Why Women, Once Married, Don’t Want to Sex Their Husbands
(Initially published in The Last Goddess Magazine in August 2012)
Over forty years, I heard the same complaint from countless married men, “My wife won’t have sex with me. I don’t know what to do. I love her, but I need sex.”
Indignant, I roll my eyes at these guys. Do they think I’m a moron? How dare they tell me that age-old platitude to dismiss their guilt associated with potential extra-marital dalliances. Do they possibly believe I’d get suckered in to toss them a pity fuck?
“Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you,” I tell them. “And don’t expect anything else, not even a pity fuck.” Deflated, they stomp off into the sunset, seeking another victim.
Funny enough, there’s a kernel of truth in what they say. It’s a fact that the majority of women don’t want to have sex with their husbands.
That epiphany hit me while mowing my lawn. Mowing my lawn’s a Herculean effort in so many ways: the ground covers too large a space full of tree roots and plants impeding any straight rows. Since it’s a downward sloping hill, no matter how you cut it, there’s the same exertion expended even going against the grain. Toss in my hypersensitivity to sound and I dread my painful weekly chore despite the physical benefits from exercising major muscles. While wearing ear plugs, I push and shove that mower with all my upper body strength, wincing each time metal scrapes against tree roots, knowing one day the roots will win. Ignoring the metallic chomping, the neighbors’ screams and hurled curses, I allow my mind to roam and focus on anything other than the task at hand.
That’s when a very intriguing concept percolated up to my consciousness while sweat drips down my forehead, a cramp attacks my left calf and the ka-ka-ka of the metal blade chops away at a root.
You see, I’ve never been married and hardly a suitable candidate. Most of my relationships, as few as they were, sucked. The only available men I attract are certifiable lunatics who bring out my inner insanity as rebellion. Nothing good ever comes out of this outside of the entertainment value for others and whispered gossip that only elevates my status as an eccentric writer.
The only sane men I attract are the married ones. Hence, the chronic redundant complaint. They do appear earnest and anguished, perhaps to discourage me from soliciting money in exchange for silence. Yet, they possess a scintilla of honesty while trying to get into my pants.
After shoving that lawn mower over three successive roots and having the back of my head blow up in retaliation because the scraping sound’s similar to nails scratching against a chalkboard while cats wail in heat a cappella turned to the highest volume, the heavens opened above and the deities handed me a nugget of knowledge.
Revelations of this sort are mind-boggling. Actually, more than that. It’s as if the universe gave me a gift with the caveat, “Don’t spend it all in one place.”
Now I understand why women don’t want to have sex with their husbands. It’s quite simple, really. Which reminds me of a story:
Years ago, I met an artist married for twenty years to a university professor. She and her husband told me they’re more like brother and sister than lovers.
“Why is that?” I asked, puzzled at their complacent attitude while stating this admission.
“After a while, the little resentments add up. Before you know it, the last thing you want to do is have sex with each other,” they informed me in unison.
I have another opinion. The wife confided in me about her husband’s aversion to bathing, his hemorrhoids and the excessive skid marks in his underwear. That definitely would be one giant turn off. Since then, I couldn’t look him in the eye. Disgusted, I avoided all contact with this platonic couple. To this day, I wonder, what were his complaints about her?
By and large, women have ulterior motives to getting married. I’m sure some of them convinced themselves they really do love the guy. Or his money or his personality or his prospects. Or to make babies, the tantamount, underlying reason.
What they end up with is far less than they imagined. In other words, they settled.
And that, gentlemen, is the reason why your wives won’t have sex with you, only begrudgingly. You bore the shit out of them.
The wives will never fess up. And the husbands will always be delusional, never attributing it to themselves.
And there you have it.
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This blog and its posts are a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.