Fight the good fight

There was no point in getting out of bed. It was Sunday: Friday night had gone from great to shit, and for pretty much the whole of Saturday I’d reserved my company exclusively for myself. Sulking, and licking my wounds. Again, the bed there was no point in getting out of was, by my own choice, the spare bed.

Some 5hrs later than I would usually rise (and, with the luxury of solitude, two orgasms later) I showered and went downstairs for breakfast. She joined me at the table.
Her: We should talk.
We did.
Awkwardly.

The conversation was frank and at times teetered on the edge of another fight.
Ultimately the conversation came to a halt with no sign of resolution.
The family went out on a previously arranged excursion, sans moi.

That evening, I suggested we all snuggled  up on the sofa as a family and watched a movie.
It was OK.
Later still, when it was just my Wife and me on the sofa, I beckoned Her towards me, so that we could snuggle. She made some reference to neck pain and wanting to sit upright. That would have been ok, were it not for the fact that this could apparently only be done at the other end of the sofa!
3 or 4 gins down, my appetite for making an effort dissipated in an instant.
Without a word I took myself to bed. (It was only about 9pm.)

A few minutes later, She marched into my bedroom and turned the light on.
I forget what was said but She was angry.
There was an invitation, albeit an angry invitation, to come back downstairs.
She left the room.

I contemplated leaving Her to it … but no …
I dressed and joined Her at the opposite end of the sofa.

For years, there has been part of me that has known, rightly or wrongly, that what We needed to do was fight. To get us to the point that we actually talked would require antagonism and argument. That was what it would take to get us to confront our dysfunction.

I got the fight I’ve been waiting for.

I take no joy from saying that.

We didn’t start talking about sex, but the conversation quickly turned to it. I mentioned a recent foul mood I’d had that lasted a couple of days. She had incorrectly assumed one cause, whereas I enlightened Her that it was down to a particularly uncomfortable bout of … well … I didn’t know, but it was most likely attributable to either testicular hypertension, due to a lack of sex, or epididymitis, probably due to my enlarged prostate and again something that has historically been aggravated by a lack of sex. (It was a bout of epididymitis some 20yrs ago that lead to my diagnosis of an enlarged prostate, and the subsequent recommendation by my GP that I should “ejaculate regularly” so ensure my epididymis was kept clear and healthy.)

We spoke of our respective needs. Or rather my need for near daily sex and Her need for sex a couple of times a year. She uncomfortably acknowledged that reality and that it was part of the problem.

She asked what was wrong with Her looking after me more regularly. (Not that She has made any attempts to do so.) The prudish language irked me and I complained about Her ambiguous phrasing. She rephrased the question – what was wrong with Her wanking me off more regularly? What is wrong with that is that I can make myself cum with the ease of a seasoned professional. A handjob is all very well, but it lacks the intimacy of fucking that a physical relationship needs.

I informed Her that on several occasions I had researched possible of methods of reducing my libido. That medication, whilst it is theoretically available in this county, is reserved for serious sex offenders, and even when it is prescribed, it comes with serious side effects. I also reminded Her that chemical castration reportedly lead to Alan Turing’s suicide. See footnote. Anyway, there was far more information on how to increase libido, thought the corollary was essentially to live an unhealthy lifestyle and eat a poor diet.

She asked what I had discovered about increasing female libido. I hadn’t researched it. There was, however, progesterone, which She has recently been prescribed as menopausal HRT and that can, sometimes, restore a woman’s sex drive. It is cold comfort that we could agree that, in Her case, merely restoring Her libido would still only take it back to a problematically low level.

We ended up talking about seeing a sex therapist. Not, I must emphasise, a relationship counsellor, but a sex therapist. (She pointed out that as sex is plainly not our only problem, fortunately most sex therapists also work as relationship counsellors.) Even this topic became an argument: how to choose the right sex therapist? I suggested we researched it together. She insisted She wanted to do it separately to avoid Her frustration at me being such a slow reader. Whilst I understood this was the reality, as part of a step towards reconciliation, Her reluctance seemed indicatively unreasonable. But as so often, I necessarily acquiesced. I suggested She put together a shortlist. Somehow even that initially met with objection.

But ultimately we had an agreement.

She will research local sex therapists, and email me the details of Her three preferred candidates, from which I will pick one. (Even the prospect of Her emailing a list of sex therapists to me feels like defensive walls are being built already.).

Bloody hell that was difficult!

We went to bed.
She queried which bed I would sleep in.
I went to my bed. The spare bed.
But as I lay there, alone, I wanted Her to be there.
I got up and went into Her bedroom.
And got into Her bed.
She put down Her book and turned out the light.
We cuddled up.
I put my hand between us to restrain my semi.
It felt good to be close to Her. Despite the fight. Perhaps because of the fight.
Make-up sex was what my loins yearned for. But this was not the time for that. We’re too far down the pit for sex of any kind right now. So I went back to my own bed.


Footnote: In the process of finding the web link for Turing, I have learned the cause of his death is the subject of some debate.

10 Responses to “Fight the good fight”

  1. Wow! Good that you finally addressed the elephant in the room!
    Good that you sought her presence when you wanted it.
    There is still a ways to go, but it’s a good start!
    XO

    • Step 1: bruising but it is indeed good that we’ve done it.
      Step 2: (choosing a therapist) should be easy enough.
      Step 3: (opening Pandora’s Box) that’ll be the interesting bit.

      • Yes. Lots of courage. Don’t shy away from your truth. Or the hard work. It’s the only way to cure the abscess, to scrape all the dirty bits out, no matter how painful. It takes courage to do it and stick to it.
        It will not happen overnight and you may not have the same rhythm moving through/over/around the different hurdles. But remember, the important bit is to get to the other side. No judgment as to when or how…
        Good luck!

  2. You’re dealing with a difficult issue, and very common in middle aged couples, indeed. HRT could help her, but as you know, complications are also very common. Good luck.

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