I love sex. I always have. It never occurred to me that there would be times when I wouldn’t crave it. I couldn’t imagine not wanting to feel hands roaming my body or soft lips trailing the curve of my neck. But it happened when I got married.
The pressure of marriage was hurled at me from all directions as I approached my mid-twenties. I fought it at first, refusing to settle for a partner who couldn’t give me everything I needed. But I eventually gave up on my notion of the ideal mate. I ended up marrying a man whose manhood was threatened by a vibrator. I knew from the beginning that he was very straight laced sexually speaking, but I thought I could adapt. I watched how he treated his mother. He adored her. I knew then that he would be a caring husband and father. I felt we could make a good life together. He gave me everything I wanted. Just not what I ended up needing the most. The freedom to be me.
I traded in nights of amazing sex for a house in the suburbs and Thursday morning playgroups. Little by little, I began to change. I started to cover my body in front of him, I got used to having sex with the lights off, and I found myself making excuses on the rare occasions he turned to me. The days of dripping wet excitement were long gone and lube became a necessity.
I was sad for awhile and began to mourn the loss of the sexual being I once was. I missed multiple orgasms and the thought of the night ahead soaking my panties. I missed that feeling of anticipation as I waited to be touched. I missed the ravenous look in a man’s eyes as he watched my every move.
Sadness eventually gave way to denial which is where I stayed for most of my marriage. I downplayed the importance of a sexual relationship. I told myself that it was normal to have a husband who rarely initiated intimacy yet expected it of me. I convinced myself that I could live my life without it and eventually stopped wanting sex altogether.
I listened to my friends talk about how much they loved sex with their husbands. They talked about vibrators, orgasms and feelings of need. I felt nothing. Not even a spark. My desire was officially dead. It was a thing of the past and it was time to let it go. I decided I didn’t need it and would be fine without it. I was a housewife with two kids. I felt like I didn’t have much of a choice.
Then I started to get angry. I was angry because I’d given up so much of who I was for a person who gave me nothing in return. I listened to him condemn people for their sexual orientation and judge others for enjoying the things I once loved. And as my hostility towards him grew, my sexual urges slowly began to resurface.
The orgasms I gave myself with the shower head were nice. And I often wondered if he ever noticed the handprint on the glass that I left on purpose. But, that was only the beginning, and I soon wanted more. I graduated to bringing myself to orgasm with my fingers as he lay sleeping on the other side of the bed we shared. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out in the middle of the night. Still, I needed more. I paid cash for the vibrator that stayed hidden in the bottom of my underwear drawer in the closet. I cried when it broke. Then all of the needs that I’d suppressed during my marriage slammed into me full force, knocking me off balance. I saw a future without him in it and I knew there was no going back for me. I was done hiding.
My marriage lasted for fourteen years, and for nine of them, I felt dead inside. I asked myself if it was karma. Was I being tormented for my sexual exploits in the past? For trying to be someone I wasn’t? What better way to punish me, someone who had so few sexual boundaries, than to dwindle my desire down to nothing. The last year of our sexless marriage, I realized I was partly at fault for the breakdown by not being upfront about who I was. I was a woman who loved sex. All kinds of sex. I wanted it. I needed it. And I swore on a stack of Southern Living magazines that I would never sacrifice who I am again.
