It’s years since I last saw my Wife naked. It was doubtless some time before I moved out of Her bedroom, and almost certainly a notable amount of time even before We last had sex.

My Wife has

rarely slept nude – only during the hottest of weather, and even then She would invariably reach for at least a lightweight dressing gown when going to the bathroom. Obviously, as I’d be more comfortable on a nudist beach than by a Butlins’s pool puts us at opposite ends of at least one spectrum, but as that total time taken to cover the distance can be no more than a few seconds, I have never understood the need.

Even when We used to have sex, far more often than not either the lights would be off, or the duvet pulled over our heads, or We would be so close We could only see past each other. Or D, all of the above.

So when I walked past Her bedroom door …

She had been for a morning run and said She was going for a shower. A few minutes later, I also headed for my bedroom on the floor above.

As I stepped onto the landing, She walked out of Her room and took the few steps into the bathroom. There was the briefest of conversations, of which I have no memory.

What was impossible not to notice was Her nakedness. No sweaty sports kit to be discarded in the bathroom. No sports bra constricting the tits I used to enjoy occasionally. No thong stained with the heat of Her pussy. [Ed: The thongs She wears exclusively for exercise these days, replaced by boring, black, boy shorts at all other times.] Complete, conspicuous nakedness.

Show me a naked body and I will examine it. Male or female. Young or old (legal limits being respected). Fat or skinny. My eyes will fall from neck to toes, absorbing muscles, boobs, nipples, stomach, navel, pubes, pussy, cock, balls, thighs, calves and feet. My eyes fell from my Wife’s neck to Her feet, hopefully quickly enough for my gaze neither to be noticed nor cause discomfort, and then as She walked into the bathroom, they rose again to watch Her arse.

It was a reflex action. Nothing more. Conditioned, no doubt, by years of enjoying more willingly observed pornorgraphees.

I couldn’t decide whether I was unmoved, disinterested, or merely adhering to my now long standing auto-represaion – my conscious decision to not regard my Wife in a sexual way. To avoid objectifying Her. Whatever I felt, it was neither horny nor desire for Her.

That almost troubled me, but in the circumstances, not quite. It is largely to be expected. I couldn’t say whether my Wife is even remotely attractive any more. Some of that may be down to familiarity and complacency on my part, but predominantly I feel such attention would not be worth the fall-out … and so any lust I had for Her has atrophied.

And that almost makes me sad. Almost, but not quite. Instead I feel ambivalence and resignation. There is little I can do that has not historically met with ted flags. And without explicit permission to regard Her sexually, no seeds of desire can hope to be nurtured back into life.

2 Responses to “Con-full-frontational”

  1. I find your wife’s perspective to be very interesting. Being desired, especially by your spouse, is not objectification. It is a normal, biological and life fulfilling need. You have proven you don’t want her just for sex, because you are still there and you aren’t getting any. Perhaps her hang ups have nothing to do with objectification and SO much more with shame and self loathing.

    • In Her defence, She hasn’t specifically complained about me objectifying Her, other than in Her rejection of lingerie I have bought for Her. However, She has railed against the objectification of women often enough that I am uncomfortable having sexual feelings about Her. Whether it has anything to do with shame and self loathing I suspect is less likely than Her stance on gender politics, but it is perfectly conceivable that the obstacles She has implied have become insurmountable through my inference.

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