughed. Or panicked. But that’s where I am. And the strangest part is: it feels like peace.
People hear “chemical castration” and imagine something violent, morally loaded, or reserved for monsters. I thought that too. But my version of it didn’t start from punishment. It started from desperation — and from a marriage I was terrified of destroying.
The Descent
I was 50 the first time I ever slept with a prostitute. I’d been faithful, monogamous, and honestly pretty inexperienced — my wife was the first person I ever slept with. I never felt deprived. Our marriage was good, our sex life was good. Then work started sending me out of state four days a week. I had nothing but hotel rooms and stress and empty hours.
One night I wandered into a strip club out of boredom. Not intention. Not fantasy. Just a way to kill time.
I wish I could say I hated it — that it repulsed me and I ran out. But the truth is, the mixture of attention, adrenaline, and secrecy hooked into something I didn’t know was there. Something dormant. Something compulsive.
I kept going back. First just to look, then to talk, and then I met a dancer who told me she liked older men. She made me feel seen. Desired. Exceptional. I fell into something between fantasy and addiction. I paid for her implants. I lied constantly. I compartmentalized like a professional. And after it all — every time — I’d sit alone feeling filthy and empty, swearing I’d never do it again.
And then I did it again.
I acted like a man who didn’t value the life he had — even though I did.
The Marriage I Almost Lost
When my wife found out, she was devastated. She’s always been the moral center of our home — a devout Catholic, a fiercely loyal woman, someone for whom vows aren’t symbolic but literal. I expected her to leave me. Part of me thought she should.
But she didn’t. She fought for the marriage even when I wasn’t fighting for myself. I said what she needed to hear, but the truth was darker: at that point, I wasn’t willing to give up the rush.
Later, when I stopped, it was only because she was monitoring our finances more closely. Not because I had conquered the impulse. Not because I had changed.
For two years I white-knuckled it. But the obsession grew in the background until finally, inevitably, I relapsed. And when I did, it hit harder and faster than before. Once a week. Unprotected. Reckless. Almost daring the universe to punish me.
I would lie awake at night imagining myself old and alone — divorced, broke, ashamed, eating cold pizza in a studio apartment — and it still wasn’t enough to stop me.
That’s when I realized I had lost control.
The Breaking Point
By the time I saw Dr. Sorrentino, I was willing to do anything — including physical castration — to get free of the cycle. That wasn’t hyperbole. I meant it. I was ready to go under the knife if it meant I wouldn’t ruin my life.
She had me go through six sessions of CBT first. I wore a rubber band around my wrist and snapped it every time I thought about prostitutes. It hurt, and it woke me up to how constant the thoughts were — thirty, forty times a day.
Therapy helped in a structural sense, but it didn’t touch the engine. The compulsive part of my brain was far stronger than any rational analysis of my childhood or stress or unmet needs.
So we talked about Lupron.
She explained the side effects: hot flashes, weight gain, breast development, brittle bones. I didn’t care. Any price felt small compared to the chaos I was living in.
The Injection That Changed Everything
My first injection stung — a slow, chemical burn deep in the muscle. It took a couple of shots before anything changed, but then the shift came quickly:
• erections weakened
• thoughts slowed
• urges evaporated like smoke
Within a few months, the compulsive sexual thoughts that once dominated my day were reduced to a handful. Now, they’re background noise — faint, powerless, disconnected from action.
I can’t get an erection anymore. Not with my wife. Not alone. Not in dreams. And I don’t miss it.
That’s the part that confuses people, even therapists: I don’t long for sex. I don’t feel deprived. I feel free.
Before Lupron, every sexual impulse felt like a command. A jolt. A pressure. Like being hijacked by my own biology.
Now it feels like the mental version of seeing a beautiful beach house on TV — “That’s nice” — and then moving on.
I still appreciate women. I still find them beautiful. I still feel heterosexual. But the engine is off. The car is in neutral.
The first time I realized I could look at a woman and not feel compelled to do anything with the feeling, I almost cried from relief.
It sounds dramatic, but I had been living in a prison built of my own hormones and compulsions. Lupron turned the lock.
Rebuilding What I Nearly Destroyed
My wife and I don’t have sex anymore. We don’t plan to. And incredibly, she’s okay with that. Maybe more than okay — maybe relieved. She used to worry constantly about where I was, what I was doing, who I was with. That fear consumed her.
Now she doesn’t worry. At all.
We kiss, we hug, we travel, we have grandkids we adore. Friday is date night. We’ve built a life that is emotionally intimate, even if it’s not physically intimate.
Some people would say that’s sad. But compared to the hell we were in before, it feels like a miracle.
The Masculinity Question
If anything, I feel more like a man than before. Because before, I was living like a coward — lying, hiding, compartmentalizing, drowning in guilt, and too weak to stop myself.
Now I’m present. Stable. Reliable. Safe.
My wife trusts me again.
I trust myself again.
That feels more masculine to me than anything testosterone ever gave me.
The Future
My therapist wants me to taper off someday. I can’t even talk about that yet. The idea of those urges returning terrifies me. My life is peaceful now. Predictable in a good way. Purposeful.
I’m working on a master’s degree. I spend time with my grandkids. I’m filling my life with things that feel steady and human — not manic, not secretive, not shameful.
Will I ever want sex again? Maybe. But I don’t want the risk back. I don’t want the compulsion back. I don’t want the older version of me back — not at the price he came with.
For now?
Lupron is saving my life.
And unless something major changes, I’ll stay on it.
Because peace — real peace — is worth more than desire ever was.