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I haven’t agreed to attend counseling on my own yet. Maybe I should.
Maybe it was partly her words, but also, maybe the fourth glass of wine the other night helped me grow bold. And now that vibrator sits in the drawer beside a piece of paper that he thinks will solve everything.
I have a secret, anonymous sexual fantasy blog I called My Sexy Bucket List that I’ve had for almost a decade, though I hadn’t logged into it since Adam and I got serious, but I thought about that blog after the therapy appointment and re-read some of my old posts in my wine-addled state. The wine and reading my old posts centered around sexual fantasies I used to have were fuel for this firestorm, I guess.
“The hall pass will get you what you want,” he says.
“Adam…”
“And it’ll take the pressure off me.”
“I don’t mean to pressure you,” I say, staring at my feet.
“Nobody does, Chloe.”
Our eyes meet as he continues, “But everyone does. My parents. My physical therapist. My shrink. My editors. You. Friends and relatives. Everyone’s pushing me in whatever way, asking questions, or disappointed I’m not hitting their expectations and I’m tired of being pushed. Of being prodded. Having no privacy or personal space. And not having the ability to go for a run or even a walk to clear my head like I used to do. I’ve got too many people pushing, and I don’t need any more of it, especially not sexual pressure from you when I don’t… when I can’t…” He lets that hang.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Forget it. All of it. I won’t…”
“Stop being a fuckin’ martyr!” he shouts, physically startling me. “God, just stop.” He rakes his hands through his hair with frustration.
I stare, shocked as he blows out an exasperated breath before continuing much more calmly with, “You’ve always had a higher sex drive than me. Frankly, you were hard to keep up with. Now I have no hope in hell of keeping pace. Accept my offer. This way, you get what you need.”
“You’re making me feel like a sexual deviant,” I whisper hoarsely.
He rolls his eyes.
And this feels like insult added to injury. I say nothing for a minute, before I manage to rasp out brokenly, “What I need so much more than orgasms is intimacy with the man I love.”
“Chloe…”
“Connection,” I add, voice getting stronger. “I need to know that I matter to you as much as you matter to me.”
“Are you for real right now? Like I haven’t had enough to deal with. Making it about you?” he mutters, looking at me with disappointment, “When my life won’t ever be the same.”
“You’ve had too much to deal with, I agree, more than anyone should have to deal with. All I need to keep me going is some intimacy. I need to occasionally be kissed in a way that doesn’t leave me feeling like I’m your cousin. I need to know you might someday read those pamphlets and see that there might be options to help. Things worth exploring. For intimacy. For us to have children down the road, to–”
“Try it my way,” he says, “See if it’ll fill the gaps in our relationship for you. ” He shrugs.
I frown.
This feels blasé in a way that’s frankly infuriating.
“Try an affair?” I croak out.
He shakes his head. “Not an affair. Hall pass. An affair would be behind my back, against the rules of our relationship. This is like a backscratcher. Try it before we get married. See if it would be enough.”
“I love you, Adam. I…” How do I express that what I need is much more than to simply scratch an itch.
“I know that. I love you, too. And that’s why I’m looking for a solution. I don’t want to lose you. This takes the pressure off me and gives you what you need. I don’t know when or even if I’ll ever be ready to be anything in the realm of intimate when I can’t… I… I just don’t have those urges and I’m not about faking it. You know that about me, don’t you? I’m not fake.”
I feel like I’ve swallowed broken glass.
“I want you going into our marriage prepared for what our future will be like, Chloe. It’s not all about sex is it? Think about this.”
I swallow down the jagged shards, reality bleak before me. No intimacy, ever? Nothing? Living like roommates? The words why bother bounce around softly, but I fear the volume might suddenly get deafening. And I hate what that might say about me. I’ve had to fake plenty of things to try to be supportive to him. Fake smiles. Faking that I’m okay. For him. But is this what life is from here on out?
“Please,” he whispers. “I need you to think about it. Sweetie, you’ve been a saint throughout all of this. Thank you for that. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you. But now that we’re moving forward and life is hitting a new rhythm, we have to be realistic about what I can and can’t give you. I’m trying to think about you instead of just me here.”
