A year ago, we had sex once or twice a week, and I feared for the waning of it. I feared the decline to once or twice a month. Now, here we are, and I fear worse. On a good month, we might have sex four times in the whole month.
I have fought this tooth and nail the whole while, but it doesn't get better. I talk to you about my fear, but it doesn't get better. I explain how important it is to my sanity, but it doesn't get better. I thank you for those few times and show you how much it helps me, but it doesn't get better. I shave my legs, but it doesn't get better. I dress up, but it doesn't get better. I buy sexy underthings and wear them for you, but it doesn't get better. I cry, but it doesn't get better.
I can't enjoy it any more. I tried. I so wanted to enjoy a passionate New Years Eve, and I almost had it. But the moment you asked about something mundane, like going to the bedroom with the lights off, it was gone. My brain kicked in. Why don't you want to see me when we make love? Why does it matter where we are if you're already inside me and we're here? If you're this disinterested in me, who are you interested in? Why don't you ever want to touch me? Is my body that awful? What are you hiding? Who is she? Are you just going through the motions because I mentioned feeling bad the other day? It was over for me before it even started. I spent most of that time dry and chafing and trying desperately to find a way to enjoy this thing I had asked for.
I posted photos of myself, hoping that the praise of friends and strangers would help. Maybe, I thought, maybe if other people think I'm sexy I will feel more attractive and not be so filled with doubt and insecurity. It didn't work.
I took photos for you. I saved them for days, trying to work up the courage to send them. You used to gush over the pictures I would send you. You used to rush to be with me afterward. Or you'd talk dirty with me, getting me all worked up. Lately, I get one line of generic response, and at the end of the day we watch TV and go to sleep. I deleted the pictures. Nothing was good enough.
A year ago, I worried that this situation might deteriorate to the point where my libido just quit. I am almost there. I don't want sex. I don't think about sex, except as a missing intimacy. I tried masturbating to build it back up but... Spending two hours on self pleasure just for one measly orgasm doesn't seem worth doing.
Once, you told me that masturbating was hot, and if you caught me you'd have to take me then and there. The first time you "caught" me, you walked right back out with a blank look on your face. I wanted you to take me. I needed you to take me. I was so ashamed that I let myself be found doing something so embarrassing and you didn't even want me then. The second time, last month, really was an accident.
I tried sucking your cock, reasoning that if I started it, maybe you'd want to keep going. That worked on an individual basis. But I don't really want to initiate every single time. I want to be taken, seduced, forced, wanted so badly you can't resist, not... This. I don't want to be so desperate for you that I'll suck your cock when you've shown no interest, on the hope that maybe you'll decide to grace me with your orgasm.
What happened to your passion for ME? When did I become nothing but a means to your pleasure, when you feel like bothering? Did I stop being pretty? Why am I not exciting to you any more? Why don't you want to please me? Why don't you want to touch my body, and experience me? Where did the build-up go?
Sex is my confidence.
I have none.