Dear Reader, I’m unconvinced this post merits publishing, and I’m aware it’s not remotely my best written, but my blog is rapidly becoming just a chronicle, and this fits within that. So …

Doubtless I shouldn’t be particularly surprised, but rather than talking about sex, as expected at yesterday’s relationship counselling session, We ended up talking about our wedding, communication, respect and curiosity. Don’t get me wrong, Dear Reader, most of these things absolutely need discussing, but it really does seem perennially easy to not talk about sex.

However, just as we’re drawing to the end of the session, Kirsty pulled it out of the bag.

We have both identified sex, she said, as something that can either only be considered if everything else is resolved (my Wife), or has to be addressed if We are to consider saving our marriage (me)
I felt obliged to clarify that I wanted sex to be part of the discussion: fixing trust isn’t predicated on fixing sex.
… yes, well sex needs to be discussed in parallel to everything else. She wanted to talk to Us about our sexual histories in individual sessions, as these things are personal.
I entirely expected this, as Kirsty had said as much at my last individual session and that having talked to me about Our sex life, she wanted both to have a similar conversation with my Wife, as well as understand our sexual pasts, relationships, sexual influences and intimacy growing up, That sort of thing..
Yet despite Kirsty finally, saying the right things from my perspective, I’d still had a defensive, knee jerk reaction when We were told We would have to talk about sex.

Now whether I am over interpreting, letting my negative perceptions of my Wife get the better of me, or whether my emotional radar was spot on is impossible to say. But I sensed that She suddenly became uncomfortable.
Perhaps I was wrong. Maybe it was just disinterest. Or maybe there was no reaction at all.

The need for individual session was reiterated: did We want Our next weekly session to be joint or individual? I said I was happy to have such conversation in what has become a weekly individual session for me. And my Wife said something I couldn’t make sense of about the benefits joint sessions vs individual sessions, and I got lost in it. Was She saying next week We should have a joint session and respective individual sessions, or just individual sessions, or what … oh … hang on … We’d leave that decision for now and we could look at diaries later. [Ed: It’s lockdown. No one is busy, especially in the evenings. No one! Hands up who isn’t over interpreting now? No? No one? Didn’t think so.]
I had been expecting to cut out the usual email conversation with Kirsty to arrange a session for myself, but I instinctively felt this would be pushing it –  like saying to my Wife, I’m talking about sex, so You should be too! I backed off. I could email Kirsty after the session.

And that would have been it … were it not for a twist of fate.

You know, Loyal Reader, that I have a stereotypical penchant for lingerie. [Ed: AM’s own gender-identity challenging, rubber underwear notwithstanding.] The Infamous Red Torsolette being the perfect example.
And you also know that the diverging extravagance of my Wife’s and My underwear has become a somewhat stark reflection of our sex life: these days my Wide does not do lingerie!

Meanwhile, the entire family, myself excepted, has got into the BBC’s Great British Sewing Bee. [Ed: For the record, AM is actually pretty handy with a sewing machine and has knocked out items as disparate as bespoke vehicle tarpaulins, a Willy Wonka tail coat (for World Book Day), and a pair of tiger skin panties for his Wife (never once mentioned, let alone worn).]
I’d been press-ganged into watching this week’s episode before I knew it’s premise.
This week’s episode was … Lingerie Week! Y’know, Dear Reader, sexy stuff, typically worn by women.

Having been told only minutes earlier that We were going to have to talk about Our respective sexual pasts, I wondered how confronted my Wife felt.
Thankfully my She didn’t disappear off on a parental rant about the objectification of women during the episode. (Only the previous day She had fired off an entirely unnecessary and un-objective comment about historical gender roles when I had innocently been relating how, aged about 10, I had spent a day drawing cars sat in Grandpa’s office.) But I did wonder how She must have felt when the TV show’s contestants were required to make my favourite item of lingerie – a basque. Also know as a torsolette, of which there is a totemic red example buried right at the bottom of Her underwear drawer.

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