On any given weeknight during the final several years of my marriage you could safely wager your life savings that no sex would happen in my house. For all intents and purposes Friday followed the same rule; participants were “too tired” to do anything but vegetate in front of a glowing screen and not touch each other — for fear, perhaps, that even a touch would rouse up passions better left sleeping.
Eventually Saturday became the day on which all my hopes were hung. If we could manage a day with no arguments, few childish catastrophes and little stress it was just possible that we’d wind up naked by ten p.m. It was not guaranteed, mind you. It was just possible.
For the sake of sanity1, since I became a mother I’ve maintained a network of friends willing to trade midweek appointment-going and weekend date-night hours; the goal of the latter to ensure that adults could steal a tiny bit of time during which no one’s nose would need wiped nor tiny bottom cleansed nor petulant request for milk answered. I lived for the nights we could shuttle our charges off to trusted friends; I am such an unnatural mother that those hours felt like the only ones wherein I could draw a full breath.
For a while we devoted a fraction of that time to nakedness but then that too fell away. That dinner was so filling he’d say after we returned from a meal I didn’t have to cook. I don’t think I can do anything tonight. Rain check? And I’d surlily stomp upstairs to drown my sorrow in a book, determined next time (next time being two weeks hence when our turn for freedom would roll around again) to encourage sex before eating.
But it never worked. There was always a reason that dinner took precedence over nudity and always a reason that the effects of dinner precluded nudity, and in the fullness of time I accepted the fact that that’s the way it were and weren’t never gonna change.2
Over those many lonely years the rule was drummed into my head: Having a “date” in a restaurant was a certain sign that sex was off the table; moreover, going to a restaurant was a convenient and sure-fire way to dodge sex. So perhaps it’s understandable that when my friend because of lingering minor illness requested that we forgo a sexdate in favor of dinner out I lost my motherfucking cool.
Internally, of course.
I coolly agreed to the switch then sat back with destruction running through my head. Did it mean he was done with me? That he was no longer having fun? That this would mark the start of a long line of excuses, avoidance and sex he’d just barely tolerate? I worried past all rationality, but I am 41 years old and the possessor of many pairs of big-girl panties. I put one on and met him at the restaurant. In suitable time I summarized the tale you’ve just heard and requested politely that if he ever felt we’d do better with a clothed rather than naked friendship please to tell me forthrightly.
It’s all very silly as I’ve had ample evidence lo these many years that my partners find me to be fun, smart, desirable and ten-thousand other positive things. I know that one missed sexdate is not the same as years of married neglect. I know I’ll never want for loving, competent, kinky friends. I know these things in my head.
It’s just too bad I have such a hard time believing them.
It’s a hard lesson to learn…even after years of knowing…I still struggle with it. Married neglect is a self confidence killer and its after effects lasts long after the marriage is gone. Good luck with your neglect “demons” and if you come across any good ways to make those bastards leave for good please do share!
I went through a similar experience with an ex boyfriend. I loved him so much and tried to cook healthy for him. We loved to go out, but I began to dread it because it was always followed by the “I’m too full too…” Years later he passed away at a very young age from esophageal cancer. He had acid reflux and had quite literally eaten himself to death. When I saw photos of him at his heaviest I was stupified, dumbfounded, sad. He was a lovely person who taught me to be myself and we had the most delicious sex life. And all I can think is how could his family have let this happen? I am so much more careful about myself and my mate now. I want the rest of my life with him waaaay more than I want butter and bacon… and I love butter and bacon a lot! Thanks for writing this. It conjured an image of someone I miss dearly and made me smile at the memory.
If you have never seen it, there is a movie named ‘Fatso’ starring Dom Deluise. He talks about his love affair with…food. It was my friends favorite movie.
To be clear: I’m not criticizing what he ate or how much he ate…only that we got into the habit of making excuses not to have sex.
No, I know. I didn’t think that you were. I was just relaying my experience. He gained all the weight after we broke up. He ate his feelings so I expect he was unhappy with his new wife and the responsibilities of having children. But large dinners began a pattern of making excuses for us too.
I went through something similar with my ex wife. It made me hate my life so much I wished I would get hit by a bus – accidentally – because I don’t believe in suicide.
It’s hard to unlearn the lessons that life forces us to condition to and learn. I’m sorry about that. I have a similar experience with my ex because he loved to pick arguments from small talk conversations and use them to tear me down personally. For a while every time my person of interest began to seem enthusiastic about a conversation topic I would involuntarily wince and mentally brace myself for some lashing. The negative aspects of past relationship have a way of coming back to haunt us. But a friend of mine put it best: “It’s normal to be affected by the things that have hurt you”.
The best we can do is try to minimize the damage and let the good people in our lives heal us.
By the way, I am a big fan of your big girl panties. I would like to know how you come by accumulating them, because oftentimes I find myself in great need of them. :)
The head and the heart are like sponges, but they absorb at different speeds from one another.
Some things the heart absorbs quickly, but the head slowly. You find yourself saying, “How does this make sense? I don’t understand it!” for years, all the while the heart keeps you doing it. A lot of kink is this way.
With other things it’s the other way around. Confidence you won’t be hurt so deeply again comes quickly to the head, but slowly to the heart.