If I waited for it just to happen, I might never have sex again.
This is what I’m thinking as I’m cleaning the bathroom, picking clods of slimy hair out of the plug and squirting bleach into the toilet bowl.
How long had it been since my husband and I last did it? The Christmas decorations were still up, frost on the window. But now as I peer out, our front garden is a verdant green.
How could this have happened? Yes, life can be very unsexy, most of the time, I think, as I pull off my rubber gloves. But still.
I march outside to my husband’s office at the end of the garden where he’s still working even though it’s the weekend.
‘Do you want to have sex?’ I blurt out, standing there on the threshold, in my joggers and ratty old, only-wear-it-in-the-house jumper, not feeling very desirable.
‘No,’ he replies, not even turning around from his screen. And so I head back down the garden path – a little embarrassed, a little put out – and back inside, telling myself I wasn’t really in the mood anyway. But then when am I, these days?
My libido feels like it was stuffed back in the loft along with the Christmas decorations.
Panicked thoughts race through my mind. At 42 and after ten years of marriage and a total of 15 years together, are we growing apart? Does he not fancy me any more? Do I even fancy him still?
But yes, yes I do very much – he’s actually much hotter now than when we first met, aged 27. So what’s really going on? Am I just not a sexual person any more now I’m, whisper it, middle-aged?
Alice and her husband of ten years were having sex less and less frequently, and she feared if she didn't make the first move, it would never happen again
Before I let panic take complete hold, my desperate fingers type into ‘Dr Google’ asking if what I’m experiencing is ‘normal’. Turns out, this is so ‘normal’ it should be taught in sex education in schools.
My research brought me to the work of psychotherapist Esther Perel, whose book Mating In Captivity explained what I and – as it turns out – most people experience in a long-term relationship.
The closer you are to someone, paradoxically, the less desire you end up having for them over time, making eroticism and monogamy very unmatched bedfellows. Because here’s the thing: I’m no longer filled with an overwhelming urge to rip my husband’s clothes off the minute he walks through the door. The daily ‘what are we having for dinner, then?’ doesn’t exactly turn me on.
Casual sex with strangers feeds only on desire, which can actually make it easier. But my husband is also my best friend, admin assistant and the one who pushes the trolley alongside me in Sainsbury’s.
That intimate closeness we share, the very foundation our loving relationship is built on, is actually slowly eroding the erotic charge between us – a hostile environment in which to float an invitation to have sex into.
No wonder it’s got so hard to ask.
When we first met, my husband and I would hungrily kiss on dates, in bars, on the Tube, whenever we said hello or goodbye. When we moved in together we had sex in every room of our new flat (there were only three, alas) to christen it. Neither of us needed to initiate then, as sex was a foregone conclusion.
Yet as the years rolled by, the sex became less frequent, and nowadays we usually get down to it around once or twice a month. But what could I do about it? I decided I didn’t want that quest to my husband’s office at the end of the garden to remain fruitless – even if it didn’t result in hot sex on this occasion.
Because that’s the thing about asking for sex, you open yourself up to all outcomes. It makes you feel vulnerable, because no man – regardless of how it’s often portrayed on TV or in lads’ banter – says yes to sex all of the time. I probed what exactly was going through my mind when my husband told me ‘no’, he didn’t want to have sex with me. Well, there was the embarrassment – and shame. Because, I realise, society has shaped my thoughts so I sometimes believe it’s my role as a woman – as a wife – to be desirable, to mould myself around my husband’s wants.
Studies indicate that heterosexual men tend to initiate sex more than women do. But regardless of gender, if you’re the one who always decides, this can feel like a burden, as if you hold the responsibility for your shared sex life.
Historically, it was always pretty equal with me and my husband, but in recent years I’ve found myself being the one who asks more. Whenever he wants to, I usually say yes, seizing the rare opportunity with both hands. Because I love having sex when I have it.
Yet days, weeks, months can slip by and we’ve forgotten to have sex as neither of us has bothered to ask each other to have it.
But when did sex start to feel like just another thing to tick off the never-ending to-do list of everyday life?
Walk the dog, make breakfast, go to work, make dinner, make love. When did our erotic selves become so buried under everything else?
So, one Sunday afternoon, I set out to bring them back to the surface. I draw the curtains, pack away the piles of washing, put on the lingerie I know my husband likes best and turn our bedroom into a boudoir.
When Alice met her husband, they would hungrily kiss on dates, in bars and on the tube. Intimacy came naturally and their sex life was thrilling, yet over time the attraction for one another seemed to dwindle
It works; I feel sexier than I’ve felt in months. But instead of marching down the garden to find him, this time I send him a selfie and ask if he’d like to join me. From afar, I won’t feel as awkward about the rejection if it comes.
But he accepts and when he arrives in the bedroom, we both know we’re up for it and we look into each other’s eyes as lovers. For now, all our other roles – cleaner, cook, dog walker – are left behind the closed door. I vow to rethink how I initiate sex in the future.
A few days later, I ask my husband if he liked me inviting him to have sex in that way and he said that, yes, he loved it. When I ask why he’d always said no when I’d employed other tactics in the past, he tells me he cannot read subtle hints.
‘An early night?’ I might implore and he’ll say he’s not tired. He can’t get along with subtext, he’d prefer just to be asked outright. That time in the garden, he was busy, consumed with a deadline. And so when he says no, it is less a rejection and more a ‘not right now, shall we try again later?’ he tells me.
Yet it’s so easy to overthink and read unintended meanings into just one word. So that the onus isn’t just on one of us to initiate sex, we decide to start putting it in the diary about once a month or so, just like we used to plan dates to look forward to before cohabitation drained our libidos down to zero.
You might think this sounds like the death of romance, but who knew that scheduling sex would make it even hotter? We both prepare separately for our dates and then come back together, so we see each other with fresh eyes – like strangers falling in love. The spark is back because we are working at it.
Getting married wasn’t a happy ever after, it was just the start. And this morning as I was about to leave for work, my husband told me how good I looked and instead of batting away the compliment, we ended up having a quickie – the first time we’ve had spontaneous sex in ages. I feel a thrill, like I’m carrying a secret, and I love that for me and him.
Since agreeing to schedule sex with her husband, Alice's intimate life has been rejuvenated and the couple have regained their spark
So if you’re worried about your sex life but too afraid to ask, here are the tips for keeping the flame alive that helped me and my husband bring our relationship back from the sexual brink...
Numbers are so restrictive and are never going to be a true measure of fulfilment (I hate weighing myself for that exact reason) so I don’t keep track of exactly how much sex we’re having. Instead, I work out how I’m feeling – am I satisfied? Do I feel desired? – and use that as my measurement of whether we’re having ‘enough’. There is no magic number.
There’s nothing like the thrill of going on a date; getting dressed up and cosying up in a bar, letting the conversation take us outside of the domestic reality of rubber gloves and holey jumpers. It helps my husband and I to see each other like we used to.
This is at the heart of Esther Perel’s theory. ‘The grand illusion of committed love is that we think our partners are ours,’ she writes.
‘In truth, their separateness is unassailable, and their mystery is forever ungraspable. As soon as we can begin to acknowledge this, sustained desire becomes a real possibility.’
With this in mind, I’ve realised my desire for my husband is more about my perception of him. And by acknowledging that I will never fully understand his mystery, or know every thought that goes through his mind, it helps bring back the thrill of our relationship.
Not sure how to get into this mindset? Start by asking them a question you’ve never asked before. They may surprise you...
Therapist Keely Reichardt recommends reliving memories from when you first started sleeping together.
‘Recalling a time when you had fewer shared domestic duties might reignite a shared desire by stimulating the part of your mind that remembers the wild abandonment you felt in the early days,’ she tells me. Her advice prompted my husband and I to talk about our naughty weekend to Amsterdam years before...
or it might never happen. I’ve realised desire for sex isn’t just going to randomly hit me one day, as my body needs something to respond to – something Reichardt says is common in women. This is why it’s so important to consciously flirt with your partner rather than just randomly asking for sex.
Marriage can feel like the death of desire, so keeping the sexual tension bubbling requires work. We send each other naughty messages, we touch each other, smile.
And yes, we schedule sex to give us something to build up to.
If you don’t ask, you don’t get –and the worst that can happen is they say no on that occasion. The key to being able to handle rejection is quietening that internal voice that tells you you’re not good enough. This ‘fear response’ comes from a lack of self-esteem, explains Reichardt. That’s why getting all dressed up before inviting my husband for sex has really helped me.
And asking your partner how they like (and dislike) you initiating sex is key. The problem might not be you’re no longer sexually compatible, just that – like us when my ‘hints’ flew over my husband’s head – your communication styles aren’t in harmony.
Having more sex has opened up more conversation between me and my husband about the sex we’re having and what we want. These kinds of chats are in themselves erotically charged. We may never act on these desires, but it’s a shared form of intimacy.
I don’t always want to go to the gym, but I always feel better afterwards – and it’s the same with sex. It’s not just about physical closeness, either. Though mine and my husband’s bodies are changing in middle-age, sex boosts our confidence. And this creates a positive cycle that makes you more likely to initiate sex again.
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