Most days, this is my inner-response when Henri pushes for sex. He insists, I resist. I give in every so often, just to release some steam from his pot. I have remained adamant that I will not enjoy myself unless he gives me something to enjoy. There was a time that the mere view of a dick sent my pussy into overdrive. That is no longer the case. Maybe I’m dumb for thinking this or even writing this, but even though we are married, I want to be wooed. I want to be chased; I want that over-the-top rose petals on the bed, tapered candles, champagne, bubble bath, strawberries and whipped cream romance. A massage would be nice, and a very long cunnilingus session that results in more than one climax. Jeez at least he used to aim for one; now, it’s been four years and counting since I’ve been brought to spasms by oral sex (sadly, niether he nor any other man has made that happen).
I would pray but I wouldn’t know exactly what to pray for. Better sex? A better relationship? Can one exist without the other? No, I don’t think so. So far, the interactions between us are fairly well. We talk, hug, and kiss; the normal husband/wife things that husbands and wives do. We make jokes and carry conversations about the environment, the future and politics (don’t get me started on Trump). From one standpoint, we are much better now than we were five months ago. But I can’t shake the fear that if we can’t find a way to better our sex life, we will end up in the same place we started.
I think I’m moving backwards somehow. I turned 30 last month and while so many other women told me that this is when they reached their sexual peak, mine is waning tremendously. I’m starting to think that old saying is true: If you don’t use it, you lose it. Still waiting for the dirty thirties to kick into high gear (at least shift into first gear). I’m going to fetch me a drink and listen to this song on replay. Consider it nostalgia at 1 in the morning.