I live in a sexless marriage. No, I don’t live. I endure. I endure a sexless marriage.
Is this what I want? No. A million times, no.
Even from the very, very beginning of our marriage, I always wanted more sex than he did. I searched for answers, reading so many books. All the books talked about the man’s sex drive being stronger than the woman’s, so that didn’t help at all. It wasn’t until I read “Living With the Passive Aggressive Man” that I finally found an answer to why I wanted more sex than he did.
I read on this blog – although now I can’t find the post – that a sexless marriage is categorized as having sex eight times a year. I would say that has been the case in my marriage for about, maybe five years now, probably longer. But even before that, sex was maybe once or twice a month, if I was “lucky.” And even back when we used to have sex maybe four times a month, it still wasn’t enough for me. I always wanted more.
The other thing about sex for me… after about ten or twelve years of marriage, I started crying uncontrollably when we finished. I felt so wretchedly empty afterwards, so meaningless. And in more recent years, I have just wanted to kill myself any time I had sex with him.
And yet I want to make love so badly. I want to touch and be touched. Kiss and share and experience and be one and orgasm. And be warm and filled and loved when it is all over. I want an emotional connection with the physical connection.
A few weeks ago I bought a cute, sexy, bohemian cotton dress at the thrift store. It has a halter top, an elasticized waist/midriff (the whole center section) and a very full, knee-length skirt. The fabric is printed with stylized flowers and designs and stuff. It’s not usually the kind of thing that I wear, but when I saw it, I loved it.
So I washed it and hung it up to dry and this morning my husband asked me when I was going to wear it. I told him I didn’t know, but I was planning on trying it on this morning. He said, try it on now. So I did. It is so cute!!!
I said that it was really cute and he said it was sexy. Then he grabbed me and started kissing me. He has a scruffy beard and a too long mustache and his mustache was going up my nose and he was kissing me too hard – not sensual. And part of me wanted sex so badly and part of me just wanted to push him away because I felt repulsed. Then he stopped and said he loved me. I went into the bathroom and wanted to be sick, wanted to die.
Maybe this doesn’t make any sense.
I just wanted everything to be all over, to just die. But then I made myself think of my daughters. And what Julie the therapist told me one time: that I didn’t really want to die, that I just felt overwhelmed by my situation.
And then after that, I felt so crazy for wanting sex but not wanting sex with him. For wanting to be in a loving relationship, but then thinking I was crazy for even thinking a loving relationship with anyone anywhere is even possible.
I love chick-flicks, those cute, sweet, romantic comedies. And I watch the characters, especially the men and I find myself wondering if men in real life are at all like the characters in the chick-flicks, where they actually seem to be interested in the women, seem to actually want them and even care about them a little bit. I just wonder.
And, then, of course, I think I am crazy all over again.