Forbidden Fruit, Sacred Touch

The rain hammered against the windows of our modest suburban home, mirroring the tempest brewing within me. Thirty-six years. Thirty-six years since we’d said “I do,” thirty-six years since the first hesitant touch, the first shared breath, the first tentative exploration of our bodies. And for almost all of those years, she’d been distant, a cool, almost hostile presence in my bed. It wasn’t a violent rejection, not a screaming argument, but a slow, insidious erosion of intimacy, a gradual withdrawal that left me stranded on a desolate island of longing.

It started subtly, after the honeymoon. The passionate nights, fueled by pent-up desire and the intoxicating rush of newness, began to dwindle. The first time she refused, it was a mumbled, dismissive “Not tonight, dear,” delivered without warmth or concern. I’d been brimming with anticipation, my cock stiff and eager, convinced this was the beginning of a beautiful, fulfilling marriage. Her rejection stung, but I attributed it to nerves, to the awkwardness of transitioning from the excitement of the honeymoon to the reality of daily life. I chased after her, showering her with affection, hoping to rekindle the flame, but she remained stubbornly resistant.

As the months passed, the frequency of our encounters plummeted. Two or three times a week became once, then once a month, then, agonizingly, just a couple of times a year. The desire gnawed at me, a constant, insistent ache in my loins, while simultaneously fueling a growing sense of bewilderment and despair. Was it something I’d done? A misunderstanding? Or was she simply losing interest, finding me stale and predictable after the initial thrill?

The turning point came during my seminary years. One particularly bleak evening, after a long day of lectures and theological debates, I found myself parked in the driveway, pouring out my frustrations to a silent, unseen God. The rain intensified, washing over the car, mirroring the torrent of emotions surging through me. I confessed my fears, my doubts, my desperate longing for connection, and the gnawing feeling that our marriage was crumbling before my eyes.

I realized, with a sickening clarity, that she’d not only stopped wanting sex but seemed actively repulsed by it. The shame, she later revealed, stemmed from a disturbing childhood experience – a hidden photograph in her parents' attic depicting her stepmother engaging in a rather explicit encounter with her step-father. The image, she explained, had ingrained in her a deep-seated aversion to oral sex, associating it with filth and degradation. The memory haunted her, poisoning her perception of intimacy and creating an insurmountable barrier between us.

The pain of her breaking hymen during our honeymoon had further solidified her negative association with sex, making it synonymous with discomfort and vulnerability. She’d unconsciously linked the physical trauma of that first experience to the act itself, viewing it as a mark of weakness and shame.

As I wrestled with this revelation, a strange sense of resignation washed over me. There was nothing I could do to change her mind, no magic words or gestures that could erase the decades of ingrained prejudice. The only option, it seemed, was to accept the bleak reality of our situation and retreat into a solitary existence. I pictured myself growing old alone, haunted by memories of what could have been, a testament to the tragedy of a love lost to shame and regret.

The thought was unbearable, so I chose an alternative: masturbation. It wasn't an act of defiance or rebellion, but a desperate attempt to reclaim some semblance of pleasure, some small measure of control in a life that felt increasingly out of my hands. The cold showers, the frantic pacing, the desperate pleas for release – all futile gestures in the face of her emotional detachment. Yet, I clung to this temporary solace, clinging to the hope that somehow, someday, she might change her mind.

Then, during a particularly harrowing night in the mid-90s, as I was driving home from work, God intervened. I was wrestling with the same agonizing questions, praying for guidance, when I noticed a flicker of movement in my rearview mirror. A woman, a woman I recognized as Sarah, a colleague from the bank, was pulling up beside me. She'd recently confided in me about her own difficulties in her marriage, her frustration with her husband's lack of affection and desire. And she'd mentioned my situation, expressing concern for my well-being.

As we pulled over to the side of the road, she offered me a sympathetic ear, listening patiently as I poured out my heart. She didn't offer platitudes or empty reassurances, just a quiet, unwavering presence that felt strangely comforting. In that moment, amidst the rain-soaked darkness, I realized that God hadn’t abandoned me. He had sent an unexpected ally, a fellow traveler on the difficult road of love and loss.

The following weeks were filled with both hope and trepidation. I continued to avoid the topic of sex with her, determined to maintain the status quo while simultaneously seeking her forgiveness. But then, one evening, as we were watching television, she surprised me. She reached out and gently touched my hand, her eyes filled with a newfound tenderness.

"I've been thinking about our marriage," she said, her voice soft and hesitant. "About the things we've lost, the intimacy we've forgotten. And I realize that I was wrong to push you away. I was afraid, ashamed, but now I want to try again."

My heart soared with joy. It felt as though a dam had burst, releasing a torrent of pent-up emotions that had been simmering beneath the surface for years. She then confessed that the shame she felt stemmed from her own insecurities, her fear of vulnerability, her desperate need for control. The photograph in her parents’ attic had indeed played a significant role in shaping her perspective on sex, but her own past trauma had been equally influential.

With renewed determination, she began to explore her own desires, slowly dismantling the walls she’d erected around her heart. She started by simply touching me, lingering in the moments of closeness, letting me feel her warmth and her presence. Then, she began to initiate our intimacy, guiding me with her hands and her eyes.

Over the next few months, our relationship blossomed anew, fueled by a shared desire for connection and a willingness to confront their past demons. She started to embrace oral sex again, slowly but surely reclaiming her pleasure and her confidence. The first time, it was awkward, hesitant, but filled with a palpable tenderness that warmed my soul. As we continued to explore each other’s bodies, the pleasure intensified, becoming a shared experience of mutual delight and release.

The turning point came during one particularly passionate night, when she surprised me by taking control, guiding me through each stage of the encounter with an effortless grace. As I reached the climax, she held me close, whispering words of love and admiration. In that moment, I realized that she wasn’t just giving me sex; she was giving me her heart.

Looking back, I can see that God’s miracle wasn’t about changing her desires; it was about helping us both overcome our fears and insecurities, allowing us to rediscover the joy and intimacy that had been lost along the way. It was a testament to the power of forgiveness, compassion, and the enduring strength of love. As we approach our 37th anniversary, I still feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for this second chance, this unexpected gift from above. And every night, as she slips beneath the covers beside me, I know that we have truly found our way back to each other, forging a bond that will last a lifetime. The rain has stopped, and a single ray of sunshine breaks through the clouds, illuminating our bed and our love.

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