In “Bad Advice”, a man was concerned about losing the image of his wife’s body as the years rolled by with no sexual contact with her. Several readers noticed I didn’t say anything about that aspect of his question; the truth is, I didn’t feel I could answer it because men are much more visual creatures than women, and I honestly wasn’t sure what I could’ve said that wouldn’t have sounded either Pollyanna or dismissive, so I left it alone. But one regular reader has had similar experiences himself, and last week he sent me this short answer and told me it was OK to share it.
Maggie gave me some excellent advice over 6 years ago in “On a Mountaintop”. I took that advice, and am very glad that I did. Seeing sex workers brings touch back into my life, affirms my sexuality, and makes me feel more whole. My mind is more clear and focused, my mood brighter, my outlook better. It’s been a wonderful set of experiences and I have no regrets. But I can tell the man what will happen, or at least what happened to me. This rejection of a man’s sexual being, coupled with his continued love and desire, creates a wound that never heals. It’s been 10 years since I last had sex with my wife, but when we are watching a movie or TV show and a romantic scene is shown, it can penetrate my armor; when the scene suggests a happy and fulfilling sex life between an older married couple, it pierces my heart like a hot needle. There’s nothing a sex worker can or should do about this; I am responsible for my decision to stay and endure this occasional injury. Long term marriages are complex things, with economic and familial ties and obligations, vows and trusts and all manner of complications known only to the couple. I have no advice for the man who wrote, just the knowledge that he will probably experience the same pain.
Here is a wound that never will heal, I know,
Being wrought not of a dearness and a death,
But of a love turned ashes and the breath
Gone out of beauty; never again will grow
The grass on that scarred acre, though I sow
Young seed there yearly and the sky bequeath
Its friendly weathers down, far Underneath
Shall be such bitterness of an old woe.
That April should be shattered by a gust,
That August should be levelled by a rain,
I can endure, and that the lifted dust
Of man should settle to the earth again;
But that a dream can die, will be a thrust
Between my ribs forever of hot pain. – Edna St. Vincent Millay
