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My former guy and I were a mismatch on paper. I’m an extrovert. I love connecting with people, work a full-time and part-time job, am a single parent to two teens and always have a dozen metaphorical plates spinning. He was a blue-collar guy who wasn’t into what I was, but he was sexy, laid-back and made me laugh.
We had sex on our second date. I was the instigator, working off what they now call a “dead bedroom” marriage, the way a dieter works off forbidden carbs. Our sexual connection was powerful. We had sex twice that night and once again in the morning, and it got better and better. He was only the second man I’d slept with since my divorce 10 years ago, and I wanted more of him. And more of the sex.
Our schedules didn’t align, and we often only saw each other once a week or so. We’d typically be in bed within minutes of getting together. I loved it. I looked forward to kissing him, feeling his body against mine, the way the world slipped away when we were in bed together. We kissed and laughed and enjoyed each other, and afterward I was sated and swimming in oxytocin and that loose-limbed sense of relaxation you get after great sex.
As our relationship morphed from dating into girlfriend/boyfriend status, our differences started to show. I wanted to talk about the future and whether we had one together. He didn’t. I wanted to plan adventures together. He wasn’t particularly interested. As our essential selves began to emerge, they rubbed against each other. And not in a good way.
I got frustrated with his lack of spontaneity. I noticed that he tended to point out the negatives of every situation, while I preferred to think positively. And I was bored. He couldn’t give me the intellectual stimulation I craved. He wondered why I wasn’t content doing less, instead of always planning and hoping for more.
Then, gradually, the sex dwindled. I didn’t have unrealistic expectations — we were both in our 50s — but he didn’t seem to want me anymore.
I brought it up more than once. He said he was tired, that I was always busy, that maybe he was in “manopause.”
Sex was the sandpaper that smoothed off the roughest edges of our relationship, the oil that lubricated our connection. Sex with him reminded me of how good it felt to be physically loved, which let me shut off my overly talkative, anxious brain for a few delicious minutes and reminded me how much I did care about and appreciate him.
I asked him to talk to his doctor. I suggested Viagra. He countered that it was expensive.
“It’s not that expensive,” I said. “I feel like you’re saying you don’t want to have sex with me anymore. And… if we don’t have sex, I don’t think we’re going to continue dating.” It must have sounded like a threat. I realize now it was a plea.
Nothing changed. And as the sex tapered off, I realized we were more of a mismatch than I’d realized. I’d been reframing our relationship, constantly reminding myself of what I loved about him, subverting my disappointment. That I didn’t think he really understood me. That he didn’t seem excited to see me anymore. That he didn’t seem to want me anymore — and that stung.
So, I ended it. Because he stopped wanting to have sex with me.
It wasn’t really about the sex. It was about the connection. The sense that, for a few minutes anyway, nothing else mattered except him and me. The sex filled the gaps in our relationship — until it didn’t. Then I was left with the gaps.
Nearly six months later, I’m starting to think about dating again. I would love to find a man I connect with again. But this time, I want that connection to exist outside the bedroom — not just inside it.
Are any of you actively dating at the moment? How's it going? Let us know in the comments below.
Jade Schulz
Follow Article Topics: Relationships
