I love s ex, but if I had to choose between touching myself and letting my husband do it for me, more often than not, I’m going solo. After nearly 20 years of marriage, I have no reservations about owning what I want and how I want it
in the bedroom, and doing it on my own when necessary. But owning this fact about myself was no easy feat.
My husband and I met when we were 16 and married two years later — so in the early days of our marriage, when we were both young and uninitiated in the ways of good s ex, I m@sturbated in secret. It wasn’t that our missionary-romance was bad; it just wasn’t enough to get me there. I didn’t want to hurt my husband’s pride by telling him I never came during our s ex sessions, and previous attempts to show him how to touch me left me with a bruised clitoris and him with a bruised ego, so I kept a lid on my s exual frustration. As soon as my husband would jump out of bed to clean himself in the bathroom, I would quickly and silently bring myself to org@sm.
A year into my covert m@sturbation operation, my husband surprised me by walking out of the bathroom too early, catching me pleasuring myself.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
On the brink of an orgasm, I tried to cover my tracks, but he knew. Through stilted breaths, I salvaged the moment by claiming I was simply still in the mood. He seemed puzzled but accepted my explanation. That Christmas, he gave me my first dildo. I accepted his gift with elation and the understanding that s exual satisfaction was my own responsibility.
Although we never spoke of it, I was convinced my husband knew I was unfulfilled. When I reached for the s ex toy as soon as he climaxed, he didn’t protest. Instead, he tenderly kissed my breasts and allowed me to finish myself off, establishing what would become our s exual norm.
But our s ex lives were on a loop, the same moves getting replayed over and over — and in autumn of the fifth year of our marriage, my husband and I separated. By then, we’d had two children in quick succession, and spent the majority of our time either fighting or too exhausted to touch one another. Sensing our demise was near, I foolishly reached for religion in the hopes it would fix us. It was kismet, then, when two Mormon missionaries knocked on our door with a message of salvation and eternal family bliss.