Coulrophobia

During the Clown Panic of 2016, a Chicago police department official made this comment about security footage of a shadowy figure in makeup who'd been menacing passers by: "We are attempting to determine whether this is an actual clown, or merely an individual dressed as a clown."

***

Sex ends.

I mean, now that I think back on things, I was warned. People might say "sex isn't everything in a marriage," or "enjoy it while you're young," or they'd make a joke, like "What makes a woman never give a blowjob again? Wedding cake." But when you're young and in love, you don't listen. You've got your whole lives ahead of you, and it feels like forever. Besides, you hear about old people getting frisky in their retirement homes, right?

Right?

(sigh)

Monica wasn't even forty when our love life dried up. It's not like she sat me down one day one day and said "Mike, I'm done. No more sex for me. I'm sorry, I just can't do it anymore." It might have been easier if she HAD done that. Instead, she accomplished it nonverbally over the course of eighteen months.

At first, it was just a slowdown. That's to be expected in a marriage, isn't it? So what if we were running a little cold? There'd come a time when we'd heat up again. But we didn't. When I made moves in the evenings, it was late and she was tired. If I tried for morning glory, she didn't have time. During the day, she was busy, or didn't feel good, or the kids were around, or she just wasn't in the mood.

Okaaaaay.

I never had the attitude that she owes me sex. She's my wife, sure, but she's her own person with autonomy over her own body. She always has the right to say 'No.' I understand that. No question about it.

But still...

I mean, why be married if you're not going to make love with your spouse? Isn't that part of the deal? Isn't that normal? Isn't that healthy? Hell, isn't that the IDEA?

She wasn't cheating. We'd both been cheated on by exes; we knew how that felt. If we agreed on one thing, it's that cheating is THE dealbreaker. Besides, she had no one to cheat with. Monica has always been painfully introverted. She works as a writer, journalist, and researcher, shutting herself in her writing studio and cranking out a book or series of articles every few months, barely speaking a word to anyone. She has no co-workers, few friends, no family except us, and no girls-nights-out. She seldom left the house. Daniel and Rebecca were in high school, living their own lives, and we were nearly the only human contact she had.

I told myself 'Back off, give her space, show some respect, and eventually, she'll come to me.' That didn't work. She either didn't notice, or she was relieved. It'd been years since she'd initiated anything. Then, I went into 'Your Husband Cares!' mode. I did all the laundry and the dishes. I swept and mopped and vacuumed. I always asked if she needed anything from the store and kept her car full of gas. I took her out to dinner. I even tried to cook, but she rebuffed my efforts and shooed me out of her kitchen. I bought her flowers and little presents, just because. Maybe she liked it, maybe she didn't give a shit. Maybe she thought I was just angling for more sex (to be fair, I was), so she might have resented it. I'd say "I love you" several times a day. At first, she'd automatically say "love you too"... but after a while, she wouldn't respond. I tried touching her hands, brushing her arm or her shoulder, or going in for a hug. Nothing. She'd freeze up until I got the message and left her alone. Eventually, she started flinching away when she saw me coming.

So, I stopped. I mean, that's what she was trying to get me to do, wasn't it? I took the hint and stayed out of her way. All the while, I was hanging back, looking for an angle, waiting for my chance... which never came. By the time we got to The Conversation, she was behind more walls than the gold in Fort Knox.

***

"Do you still want to be married?" I didn't know how else to say it. I had no idea how she'd respond.

"Where'd that come from?" She was guarded.

"Our relationship is in terrible shape."

"I know." She'd dropped her gaze. She couldn't even look at me.

"We haven't made love in a year."

She snapped her head back up. "It hasn't been a whole year!"

"Okay, how long has it been?"

She shrugged and gave half a sideways nod, conceding the point. "There's more to life than sex, Mike. There are more important things in a marriage."

"Sure. No argument. But it is ONE of the important things, and it's just GONE. We're roommates, Monica. We've been like this for a long time."

"Is that what I am to you? Is that all you want from me? Sex, sex, sex? GOD, men are, are... animals. You're just looking to get your dick wet, and then everything's fine, is that it?"

"NO! Goddamn it, I mean... Look." I reached for her hand. She jerked away. "See? I can't even touch you! You're REPULSED by me. That's not good, Monica. That's not what a healthy relationship looks like. Never mind sex, I can't even get near you."

"Look. Okay. You took me by surprise, that's all. Here." She took my hand and held it, awkwardly. "I can touch you. I'm just not in the mood much anymore. I'm old. I'm tired. I don't have the energy I had ten years ago, and let's be honest, neither do you. We're not spring chickens. We should expect to slow down. It's normal."

"We didn't slow down, we stopped. I still have a libido. I still want you. But you won't even talk to me. You can barely look me in the eye. I don't feel welcome in this house. I sure as hell don't feel welcome in my own BED."

Her eyes were pooled with tears. Her face was like stone. I continued.

"Monica. We've got problems. The sex is one thing, but it's an indicator of bigger issues. Imagine if we weren't married, if we were just dating? We would have ended things long ago. You don't want me anymore."

"That's not true."

"That's how I feel. That's the message I got. You've shut me out."

"I'm not in the MOOD. I don't SLEEP."

"What do you mean, you don't sleep? You sleep ten or eleven hours a day. You're always in bed by nine."

"I DON'T SLEEP. I CAN'T SLEEP." She was wringing her hands and shaking. "I'm TIRED all the TIME but I can't SLEEP!"

"God, Monica, I had no idea. Maybe you need to see a doctor..."

"I'm OLD!"

"Honey. You're five years younger than I am, and I'm not old."

"Well GOOD FOR YOU! I feel like SHIT. ALL THE TIME!"

"Okay, I'm serious about seeing a doctor, do you think this is some kind of hormone thing, or..."

"GOD, why do MEN always think it's some HORMONE thing when a WOMAN isn't always in the mood to FUCK?!?!? GODDAMNIT!"

"OKAY! All Right! Look, we've got problems, okay? We've been ignoring everything for way too long. We can't keep going like this. I'm NOT going to keep going like this! We need HELP, or we need to STOP."

She staggered backwards.

"You never answered my question." I was resolute. "Do you still want to be married to me, or not?"

"Yes..." Her eyes couldn't have been open any wider.

"Okay." I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. "I still want to be married to you, too. We need to go to marriage counseling. I'll set it up. And we need to get you to a doctor. This isn't right. This isn't okay." I closed my eyes. "I thought for sure we were headed for divorce."

"I know. I know I've been neglecting you. And our marriage." She was crying, but not the sobbing, chest-heaving, throaty kind of crying. Her voice didn't crack, she was speaking hypnotically, with tears pouring down her face in buckets, and that might have been a drop of snot dangling from the tip of her nose. "It's so hard for me. I feel so old. I'm tired all the time. I don't know what's going on with me. I don't know. But I'll try. I promise, at least I'll try."

"That's all I can ask. I'll try, too."

***

It was her hormones. She couldn't sleep because she had abnormally low levels of progesterone. She had chronic fatigue and no libido because she had zero testosterone. Zero. Women are supposed to have at least some 'T'. Our doctor put her on thyroid medicine and hormone replacement therapy. Monica changed her diet, cut out caffeine and alcohol, and worked out three times a week. Over the next year, she lost forty pounds, found a lot more energy, and started sleeping through the night for the first time she could remember.

The marriage counseling was rough at first. My wife broke down in tears over issues that I had no clue about. I did, too. We'd been in a negative feedback spiral, where I'd want intimacy but she'd refuse, then I'd feel rejected, and she'd feel bad for rejecting me, and then I'd feel bad for making her feel bad, et cetera. We wouldn't get caught in that pattern again. We could validate each other's feelings without becoming defensive, we set up a formal structure for "relationship talks," and we were finally able to live with each other, feeling accepted and safe.

I got my wife back. Mostly.

Despite the medication and therapy and lifestyle changes, her libido didn't return. She knew that men take it personally when our partners reject us. She said she understood, and agreed, in principle, to make herself more available and to take our need for intimacy seriously.

It was a chore for her.

I didn't want it to be a chore. I wanted it to be fun. I was desperate for her enthusiasm... but she still didn't have any. She said she WANTED to want me, but the best she could do was "Lay Back And Think Of England." She offered to fake her orgasms, but I couldn't believe her and it wasn't any good. We'd tried, but we found ourselves back in a Dead Bed. I'd been friend-zoned in my own marriage.

***

"I have a Request."

I was seated at our kitchen table, with an open bottle of shiraz, two glasses, and a kitchen timer. My heart was pounding in my chest. The phrase "I have a Request" was a practice we'd worked out in counseling early on. Monica sat down, I poured the wine and started the timer for three minutes. She raised her glass, indicating I should proceed.

This was going to be difficult.

"I know things have been hard for you. You've come a long way. WE'VE come a long way. When I look at where we were just over a year ago, and I look at you now... well, it's night and day. I'm very proud of you. The work you've put in, well, it's amazing."

That was the easy part.

"It's been a tough few years for us," I continued, "At this point, I need to say some things out loud about where we are in our relationship, because, well, we've still been struggling with our intimacy. You know what that part of our relationship means to me. I've tried to be patient. I've tried to find ways to cope.

"I love you, Monica. I love you more than anything. I'm committed to you, I'm committed to doing whatever it takes to make this relationship work. One hundred percent. And this part of it, I mean, the sex part, that connection... it's not working. We've tried. And we'll keep trying. And I just, I really kind of need something to happen. I have to have some kind of sex life. And I'm GOING to have one. I can't turn it off. I wouldn't want to even if I could. And I want it to be with you. I never wanted to look anywhere else. And, I mean, it's just, you're not available. You're free to shut down your own part of it. You can shut down what we have together by not participating. But you can't shut ME down, and neither can I.

"I'm in the prime of my life. I'm healthy, everything works. I'm not gonna accept that my sex life is over, that I'm never going to make love again, to you or anyone else. Something's going to happen, whether it's what we want, or, um, something we DON'T want. I mean, I need SOMEthing, Monica. Just SOMEthing. I need... HOPE. I need to know that there's some direction we can go that's not going to break us. So if we're going to remain married, I need your help with whatever that's gonna be. That's my request. HELP me. As my partner. As my wife. Help me out, here. Please."

Monica took her wine, which she hadn't tasted, over to the sink and poured it down the drain. She rested her hands on the edge, hung her head, and began to cry. She was supposed to have a sixty second cooldown before her three minute response. I decided to ignore the timer and give her however much she needed.

She took longer than a minute. It felt like a year. But she eventually sat back down.

"It's not like I haven't thought about it," she said. "I'm trying to be sympathetic. I really am. And I kind of get it. I know it's hard for you. You still have your desires, and that's okay. I also know you feel rejected. I know. You know I love you. I've worked so hard. I don't want you to feel that way, even though I admit I haven't been doing a great job of making you feel desired.

"I'm willing to work with you, but I don't know what to do. You've been very clear that you don't want me just going through the motions. I agree that we need to do something to get a handle on it, but involving other people is NOT something we can do. Going behind my back would be a complete deal breaker. But the way you're talking, it's like you're a bomb ready to go off. You're not the only one who's scared about what might happen. Maybe it would be okay if you started, well, you know... masturbating?"

I just stared at her. Who the hell WAS this woman?

She turned off the timer. I was still in shock. I had sixty seconds, but I didn't need them.

"Jesus. God. Monica. What the hell do you THINK I've been doing for the past two and a half years? Fuck. I've been jerking off like a fifteen year old every goddamn day. And now you're saying it would be okay if I STARTED?"

"You... wait, what? Every day?"

"Sometimes twice. Hell, sometimes three, maybe four times once in a while, but yeah. Every day. Unless I'm extremely busy and can't find an opportunity, or if I'm sick, or completely exhausted, which honestly doesn't happen very often. But yeah, pretty much every day. I'd say I average about ten orgasms a week."

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

"You never used to... did you?"

"Well, back when we were sexually active, I had to be strategic about it. If I thought I might be getting lucky, I'd hold off, or save it up. But now? I figure sex is not happening, so to hell with it, I get off whenever."

"I... I mean... when? How?"

"I wait until you're in your writing studio. Or I lock myself in the bathroom. If the kids are home, sometimes I sneak off into the garage." I threw my hands in the air. "I creep around like a goddamn thief. I shouldn't have to do that. I'm a grown man. This is my house. I'm allowed to have a goddamn sex life, even if it's just with myself. I need to take care of business so my prostate doesn't swell up and kill me, and I'm acting like it's SHAMEFUL and I'm afraid of getting CAUGHT. I gotta say, Monica, it's NOT working out real well for me."

"I'm sorry." She looked at the ground, then up at me. "I guess I can see how you'd feel that way." She looked back at the floor. "If I'd caught you doing that, it would have hurt my feelings." She stared up at the wall. "You can do that in the bedroom. Masturbate, I mean. Of course you can. It's your room."

"Okay, well, uh, thank you. I guess. For giving me permission to jerk off in the bedroom." I shrugged. "Not that I should need it, but that's kind of where we are now, isn't it?"

"Oh, god. Look, I didn't mean it like that."

"You kind of did. Isn't that what this conversation is about? Didn't you say 'maybe it would be okay' for me to start masturbating?"

"I, um. I was trying to help. You asked me for help."

"So... are you saying you want to help me masturbate?"

"Ew, no. Not like..."

She saw my face. She'd said "Ew." She'd FUCKING said "Ew," to the very idea of my erect cock. I think she started saying something about how she didn't mean it, but I didn't hear her past the ringing in my ears. I could barely even see.

"STOP! STOP! STOP! I need to Time-Out of this conversation." I got up and stomped around the block a few times. Then I sat in my car in the garage, just breathing. FUCK. I was out there for something like an hour. Monica was still at the table. Or back at it. She'd been crying.

"Ready to continue?" I asked. She nodded. I sat.

"Mike, I just want to say I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"I accept your apology."

"Thank you."

"And... here we are. You said 'Ew.' You let it slip; let's not pretend you didn't mean it. I know you want to do damage control and say 'it's not like that,' but neither one of us would believe it. There's such a thing as a 'Spark,' that starts a romance. Looks to me like this is the opposite. We've got an 'Ick.' The kind of thing that ends it.

"Maybe we can still live together. We make a good team. We're decent parents. And believe it or not, I still love you. I really do, more than anything. Maybe there's something in this marriage that can be salvaged. But it's time to deal with the uncomfortable truth that the romantic part of our relationship is over, and it's not coming back. I don't want to say it, but... we need to seriously consider our separation or divorce. I don't know how I can live the rest of my life with someone who thinks I'm disgusting and sees me as a threat."

Monica sat there, tears streaming down her face.

"We're not going there," she said. "Not yet. I said I would help you. You Made a Request and I promised. Whatever it takes to save our marriage, I'll do it. I'm sorry about what I said. I just... didn't realize how badly out of step we were. I WILL come up with something else. I don't know what, I don't know how, but I'll do it. If you want me to be your lover again, I'll find some way to get over the, what did you call it, the 'Ick.' Hypnosis, therapy, behavior modification, whatever. Look at me, look how I've turned myself around this past year. I'm not giving up. I know you feel like I've abandoned you, but I haven't. I need this marriage to work, for all kinds of reasons. I love you, Mike, and I know you love me, too, and we're going to get through this, somehow. Together."

"I really don't know HOW." I threw up my hands. "You're a smart woman, and I'm sure you'll think of something. Maybe there's a way. But I can't help but feel hopeless right now. I want... no, I NEED you to WANT me. I need you to be HUNGRY for me. I have no idea how we're going to find our way through this impasse. No icky sex you don't want. No pity sex I don't want. No stepping outside the marriage, either. So what's left?"

"I'll think of something. I'm sorry. I know I made you feel awful. I don't want to do that to you."

Well, you do. I didn't say that part out loud. I think she heard it anyway.

***

We were polite around each other for the next few days. We didn't fight, but we weren't talking much, either. The kids avoided us as usual. We had a session booked with our counselor, Susan, for next Wednesday. Maybe that would help.

Four days after our chat, with a week to go before meeting Susan, I was off work and came home early. Monica was busy in her studio, I knew better than to disturb her. No kids in the house, so I figured I had time for a quick one. I was in the bedroom with my pants off, choking the chicken with my iPad playing porn, when Monica came in.

"SHIT! Sorry, sorry!" She scampered backwards.

"It's okay, Monica," I said, having started to quickly cover myself with a corner of the sheet, then stopping. "This is what we talked about, right? Part of it, anyway."

"Yes, I know, but you startled me. I didn't know you were here."

"It's fine."

"You must be so embarrassed."

"I'm your husband. Nothing to be embarrassed about, right?"

"I know. I just needed... shit. I forgot. It's not important."

"It's okay."

"I should have knocked."