Last night brought round two of What the hell happened to our sex life and how do we get it back? and there was yelling instead of quiet discussion. I brought it up on Tuesday night calmly and we, well I, talked about it. When I asked him to give input, all he came up with was, �I don�t know.� Tuesday I stressed that I am tired of the routine, long for the spontaneity we used to have, and am really bored with the monotony of it. He asked if we have a good relationship and I had to say yes. Because it�s true. We�re not together out of any sort of obligation, we care deeply for one another above everything else, and would be, are, loathe to part even for a short while. We went to sleep with me feeling confident that there would be definite improvement within the next twenty-four hours. Evening rolls around and he makes no move. I take the initiative and attempt to start something, not out of having to but of wanting to and he clearly enjoys it but makes no move to continue things.

Naturally, I felt brushed off, and as a result, angry. I tried to get over it, but he felt the need to keep prying into how I was feeling and I ended up showering alone, desperate to just not be pestered for the scant twenty minutes that would afford me. We ended up arguing further for two hours, going in circles, blaming one another, nitpicking over semantics. We finally decided to drop the circular antics and simply discuss how to solve what has been plaguing us both for well over a year. Yes, I remember fighting about this same issue almost exactly a year ago.

He said that my maintaining a mental tally of when we do and do not have sex puts pressure on him, that he doesn�t want it mentioned because he knows just how long it�s been without me reminding him. He said that it makes him feel more like it is a job and thus less likely to want it at all. I countered that his lack of interest in the act translates to lack of interest in me, that I have sex with him because I know it�s what I should be doing and not because I genuinely want to. I cannot possess interest when I do not receive it. When faced with a question of quality versus quantity, if I can�t have both I take quantity. I�d rather have a lot of mediocre sex than a little mediocre sex. If there were variation and excitement, I would be perfectly happy with what I am getting, but I can predict exactly when and in what order things will progress right down to the last second when he rolls off and I�m left in the wet spot. In those moments I am pleased, drenched in post orgasmic afterglow, but it�s after he�s left me for his side of the bed that I feel inherently empty.

I miss being in love. While we both love one another so very deeply, we no longer possess that shimmering and ever elusive innocence that comes with being actually in love. We have weathered so much at this point that we know, no matter how strong, we will never have the purity of a new relationship again, nor will we ever have the urgency and fiery desire for one another that was so prevalent in the first year.

It�s not even so much that I want sex. I want sexuality, eroticism, above all. I want something that is going to engage all of my senses and doesn�t focus simply on the thrusting of genitals and the grabbing of breasts. It is porn, which teaches that narrow myopic focus. I crave variance in sensation, sound, taste, smell, and sight and currently I have none of that. I don�t care if he�s sweaty; in fact, I�d rather he was. I�m so tired of the sterility involved in sex following a shower. I loathe when all he does is grab my breasts and expects me to be excited at the drop of a hat. Sorry, but that bores me. My body requires more than that. Engage me, my mind. Put your hands in my hair and send shivers down my spine, tell me what you�re thinking, give me some indication that you appreciate my presence. I don�t want to be a tool for glorified masturbation.

We�ve somehow fallen into the rut that intercourse is the be all and end all of intimacy, when it has merely become an exercise in mechanics. I remember the last time I tried to interest him in simple making out and he kept pulling away, preferring to read. It really broke my heart and I guess it has yet to mend. Eroticism for me doesn�t have to involve genitals. It�s talking, it�s the look in his eyes that tells me exactly how he feels, it�s that thinly held restraint that keeps him from indulging his urges. It is teasing and the sweet torture of fingers in mouths. It is the placing of arms around my waist and breathing on my neck, the caressing of my back as I sit on the couch, the laying of a hand on my thigh as I drive.

I don�t want sex to be the one thing that leads to the demise of us because we are so well suited, so in tune with one another on every other level imaginable. Sex in relationships is important, crucial. Unfortunately, it is the one branch that keeps falling into the road, making me stop to pick it up, making me wonder if I�m going to want to keep driving that route for the rest of my life. I could just drive over it, risk leaving necessary parts lying there with it, but those necessary parts are parts of me and their necessity is not imaginary. I need a healthy, active, varied, thrilling sex life. I don�t want to let that need slip by the wayside, allowing it to make me less of who I am.

I told him that I wouldn�t pressure him anymore, that as things get better, my perceptions will change. I�m crossing my fingers, trying not to spill salt, and wishing upon stars.