This is what I am googling tonight while eating chocolate ice cream:.
This last article is ok, but the comments are better. They are encouraging. And this woman only tried for a year. I have tried for seven. I have to remind myself I have only been speaking my needs this year, so in one respect, I have only been trying for seven months. (That keeps me out of the black hole of loss.)
Essentially, everyone on this thread commented sex is important. Sex needs to be good, and if a partner can’t be taught or isn’t open to talking about it, then the relationship has no future. In more explicit terms, size and performance are deal breakers. #True
These comments validate my feelings.
Bad sex is a good enough reason to end a relationship, even with someone you love.
Most important, as I read these articles and comments, I don’t feel a pull in my heart to stay and work. How to deal with embarrassing sexual issues feels like work. Even how to make bad sex better feels like I would be working toward better not great.
At this point, we have talked three times this month about improving our sex life, and I have been the one to bring the conversation up each time. I take this as a sign our sex life will never get better, because if we can’t talk about a problem, how can we resolve it.
I don’t want to live like this. Sex is supposed to be fun and stress-reducing not stress-inducing. I want to want to take my man’s clothes off. I want to make out with him. I want to touch him even when we’re not having sex. I want the morning-after glow, the rosy skin, the stress reduction, and the magical way regular sex lubricates other areas of my life and makes me feel closer to my partner.
So what is the next right thing? I will try to enjoy our weekend together, have sex without overthinking but while giving some feedback, and observe my thoughts and feelings. I will try to be in the moment with Steve and enjoy the time we have together. And at some point during or after the weekend, I will note whether Steve has brought up our relationship or if he has resigned himself to it ending, because we are incompatible; a foregone conclusion if we can’t even talk about our needs.