My abuser was another child, a male family member three years older, who targeted me between the ages of seven and 15. This early sexualisation made me confused about what was appropriate, and in my teens I was aggressive towards any girl who showed interest. I never physically harmed anyone but definitely made a few women uncomfortable. These failed encounters fed into my overwhelming sense of shame. It all became too much, and I began to self-harm, abusing drugs and alcohol any time I had sexual urges.

I adopted a hyper-masculine persona, totally out of sync with my actual sexual identity, and attracted the wrong partners. A couple of my early girlfriends were emotionally manipulative and emasculated me when I confided in them about the abuse. Meanwhile, I loathed other men – real men who could have sex and knew what women wanted. I was something else – a shameful thing, too pitiful to have sex or know how to ask for the physical intimacy I craved.

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Eventually, tired of loneliness, I agreed to an open marriage, believing that if my new wife were able to meet her sexual needs elsewhere then it would all work itself out. She thought the sexual freedom would allow me to explore and heal my wounds. Unfortunately, none of this happened and we divorced.

Since then, I’ve struggled with the absence of physical contact. Therapy helped me deal with my shame, and empathise with both my younger self and my abuser, who I’ve come to recognise was likely a victim of sexual abuse himself. I’m still lonely, but I haven’t given up.

• Each week, a reader tells us about their sex life. Want to share yours? Email sex@theguardian.com