For One Glorious Year My Husband With Alzheimer’s Forgot He Hated Sex
What do you get when a Nympho Marries a Sex-Hater? Sounds like a bad joke, right? The kind that wouldn’t get a two-second chortle even from an audience sniffing glue sticks.
Nope, no joke. Because it was/is my reality.
Oh, sure, I should’ve realized when marrying a super-religious dude who had the kindest heart, and slowest get-to-first-base stats, that our sexual stars were more out-of-line than my van and the parking lot stripes after I reverse in.
Yes, yes, I should’ve known that nine months of no-boob-touching probably would end in a lifetime of it.
But the yearning of my 32-year-old ovaries to be working overtime was intense. They shouted a hearty “yes” to a very kind small-town soul who didn’t judge my lack of curling skills nor my obliviousness to the difference between Star Wars and Star Trek.
Not once did he utter a single harsh word about the fact that, when I plummeted through my first home’s ceiling while inspecting the attic, the me who can barely distinguish a socket wrench from needle-nose pliers, decided to solve the issue by ripping out all of the drywall to create a loft area.
Well, of course, it equated with a “let’s scoop him out of his parent’s basement and marry him and have babies right now” kind of delirium.
I ignored the hands-off approach. I told myself that his distaste for French kissing had to change after the rings were slid on and I promised to obey, didn’t it?
It didn’t.
We fought. I begged. I cajoled. I even tried to get him drunk thinking it might relax him. We fought some more. He ignored me. He didn’t even look at my body. I bawled. He backed off some more. I prayed.
Even though in ten years he ejaculated less than half the number of times the Toronto Maple Leafs have won the Stanley Cup, somehow my Super Ovaries managed to conceive. Not once but three times. (I miscarried twins, but we have a son and a daughter).
Well, sometimes prayers are answered in very unlikely ways… Who knew that my husband would have to get Early Onset Alzheimer’s for me to get daily orgasms? (Sounds like a bum deal to me, really, but who’s to argue with the Big Guy?)
A couple of years after my husband’s diagnosis, when he was relatively the same man, save for the odd not-being-able-to-find-his-best-friend’s-house, he decided he just might allow his dick to get hard.
Yep. Instead of sacrificing for his whining wife’s sexual desires every few months, he decided he might insert that afore-mentioned erect penis inside of her every darn day.
Did he suddenly allow contact between his hands or lips and my breasts or… seventy-five Hail Marys… anything else below my tattooed belly button? Nope.
I didn’t claim it was good sex. But after a decade of refusal, any sex was glorious. For a woman so easily orgasmic she doesn’t need the foreplay I was always refused, well, daily intercourse was more miraculous than Glee’s Grilled Cheese-us!
And then, without warning, rhyme nor reason, after almost 365 days, the lucky hard-on streak simply halted… the forgotten was remembered or vice versa…
Back to the three moon-cycle ritual, and then two whole seasons passed, and suddenly my vulva was lamenting a one-year anniversary it didn’t want to be celebrating.
Pass the cake, you dried up Clit, and let’s open another bottle of Merlot… It seems we won’t be getting any… ever…
But don’t feel too sorry for my labia. She stuffed herself with cake to the point of puking. Then, shouting “Screw it” to the burnt-out candle stubs and society’s ridiculous norms, she drummed herself up an Ashley Madison profile.
And that, my friends, is no joke. Even if you’re sniffing a glue stick as you read this.