I am just gonna run it without comment except to say that if you want to tell your own true sex story, face up to what's going on and send it in.
Here then, Cici Sparkle:
A “sexless marriage” is defined as one where the couple has sex fewer than 10 times in a year. We may have made love five times this year. It’s September. We have been married for 15 years.
I find him attractive, cute, boyishly, geek-ily sexy. I'm independent, feminist, loud, fun, reformed wild-and-crazy; he is passive, quiet, thoughtful, brilliant.
He doesn’t look at my body, doesn’t try to touch me, never sneaks in while I’m showering or grabs my ass while I’m cooking or talking on the telephone. He has never seduced me; has never unhooked my bra or looked at my body as he removed my panties. Sexy pictures and suggestive text messages make him uncomfortable and angry. He accuses me of being unstable - to whom else are you sending these photos? - and unsafe with technology when all I want is to tap into the primal, animal instinct that he must have… doesn’t he?
I approach him while wearing lingerie, bluesy-sexy music playing in the background, feeling lascivious and tasty, and he turns on the TV. I wrap my arms around him, throw my legs over his lap, gently nibble his earlobe and he freezes, almost as if he is afraid of what I may “do” to him.
He stays up all night either consciously or unconsciously to avoid coming to bed. Lovemaking, when it happens, is only in the morning. That way he can pull away from me afterwards, bounding out of bed to get showered and dressed immediately so I won’t have further expectations to be held or kissed or, heaven forbid, to reach climax. I make him feel dirty, I suppose, but not in a good way. If I’m on top - most times - he doesn’t move, save to hold my hips lightly. Occasionally he’ll cup my breasts and kiss them tenderly if they are right in his face, otherwise there is no foreplay. Perhaps this is my own fault. I am so easily - physically - turned on, so he never had to try very hard.
I can’t help but keep track. very Monday morning, after another weekend that we didn’t make love, I pick a fight. When he is sick or we have overnight weekend guests, I am irrationally angry and bitter: another lost opportunity for intimacy. Every time my period starts I rage, the pain and exhaustion mocking me, Mother Nature marking another month that he hasn’t even tried. When we do make love successfully, I am angry, too, because I know that the next time could be months away.
I don’t think he’s vindictive. He somehow doesn’t know what else to do, can’t read my body language, and follows instruction poorly. We used to have a good time together, even after our children were born. I had a lot of experience with men and sex but not with love. Our relationship was never passionate, but there was always deep caring and trust and a desire to please.
Have I mentioned that my husband is an alcoholic? Over the years he has progressed from being a social/heavy drinker to being a drunk, an habitual drinker, a selfish fuck of a man who drinks steadily until he passes out or until all of the beer is gone. He doesn’t yell or throw punches; instead he leaves a trail of beer cans and potato chip crumbs for me to find the following day, falls asleep in front of the blaring TV, lights blazing, with a beer can in his hand, spilling on the couch and the carpet. He wakes up sticky-eyed and confused just before dawn and rambles to bed as quietly as his lanky 200 pounds can be. He sleeps through his alarm, occasionally getting up in time to walk the kids to the bus stop with pungent, yeasty sweat coming out of his pores. My favorite mornings happen every few months when I wake up to him having pissed on his side of the bed.
Al-Anon tells the enabler not to manipulate situations so the alcoholic will pay bills, eat, go to work, or sleep. We are essentially told to get out of the way and let the train wreck happen. I have stopped fighting with him about his drinking and sleep habits and our terrible, sad sex life. He has worn me down and I can’t bear to be rejected any more. “You know I’ll never leave so the pressure is off. I’m trapped and unhappy and you don’t care. So, you win. I will not pursue you any more.”
There is a specific point in his drunkenness when he can be coaxed into bed. Too little alcohol and he wants to stay up later and party; too much and he is sloppy. Thursday was one of those nights. I was asleep although not soundly, too dead tired at this late hour to greet him but alert enough to hear him close the door and lock it. He crawled into bed and put his arms around me, my back to him. I lay uncharacteristically still and hoped he would get the hint to leave me alone. My instincts told me that if I woke up fully and encouraged him I would be disappointed, left aroused, alone, and wide awake. He nudged and snuggled me until he finally persuaded me to turn over on to my back. Despite myself, my arms went around his neck ... he is my husband, after all, and I love him in an unrequited, desperate way.
We lay quietly, close together. His tongue slithered into my ear, big and wet and invasive. I shuddered and pulled my head away. He kissed my neck and my face with lips that felt flabby and loose, smacking noisily. I tried to kiss him the way we used to - a light touch, gingerly sucking his bottom lip, gentle, tentative tongue - but he was too drunk to follow my lead. Instead he pressed my lips too hard with his mouth, hurting them against my teeth, jamming his tongue inside my mouth, licking and swirling with the finesse of a sixteen-year-old. He tasted like beer and smokeless tobacco, which he probably flipped out of his mouth when he came to bed. My skin crawled and I pulled my face away. He reached his hand between my legs and pushed them open gently, then used one finger to part the outer lips of my labia as he began recklessly jamming his hips into mine, not guiding himself or exploring, just poking until he found a warm spot.
He is well-endowed and was hard enough to penetrate me but I knew immediately that he wouldn’t finish. For several long minutes his efforts were on straight fucking, all pelvis and cock, pressing his full weight on me, banging away and breathing heavily. The alcohol rendered him incapable of multitasking so I raised my hips, moving with him, encouraging him, but also reaching for the tiniest bit of pleasure for myself. I was wet but not fully aroused so I wasn’t “open” enough to take his full length; I winced and tried to move away every time he thrust and hit my cervix. Tears rose in my throat as I whispered to him to slow down. He feels claustrophobic when I hold him too closely or wrap my legs around his hips so I lay my open hands lightly on his shoulders, my feet firmly planted on the bed, waiting for him to exhaust himself.
Finally I could feel him getting tired, losing his erection, breathing heavily, slowing down and stopping, at last, to catch his breath. He stumbled out of bed and went to the kitchen for glasses of ice water. When he returned and deposited my glass on the nightstand, I pretended to be asleep and made a small noise when he patted my head. Wide awake now, my back to him in the darkness, feeling light-years away, listening to his breathing as it became deeper, I thought about all of the reasons that I hate him.
Hope you can use this ... thank you for your beautiful blog.
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Thank you for being such a bad-ass, Cici. And yes, of course, I can use it. Hope it finds its way to who(m?)ever might be needing it in their day today.
xoxo
jill
(photo source)
