I Finally Worked Up The Courage To Tell My Husband I’d Never Had An Orgasm. His Response Shocked Me.

The night I met my husband, we slunk into a faux denim sleeper sofa, a hand-me-down that resided in my parents’ basement for years, after too many PBRs and tequila shots. I insisted he watch several episodes of Scrubs, clumsily bringing my body closer to his on the squishy cushions, my limbs made limp by alcohol.

Only a few months later, after one half-hearted attempt of moving that metal more-machine-than-couch, we gave up and I accepted the loss of my deposit as I moved out of my favourite urban apartment with antique chevron pine floors and into his tiny suburban house with a red door, three minutes from my childhood home, shrinking back into a town I’d longed to grow out of.

In that house, a large overstuffed sofa covered in a nubby hunter green and white wide stripe greeted you just beyond the front door. It is where I sat, stoic, unable to look at the small white stick resting on the side of the bathroom sink, a blue plus sign quickly emerging — only four months after we met.

With the impending pregnancy, we had a garage sale and bought a house three streets north of where my parents live and where I had grown up. We sold that couch for $40 and bought another for $1,000. It was an overstuffed five-seater covered in a large golden-tan weave, perfect for hosting all-night nursing sessions, I anticipated.

We sat there now, on that couch, now 10 years old, the frame broken from nightly 3-year-old twin acrobatics. There were four kids now, and that night, we’d had plans for a date night, so my mom had taken them for a sleepover. We had mutually decided to abandon our plans in favour of staying home and enjoying the quiet house. He guzzled Budweiser, and I sipped some shitty red wine out of a stemless Ikea glass.

Our marriage, at that point, had moments of promise but consisted mostly of obligation, errands, chores and Lego battles. Our passion plagued by duty, our chemistry consumed by functionality.

For months after he left our family home, I’d reread our texts from the previous year.

“When will you be home?”

“You’re picking up the big kids, right?”

“Beckett’s basketball practice is canceled.”

“Are there bagels here?”

“Will you get bagels before you come home?”

“I need cumin. Can you stop?”

“Did you pay the phone bill?”

“Don’t eat the little bagels. They’re for lunches.”

Looking back, it’s impossible to un-see the unraveling. Little pieces of our former union crumbling, the mortar drying out with age and duty, inching........

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