The elephant in the drawer

Monday morning, and it’s another Bank Holiday, so no need to get up early. I’m awake at 5am with an erection hard enough to drill for diamonds. It twitches enthusiastically when freed from the static constraints of my fist.

A little after 5:30am She gets out of bed and goes to the bathroom. She then returns to bed. Over the next 45 empty, silent minutes my hard-on loses its mettle and I lose any urge to test it.

As I move to get out of bed, Her hand reaches out and makes contact with my flank.
Her: How are you doing?
Me: Alright.
Rather than getting up immediately, I sit on the edge of the bed for a moment. Nothing is said. No moves made.
With no haste, I pick my glasses up from the bedside table. Still no word is said, nor move made.
Putting them on, I pause in the hope of something more.
It never comes.
I stand up, collect my clothes, and walk downstairs in deafening silence.

Three hours later She gets out of bed. It’s not unreasonable considering it’s a Bank Holiday and it transpired she went back to sleep.
Her: I’m very aware that we’re failing to have sex again.
I didn’t really have an easy response. I muttered ….
Me: Well …
It wasn’t a question, more a verbal shrug.
Her: We could make a conscious effort tonight to not let things slide.
Me: I guess.
Not a prospect I actively relish. Passively, maybe. But in the circumstance it would be even more churlish of me to decline.
Me: Tea of coffee?
Her: Tea please.
I made Her tea in silence and went for a shower.

As I washed, I mused on our inability to get through this.
She has acknowledged on more than one occasion that Her libido is at the bottom of the spectrum; there’s nothing I can do about that. My libido is obviously at the other end of the spectrum; I’m comfortable with that (most of the time). Even so, increasingly often, I want never to have sex with Her again, but every time I start to come to terms with that as a reality, once or twice a year, She decides She wants us to try to have a sex life. And then when I express a desire to have sex with Her, I’m met with rebuttal.

After breakfast, after She’d dressed, I was curious.
I frequently torture myself by checking Her underwear drawer. I never expect Her to be wearing The Infamous Red Lingerie. She never is. I think I’ve only been aware of Her wearing it once, maybe twice, in the last two years. To my surprise, it appeared that tally was now to be incremented.

And that in itself raises questions:

For whom is She wearing the underwear?
She seems to have no inclination to wear it for Herself – as far as I can acertain, She takes no particular pleasure in dressing sexily for Herself.
On more than one occasion She has expressed a loathing for the sexualisation of women and doesn’t want to be objectified, so it is surely not for my benefit.
Hell will likely be serving Iced Margaritas long before She performs a striptease for my pleasure, and there’s a better than evens chance I will not even see Her in the underwear tonight.
So what is Her plan and where, if at all, does the underwear fit into it?

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