Chastity and the City

Last night I awoke, as I have many times in the past months, mid-way through a dream in which my husband and I are making love.  I wake up to find myself lifting my hips off the bed to meet the thrusts of my phantom lover.  It’s embarrassing (my dog looks at me strangely) and I generally feel pathetic and sheepish. (I was going to add the word ‘sad’ here as well, but perhaps the sad motif in my blog overall goes without saying, d'ya think?)  I’m pretty much resigned to living out the remainder of my days as a born-again virgin.  Marriage (except a restoration of the one I had) is out of the question.  A relationship is impossible because relationships either end in marriage (which is out of the question, see above) or they just end, period (which I am not likely to survive again).  Casual sex is not for me.  Dating that doesn’t go anywhere seems pointless and potentially hurtful, so there you have it: my sexless future.

I wish I could remember the last time my husband and I  made love, given that it was likely the last time I’ll ever engage in that particular activity.  It was probably Valentine’s Day a year ago- obligatory on his part I’m sure, because he’d already begun the separation in his mind.  It must not have been remarkable in any way, but that happens when couples have been together for many years.  If I’d known it would be our last time, I’d have concentrated more.  I’d have memorized the sight of those ridiculously boyish legs that had escaped aging.  I’d have enjoyed the sight of the cornuto horn (given to him by an Italian friend) resting in the fine silver hairs at the base of this throat.  I’d have kissed his face and inhaled his scent to take with me when I left about 6 weeks later.

I knew there was a growing distance between us.  I knew he had pulled away from me.   I knew something had changed but I didn’t know it was unfixable. I knew that the tensions of raising three teenagers in a blended family bordered on unbearable.  But I kept reading articles describing the enormity of the task we’d undertaken and I took courage from the fact that I’d chosen such a solid man for a husband.  If anybody could survive it, we could.  Clearly I was wrong.

It’s taken me all of these months to relinquish the hope that we could resurrect our affection for each other... that we could call upon the years of friendship to see us through the bad patch.  It has been so hard to accept that he gave up on us, that he could move on to another relationship so readily.  If I could close that chapter of my life as easily as he has, I might be able to imagine trusting in love again.  But it was for life for me.  It was supposed to last forever.