Six Months

I haven’t had sex with my boyfriend for over six months. (It’s still Bear, by the way.) 

Fuck me (literally). I said it. I actually said it. That’s the first time I’ve actually acknowledged it. Sat down, worked it out, jotted it down. 

Six months.

I bet you’re wondering what the fuck happened? Yes, well, so am I. 

It started with me … 

I was depressed. Very depressed. Couldn’t even get in the shower, brush my hair, or clean my teeth-depressed. But we’ll talk about that another time. Getting back to the point, I’d brush him off when he’d touch me because I felt shit about myself. Ugly, I hadn’t shaved my legs or my bikini line. I hadn’t had a shower yet that day. It wasn’t a great time for me because I wasn’t at my best. I definitely wasn’t at my sexiest. 

Had I put weight on? Was I starting to lose my hair? Do you think I’ve got more wrinkles than I had yesterday? How am I in my thirties now? WHEN DID THAT HAPPEN??

But we overcame all that. I pulled myself together, made a bit of an effort, and we had some sex.

Then he got depressed. 

He put on a bit of weight and started to feel really shit about himself. Money was tight. We were awesome as a couple, but things were falling apart for a while. You know how it is: one aspect of your life goes right and everything else falls spectacularly to pieces. Nothing goes right at the same time. I had the man I wanted — the actual love of my life — and everything else fell apart. 

At first, I’d try and give him little prompts at baby-making times of the month.

“Hey, my phone app says tonight is prime baby-making night if you wanna, ya know, get it on.” 

(And yes, we actually talk to each other like that.) 

“I’m tired tonight, how about I make an effort tomorrow?” 

“Sure, no worries. Love you.” 

“Love you more.”

After about eight or nine weeks of that, I thought I might try slightly more affirmative action. I shaved my legs, bikini line, armpits. Sorted out the moustache. Washed my hair, gave it a good mask, and then actually styled it. Brushed my teeth … three times in ten minutes. Put a bit of makeup on. Threw on real clothes, not just whatever pyjamas I’d worn the night before. Tried to make my underwear match a bit. Put on some jewellery. Painted my nails. Gave him the full seduction routine, flirting and fluttering lashes and everything. 

He didn’t notice on the first try. The second time was also unsuccessful – a headache that time. I fell asleep on the third attempt, and the fourth attempt was met with a blazing row. To be fair, I think I might have started it. Blame the sexual frustration. 

Four months went by … and that’s when things started to get a little weird. 

I started having odd dreams about wanker men, waking up at the point of no return with one of my hands shoved down my pants. I don’t think Bear’s noticed, thankfully, but how awkward? What if I say someone’s name? We’re talking ex-boyfriends here, many of which he knows about, so that would go down about as well as a lead balloon. 

I went through a little period where I started finding people hot that I wouldn’t usually. There was a rather odd Jared Harris phase. There was also a particularly steamy Joe from ‘You’ stage, and an Ezra from ‘Pretty Little Liars’ one. And who could forget about that time I watched Lady Gaga having covered-in-blood sex in ‘American Horror Story – Hotel’ over and over again? 

It felt like I was asking Bear to grab batteries on the way home every other week, and I prayed to every God I could think of that he wouldn’t start putting two and two together. There are only so many TV remote batteries I can pretend to replace, and as much as I want to “fix” our sexual problem, I certainly don’t want to make him feel uncomfortable about it. If he were to learn that I was wanking myself into a frenzy every time I got the house to myself, he’d start acting strange. That’s what he does. He frets about me wanting to go out and fuck the first man that shows me a little bit of sexual attention or leaving him for someone with a higher sex drive. Trade him in for a model that actually works. 

I don’t want anyone else. I just want him. I’m as sexually attracted to him now as I was when we first started dating, and I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about just grabbing his dick and waking him up to a happy ending in the middle of the night.

Sadly, I don’t think he gets it, no matter how many times I try to tell him. 

But still, I try. Like a few weeks ago, in the kitchen, when I kissed him and forced his hand into my underwear, showing him just how smooth my newly-shaven pussy felt. That’s as far as it went, though. He deftly brought me to orgasm with his fingers and then went back to what he was doing. I did prove one point that day – he’s not impotent. He walked away from me with a raging boner, something I’ll never understand. Especially as that was one of the reasons he’d given me for not feeling at his sexual peak: 

“I’m worried my old problem is back.” 

(A problem that was never a real problem to begin with. The impotence issue has never really happened with me.) 

And now we’re here. Six months. He’s made me cum once in six months. I’ve made him cum zero times in six months. Shocking. 

I’ve considered all the options here — depression, an affair, not finding me sexually attractive anymore, etc., but he’s assured and then reassured me that none of those things are the case. And I think I’d know if he were diddling someone else. I’m naive, but I’m not stupid. Or maybe I am? I hope not. 

But it’s not just my sex drive I’m worried about; it’s my fertility. I’m already fairly much convinced that pregnancy is not going to happen for me, but it has absolutely no chance of happening if we don’t actually have sex. At the same time, I don’t want our sex life to be all about making a baby, which could have been one of the added pressures that led to the absolute decimation of it. But my baby-making years are starting to run out. Do you see the problem here? 

On most days, this stuff doesn’t bug me. But today and other days like today? Yeah, I want to scream so many things. 

WHY WON’T YOU HAVE SEX WITH ME? 

ARE YOU HAVING AN AFFAIR?

WHAT ABOUT MY BABY, FOR FUCKS SAKE? 

PLEASE TOUCH ME!

WHY DOESN’T YOUR PENIS LOVE ME ANYMORE? 

OH MY GOSH, YOU DON’T LOVE ME ANYMORE, DO YOU? 

It’s a fucking cray-cray escalation on days like today. 

Six months though. Fuuuuuck.