I never thought I’d end up in a relationship where I don’t have sex. For the majority of my twenties, sex was a key driver in my life, and I had lots of different female partners.
I used to be a singer in a band, so attracting women was never an issue. Sex was part of my identity – it made me feel attractive and I was good at it, too (I’m not making this up, women would often tell me I was great in bed).
I probably had more than 50 partners during this period. Those were the whirlwind, hedonistic years – going out, getting drunk, playing music and hanging out with lots of girls. I didn’t always enjoy the feeling after yet another one-night stand, but I always enjoyed the sex when it was happening, and the way it kept me living in the moment. In hindsight, I think I used sex for validation because other parts of my life weren’t going that well (my music career didn’t quite take off and I had to think of a new direction).
I met Anna when I was in my early thirties and still unsure that I wanted to settle down. I was slightly disillusioned with life, and working in a series of jobs. Yet immediately I realised this was something different. She was five years younger than me and our relationship was hugely passionate. An hour after we were introduced in a sweaty bar in east London, we started kissing! We spent that first night snogging for hours, and even when we got in the taxi, we didn’t stop.
We were so keen on one another, we considered booking a hotel for the night (we were living in shared houses, so didn’t have much privacy), but in the end went home to our respective digs with a promise to meet again the following weekend. We knew already it was too special for a one-night stand.
Once our relationship started properly, we had sex every time we saw one another, sometimes twice in one night. We couldn’t keep our hands off each another and on one memorable summer evening had sex in a park.
Early on Anna told me she didn’t feel confident about her body – she was quite open about having been teased as a child for being overweight and still disliked elements of her appearance. I thought she was gorgeous, and tried to boost her confidence by often telling her so – though I got a sense she didn’t believe me.
For more than two years we have got into bed together, read our books or looked at our phones, and then gone straight to sleep
Those were the early days – full of lust and desire, if tinged by her slight insecurities.
And now? Today we have been together 27 years, and haven’t had sex for two years and two months.
We still get on really well – we have two adored daughters, aged 11 and six – but our sex life is totally dead.
I’m 55 now and she’s just turned 50 herself, and neither of us has the energy to do anything about it. It feels like we wouldn’t even know where to start because it’s been so long.
For more than two years we have got into bed together, read our books or looked at our phones, and then gone straight to sleep.
There was a short period where we tried to revive it. Or more accurately, we talked about trying to revive it. Often we will say to one another: ‘Shouldn’t we try and do something about this?’ And we agree that, yes, we should – but never followed up by actually initiating sex.
I feel like the dynamic has changed between us and the attraction is gone. Perhaps if we had sex, I could start to fancy her again but to be honest, our relationship feels more like two friends.
I believe a big factor is the lengthy period of time we spent trying to have children, and how mechanical and unfulfilling the sex became.
In her mid-thirties Anna bought a ‘How to get pregnant’ book, which advised having sex at specific times when she was ovulating. She bought tests and we’d have as much sex as possible in each window of opportunity, which sometimes meant three times a day. Great, I thought at the start. Our sex life had gone off the boil a little at that point largely because Anna had a stressful job and was often too tired. But after 18 months of trying for a baby, it really felt like a chore.
‘It’s time,’ Anna would say, joylessly, and we’d trudge upstairs, neither of us in the mood at all. Even getting aroused was a challenge. It was easier for Anna – she could just lie there!
But I had to make an effort, and often just didn’t feel like having sex with her.
Sometimes I’m afraid I had to watch porn before we had sex so I could get an erection, and once I had to put porn on while we were having sex, which I now find horrible.
Anna consented – she wasn’t happy about it, but she was desperate to get pregnant.
Then a couple of times I couldn’t make it to the end, and I think at that point we actually hated having sex with one another. It didn’t have positive associations any more. I started to feel helpless and depressed because there wasn’t anything I could do to, well, keep my side of the bargain.
After five years of trying, we turned to IVF and this took a significant toll on our relationship. Anna had three miscarriages, and the treatment regime was intense. I had to provide samples at the clinic, and sex just felt like the furthest thing from our minds. Most people don’t realise that women have to abstain from sex at certain times in an IVF treatment cycle, and it’s very easy for that to just become the norm.
I was watching pornography alone (this is something I’ve always done, like many men), and I honestly don’t think I had a lower libido. I used it as a quick and easy way to ease tension and gradually that was all I did.
I also noticed that some of the intimacy between us was steadily disappearing. We were cuddling less. We didn’t hold hands. It felt like Anna was getting further and further away, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it.
Truthfully, I felt very alone at this point. I have a couple of male friends, but we never talk about sex – in fact we rarely talk about our partners at all. Our topics of conversation are fairly cliched: Football, films, the odd joke about sex made in the WhatsApp group, but nothing ever personal. I strongly suspect many other men are going through exactly the same thing with their wives and partners. Anna tells me that her friends don’t want to have sex with their men either, but they do talk about it.
Eventually we were lucky enough for Anna to get pregnant when she was 39, and five years later we had another baby, again through IVF. Parenting is hard and we were both working, and frankly this combination was the nail in the coffin for our sex life. Anna had traumatic births, involving lots of stitches, and she lost a lot of blood. She told me she didn’t feel good about her body and feels different ‘down there’.
I now realise how deeply mother-hood affected her sense of identity. She struggled a great deal with breast-feeding and the lack of sleep, and there wasn’t much I could do to help her.
There was a short period where we tried to revive our sex life. Or more accurately, we talked about trying to revive it
After the birth of our first daughter, her behaviour was erratic at times. Every day she would get dressed, put on make-up and then rush out the door to a baby group. She was walking for miles each day and I worried that she was burning herself out. She never wanted to stay in with our first child. She got angry at every little mess in the house. She seemed to aim all this anger at me and couldn’t see how badly exhaustion was affecting her.
Of course pregnancy also meant she put on weight and she found losing it hard – I’d say she was about two stone heavier than she’d been pre-children. Even after she’d recovered physically from both pregnancies, it was clear that she didn’t want us to have sex any more. We would fall into bed at the end of a long day and both be asleep within the hour (and then get woken up several times in the night by one of the children).
We are now at the stage where the children are older but we still don’t want to make love.
I have the sense that Anna no longer finds me attractive. She is menopausal and says she has no libido. I am unsure, to be honest, whether that’s an excuse.
She still seems to fancy other men! She often points out men on the TV who she thinks are attractive – only in a jokey way, but it’s still hurtful. I sometimes wonder whether she compares me to her friends’ husbands –some of them are higher earners and are more successful, others are more outgoing than me. Back in my rock-star days I was the definition of an alpha male, but it doesn’t feel like that any more.
We have had a few other issues as a couple, too. After being prescribed painkillers for back pain, I developed an addiction to them and wasn’t always honest about it with Anna. I’ve never been sexually unfaithful to her – and I never would be – but she did check my browsing history once and found that I’d been on porn sites. She confronted me about it and I said that it was normal because we weren’t having sex.
It’s true that I don’t desire Anna in the same way as I did all those years ago. We’re both older and there’s also that familiarity anyone in a long-term relationship has to grapple with – scientists have proved that sex thrives on novelty, after all.
I hate to say it but watching her give birth didn’t help. When I think back to that initial period when we met years ago, it’s like we’re two different people.
More needs to be done to bring sexless relationships out into the open. The popular myth is that the man in the relationship is the one hounding the reluctant woman for sex but, in our case, I don’t want it any more either.
I still think about sex quite a lot, but always with women I don’t know or women I’ve seen in porn films. It’s fantasy. When Anna and I watch films or TV programmes together and suddenly the couple in them is having sex, it can feel awkward as it reminds us what we’re missing.
I know some people reading this will think we should separate, but we still enjoy being with one another. We’re a team. We like talking together and share lots of interests. We go and watch bands together and like the same films. We don’t go on many dates but when we do we laugh and enjoy one another’s company.
I don’t think sex is the most important thing, but there is definitely a pressure as a couple to do it. It feels like everyone else is doing it like mad and so it can be isolating not to be.
I do think we’d benefit from relationship counselling or sex therapy, but it’s yet another one of those things that we keep putting off and never get around to. I guess like many busy parents we don’t prioritise our relationship.
Last week Anna talked about whether we should have an open relationship, but we both came to the conclusion we were too busy to date anyone else!
It made me feel worried that perhaps she was starting to think about an exit strategy and a way out.
I sometimes imagine what it must be like for her to have no sex and I’m sure she struggles because she doesn’t feel attractive any more. I asked her if she wanted an open relationship, but she said it was ‘more for you as I’m too tired to think about sex these days’.
For now we are prioritising the girls and their future. We both come from families with divorced parents (and had bad experiences of it), so neither of us wants to split up.
I think the thing I miss is intimacy. Recently I’ve noticed she’s making a bit more effort to be physically affectionate – occasionally giving me a hug or leaning her head on my shoulder – but it doesn’t always feel natural. It’s like she’s forcing herself to do it, and in a way that’s even worse.
I see that she’s more spontaneously affectionate with the kids and even with her friends who she hugs and sends loving messages to, and I wish it could be like that with us.
Looking back, I am glad that I slept with lots of women when I was younger – at least I got an opportunity to sow my wild oats.
Sometimes I worry that I might never have sex again.
Things between us are frustrating and unresolved, but the fact remains that we still love each other. I hope we always do.
- Chris Taunton is a pseudonym. All names and identifying details have been changed.
