I’ve been in a committed relationship for over twenty years. Most days, it feels like I’m living with a close friend. The intimacy is all but gone. I feel alone in a way that’s almost unbearable: lonely while being with someone.

Touch-starved. That’s the word. In the past four years, we’ve had sex only once. Another time, we got each other off without intercourse. Kisses? Rare. Hugs? Occasional. And I miss it. I miss everything: even the predictable, vanilla sex we used to have. I miss making out like teenagers, messy and hungry and wanting. Sometimes, okay often, I cry because I miss it so much.

He doesn’t seem bothered by the lack. I don’t think he’s cheating—and I trust him—but sometimes I wonder if I’d even care if he were. I’ve never cheated and never will. But the truth? If he asked to sleep with others, I think part of me would be…okay with it. Part of me might even find it hot.

All I’ve ever known is vanilla sex. But I want more. I fantasize about being taken—told what to do, tied up, blindfolded, used until my mind goes blank. Spanked, choked, fucked…even with a third joining us. I want to watch others, or watch him with someone else. Voyeurism turns me on. These are things I can’t ask for. I can’t ask him to take me there, because I know he wouldn’t.

One time, I told him I’d be game to try something he fantasized about, and he never responded. Never talked about it again. The fragile confidence I had in bringing it up shattered completely. My self-esteem was already fragile. That, broke it.

I’m fairly certain he’s no longer attracted to me. Maybe I can’t blame him—I’ve been seriously overweight before, and he didn’t lose interest then, just as he didn’t when I was at a healthy weight. So why now? When did we stop trying?

Even now, as I write this, we’re in different parts of the house. I just finished reading another spicy book, getting my thrills where I can. All I want is to throw myself at him, naked. But I’m scared. Afraid of rejection. Sad. Rejected by the person I’ve shared over twenty years with. Subtle “nos” have chipped away at me. I can’t take another one.

I’ve talked to a therapist about this. About my unhappiness. It’s more than the bedroom. I often feel like I only get attention after he’s done everything else he’d rather be doing. And yet…I feel guilty complaining. I chose to stay. My reasons feel selfish. Financial security. Comfort. Friendship. Space. None of it noble. I can’t leave. I can’t risk it. I can’t imagine it. Ok, that last one isn’t true…I can imagine it and I have, but I always choose to stay.

Maybe I’ll hit a breaking point and figure out a way to leave without destroying myself financially. Maybe we’ll find a way back—back to touch, to intimacy, to kisses that leave us breathless. Or maybe this will just stay this way, for the rest of my life.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.