NYT Modern Love Rejection #1: Sexually Incompatible With My Soulmate of 20 Years

My first attempt at the popular column about us and how we got here

The two of us on the night of this piece.

For a little background and update on this nine-month old piece, here’s a short clip:

Update on 2/18/2024: After returning from the Content Warning Event in Portland, I’m rethinking my views on relationship anarchy. Heard some good explanations that encourage applying substance and clear definitions to all of our relationships. Stay tuned.

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Eager to pay our tab, I waited by the bar.

“We have a special on three bottles of wine–”

“Sounds great. Let’s do it,” I said with a perked-up, toggled smile. The server collected my bottles as I tapped on the iPad to complete the transaction…

… and ignored my husband’s hollow presence behind me. He may have reached out to rub my back or move a rogue lock of my hair, but I wasn’t sure.

The scene and sounds behind us made the whole situation visceral and taunting. A wannabe Captain and Tennille lounge duo performed an agonizing rendition of “When a Man Loves a Woman.” I looked around and saw older couples on dates with glowing screens, talking, but not really, to their significant others.

“Where’s my damn wine?” I mumbled to myself.

My favorite tasting room isn’t where the other millennials hang out in our wine town. I stocked up on dry Riesling at a storefront that looked like someone’s aunt had inherited all of her family’s antiques, chandeliers, and pithy art, and she was determined to make it all work.

“And baby, baby, please don't treat me baaaaaaad!”

I closed my eyes as the line reverberated. I almost left without the wine.

But I knew eyes were on me. Like on most dates, I wore killer stilettos and a form-fitting outfit. My husband enjoyed showing me off. I enjoyed being his to show off.

“Here you go. Have a great night,” the server said, handing the wine carrier to me, but my husband, always the Southern gentleman, took it.

He let me leave first. Away from the kitschy music and lulled crowd, I needed to breathe in the spark of the city street, a mix of crisp enthusiasm and regret. Determined to lead the way, I swallowed hard and tried to remember where we parked.

In silence, we got into the car and headed home. After four traffic lights, he held my hand.

That was a brave thing to do, but so was my earlier request that shut down the evening.

“Please don’t,” I said, as I removed my hand from his grasp, eyes glued to the passenger window but seeing nothing.

I sniffled, tapped around my eyes, and collected myself for the kids. I had approximately three minutes to wipe away any proof indicating something was wrong.

* * *

And what brought on this hasty end to a date?

The usual.

I was feeling romantic on this special night as we celebrated my completion of grad school. My husband looked handsome in a hipster, thick-collared cardigan, most likely from Old Navy, which showed off a sexy dad bod. We squeezed in together for a picture I could later show friends, proving we were doing better.

Then as we settled back down and listened to a Fleetwood Mac cover that took me too long to identify, I longed for him, my heart full and shirt cut low.

“I want to have sex with you.”

“Maybe,” he replied, which usually meant “no.”

I hated myself for our reversed roles. I was always horny, and he wasn’t.

Earlier in the evening, we had dinner at our favorite Greek restaurant. Spanakopita, grape leaves, lamb kabobs. I should’ve been grateful, but I guess I couldn’t help pushing my luck.

* * *

Why can’t we be normal? What is normal?

I have friends who barter sexual favors for laundry duty with their husbands. That sounded so odd to me. I would gladly perform both. Well, maybe not the laundry.

A few years earlier, my husband and I left church ministry. With the division brought on by COVID, we knew we were too progressive for our congregation. As we deconstructed our faith, we knew we needed a break from organized religion. Lazy Sunday mornings, drinking alcohol in public, and wearing a two-piece bathing suit were liberties I missed.

As we transitioned out of church culture, we finally had time to talk about issues we previously ignored. The biggest one being our sexual incompatibility.

And, yes, we got everything checked out with our doctors. We were both healthy. Our parts and hormones worked how they should.

With growing frustration and too many Google searches, my husband admitted he leaned asexual, more accurately “gray-ace” with a very demisexual bent. He loved me and was attracted to me, but he just didn’t desire sex much, especially compared to the stereotypical, unfettered heterosexual man’s sex drive. I had my own revelation: besides being the one with the high sex drive, I also finally admitted I was bisexual.

It would be manageable, I suppose, if one of us was grounded in the middle, but we were on polar ends of this sexual spectrum. We still deeply loved each other, though, and didn’t want to end our marriage, breaking up our family. We had sex occasionally here and there, but I wanted it so much more and was tired of the regular rejection. So he introduced a possible solution: a one-sided open marriage. He felt guilty that I kept my bisexuality and desire to embrace sensuality hidden as a pastor’s wife for so many years.

So after two decades, I started going on dates again. With men and women. It was scary and exhilarating, and I was enjoying my freedom.

We had to keep communication open; if we wanted to survive, we had no choice. But sometimes this led to embarrassing admissions or painful confessions. One time, he wanted to have a conversation about an upcoming out-of-town meetup I was planning with a guy in Boise. It got fierce, probably about some newly imposed rule. Whatever it was on a chilly morning with reluctant children, an iced-over windshield, and twenty minutes left before school started, I was desperate for a way out.

In the safety of our bedroom, eyes saturated, throat tight, and half naked, I raised my toes to elevate my five-foot-seven frame as I tried to level myself to his contrasting red face and blue eyes, and I whisper-yelled, “You gave me away!”

Then I hurried to get myself and our kids ready, choke down vitamins that may or may not benefit my body, and hid in the bathroom for no reason except to briefly avoid human interaction.

Before feeling ready-enough to open the door, I took in my reflection and said, “No one should feel sorry for you.”

And really who should? My few friends who knew about my rendezvouses indulged in soap opera details about lavish dates and horrible kissers. They obviously listened and asked questions about the status of my emotional well-being as I bared my stories and body with these men and women, but it was fun and made life interesting to hear about Desiree’s latest matches.

I matched with hundreds, chatted with less, sexted with even fewer, and enjoyed sporadic dates. A handful of men and women made it to the top tier, intimacy behind closed doors.

Some of the sex was good, and other encounters were not. I had stronger connections with a few, and looser bonds with others.

After almost two years of our arrangement and on the cusp of finishing grad school, I felt sexually deflated.

As always, I yearned the most for him, my husband of almost twenty years. The father of my three quirky children.

Sure, I loved the attention I received as I morphed into a very confident hotwife, but I would have put away this freedom if I could just squeeze more desire out of him.

Desire, an odd word for me. My own name, one I despised growing up, means to be desired and longed for, but desire for me had become so skewed and slick.

* * *

We pulled into the driveway, but I couldn’t get that stupid Percy Sledge song out of my head. I opened the front door with my smile already fixed.

“Hi, my babes. Were you good?” I said, thankful for the kisses and squeezes.

Hurrying to my room, I peeled off my seductive costume to reveal a pathetic sex-crazed segmented woman and plopped onto my bed.

A few minutes later, the door opened, and I sensed his body next to me.

“Is this okay? Can I lay next to you?” His request sincere, his voice soothing.

“Yes, hold me.”

His comforting body encased mine, and I entwined my limbs with his.

I cried, “I wish it wasn’t like this. I hate that I’m like–”

“Don’t,” he said, holding my face. “I love who you are. I never want you to change. It’s me.”

My core trembled with despair and compassion at that moment.

The consensus in solving a relationship like ours is to divorce, deal with it, or open the marriage. Though, at times, I considered divorce, I could never let go of him. We were too much in love. With almost two decades of marriage, it was difficult to ignore layers of sentimental value, especially when no one wanted the relationship to end. And what about the sacrifice? Isn’t that expected in all marriages? My husband and I had taken turns where the other gave more for the good of the whole. Ministry, grad school, swing shift schedules, late-night diaper changes, new careers, sick days, home games, a cross-country move.

In different seasons of life, one of us had to pull more weight or relinquish their standing.

But with intimacy, finding the right balance of commitment and sacrifice and freedom felt like a wretched exercise. It’s beautiful to see a young person discovering their true selves and encouraged to showcase their bold self-expression, but I’ve learned it’s a bit unsettling when it comes from a forty-year-old mom and recovering former pastor’s wife in suburbia.

When is the proper time to embrace my sensuality and finally get to explore my sexuality? For most of my life, I stifled my inhibitions, burying my secrets, and now half of this life is gone.

“We’re okay,” my husband reassured me. “I don’t want us to be normal. We tried that for years, and it didn’t help us.”

I let my body and mind ease into his affirmation. We would be okay. Maybe it was out of fear or attachment or selfishness. I like to think it’s because we’re connected by knowing the periphery of binding affection. Whatever the source, I know I don't want to imagine life discovering who I am without him.