How to Do It is Slate’s sex advice column. Have a question? Send it to Jessica and Rich here. It’s anonymous!
Dear How to Do It,
I have an open marriage with my husband, “Dave.” It’s openly open, in the sense that our friends know we’re nonexclusive and we’re pretty upfront about it. Both of us have had several other partners, and the relationship has been doing well.
The other day, though, I was talking with my friend “Clarissa.” She’s been going through a divorce, and I’ve been offering emotional support. And she asked to “borrow” Dave. I don’t know why, but this put flames in my brain. I wanted to slap her or something, and while I restrained that impulse, I was curt to her, saying it wasn’t going to happen, and we ended things a bit coldly.
I can’t ever remember getting jealous like that before. Not consciously, anyway. Ever since then, I’ve felt like a stranger inhabiting my own body, not like myself at all. I don’t know what to do about this or why this came on so suddenly for something that isn’t that big of a deal. Like, I’ve never been upset when other people in our friend circle have sex with Dave, so I don’t know why someone asking me first would upset me so much. What is going on here?
—Strange Pang of Jealousy
Dear Strange Pang of Jealousy,
When there’s an aberration in your typical response, it’s important to examine the particulars. That’s to say that if you’ve never experienced such a reaction, perhaps it’s because you’ve never experienced this exact precipitating cause. That is, you’ve never had Clarissa ask you in those words—“Can I borrow Dave?”—whether she can get with your husband. Is Clarissa particularly threatening in some way (especially charismatic, great body, classic beauty, etc.)? Or is the use of the word borrow unseemly to you? It kind of makes Dave sound like a tire iron or a beat-up copy of Fifty Shades of Grey. I personally hate when someone asks to “borrow” me, even in a nonsexual context (“Can I borrow you for a sec?”), because I think it’s a disingenuous way of interrupting and asking me to focus on something else. I don’t fly into a rage, but I don’t take pride in being a loaner either.
In her great nonmonogamy how-to Opening Up: A Guide to Creating and Sustaining Open Relationships, Tristan Taormino writes that jealousy “is really an umbrella term for a constellation of feelings including envy, competitiveness, insecurity, inadequacy, possessiveness, fear of abandonment, feeling unloved, and feeling left out.” Do you relate to any of those feelings? To conquer, Taormino recommends trying “to figure out exactly what you’re feeling, the root(s) of the feeling, and what you need to feel better.” It’s not lost on me that these are questions that you’ve posed to the column. However, only you have access to your own mind, so if you can’t come up with a reason, that’s probably cause for more probing.
You might look at this from a different perspective: If you are experiencing jealousy only now, in an open marriage that has included many partners in your friend circle, you’re enjoying a great track record. Jealousy is a major pitfall of nonmonogamy, and while plenty of open couples struggle with it regularly, I suspect that those who are happiest and best suited for an open lifestyle are those who fall on the lesser side of the jealousy spectrum. Maybe Clarissa is a blip and you will resume your dearth of jealousy shortly. Or maybe this is a sign of a shifting attitude. Pay close attention and see what comes up in future adventures. I think an important part of the openness of an open relationship is the ability to allow for change in the arrangement based on the shifting needs of the participants. Don’t be afraid to have such a conversation with Dave if you think it’s needed.
Consider revisiting with Clarissa as well. You cut the conversation short, which means you denied yourself the opportunity to explore your feelings with her. Given the open way you’ve lived your life, she couldn’t have expected that her request would qualify as speaking out of turn. At the very least, another conversation with her could allow you to experience some empathy and see her as a person, which could make the entire situation less overwhelming. Requesting a chat with her might mean humbling yourself, which is often a good thing and could be useful here, in particular.
Dear How to Do It,
I’ve been married for 39 years. We had regular sex at least monthly into our late 50s, but major physical changes have taken place that have limited our sexual encounters to every other month. We have not had intercourse in over three years due to it being too painful for my wife. The few encounters we have are oral, which she is very good at. Her attempts are appreciated, but I don’t initiate because I know she doesn’t really like it. I would just rather wait for her to suggest a date night.
Last week, we were watching TV, and she mentioned that the actor was hot. I jokingly referenced another actor she thought was hot, and she said, “Oh, that was three years ago.” Trying to be funny, I said, “I guess I haven’t been hot for 36 years.” Silence.
Yesterday, we were on a walk after we had been organizing old pictures, and I said that she was smoking hot when we got married and wondered how we ended up together. She was married for eight years prior to us meeting and got divorced due to his infidelity. She said she couldn’t be with someone who would have women throw themselves at him. I asked if she thought her ex was hot, and she said, “Oh, yeah!” Apparently, I was never hot.
So, I’m feeling less than desirable. She really hasn’t tried the things her doctor says could allow us to have sex again, and since I’ve been diagnosed with liver issues (not in any immediate danger), almost all intimacy has ended. While I know I’m not hot, I thought I was at least attractive. I’m 65 but in decent shape (6 foot, 225 pounds), and my wife is 69 and still smoking hot and turning heads. I’m afraid she has fallen out of love with me and is staying together because it is the “right thing to do.” I’m not feeling like a man. Thoughts?
—Lonely
Dear Lonely,
I think you’re a bit hung up on semantics here and allowing assumptions to drag you to a dark place. If you aren’t “hot,” according to your wife, maybe you are at least attractive to her? Maybe you’re cute or handsome or dapper or sharp. “Hot” is nice, but it isn’t everything, and even if she deliberately chose you because you don’t qualify for her definition of “hot,” it was a choice that has resulted in a nearly 40-year marriage.
I don’t mean to dismiss your sensitivity. It is well-earned and understandable. But I think that getting upset about something for which you lack information is a less prudent use of your time than actually pursuing said information. Why don’t you ask your wife if she’s attracted to you, point-blank? Tell her that, between the decreased sex and the silence she gave to your query about your legacy hotness, you’re feeling a bit insecure. I want to warn you against holding the frequency of your sex encounters against her, though—she could be experiencing a lack of libido due to menopause or some other health factor. You mentioned she’s in pain, which would make her understandably hesitant to have sex. There’s no amount of you being hot or attractive that’ll overcome that—even if you were the hottest guy in the world, she might still have some sexual pain that influences her desire to be intimate. If she’s tightened her oral skills for your sake, she clearly cares about your sexual satisfaction and is at least capable of being a conscientious partner. That’s not nothing. Seek reassurance, and she may provide it generously as well.
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Dear How to Do It,
I’ve been in a loving marriage for over 30 years. One benefit of this relationship is that it’s helped me become someone who’s capable of enjoying sex with my gentle and caring partner. I had some sexual trauma and abuse to overcome, so it took a little time to develop trust, be open, and articulate what I did and didn’t need.
Flash-forward to four years ago, when my husband had surgery for prostate cancer while I was going through menopause. We talked openly to each other about the sexual changes that that brought on, and we got some counseling around intimacy. We tried some different things, including expanding our definition of intimacy and an injection that helps with his erections. Technically speaking, these approaches have been successful, and my husband is game to do whatever it takes to give me pleasure.
The problem is that I think I need to feel his attraction to me and his lust in order for me to enjoy sex. I need to feel that sex is pleasurable for him. But because of the prostate cancer treatment, he does not orgasm and has a way less intense sexual response than he did before. Now I can’t stop thinking that he’s doing it only for me, even though he says he enjoys it. This is so dumb, as I know he enjoys giving me pleasure and is hurt that I am less interested in sex these days. Menopause has not completely destroyed my sex drive, but it has definitely lowered it, which means I can get by on very little.
But why am I more likely to masturbate than connect with my husband through the loving sex he wants to provide? If no sex is the new normal, there is still a lot of closeness, meaning, and love in our relationship, and we will get by. I think we are both sad about the lack of sex. (There is still a lot of physical affection, but even that feels sad because of what it doesn’t lead to.) Do we just need to grieve this loss of sexual intimacy and get on with life, or do you have any advice on how to overcome sexual inhibition in the aftermath of prostate cancer treatment? My spouse has been cancer-free for four years after having been given a 50 percent chance of recurrence, something we are grateful for every day.
—New Normal
Dear New Normal,
I think it makes sense that you’re more likely to masturbate than connect with your husband. In masturbation, you can revisit old fantastical haunts and maintain a consistent sexual identity, whereas sex between you and your husband has necessarily changed as a result of what your bodies have gone through. Masturbation is reliable, while sex, indeed, represents a new normal.
Emily Nagoski writes about spontaneous vs. responsive sexual desire in Come as You Are, and it could be that yours falls more into the latter category. Many people, regardless of how they fire up, can sustain desire by observing and reacting to their partner, whose desire may in turn be responding to them, resulting in a kind of feedback loop. This is to say that it’s understandable that you find sex with a less responsive partner to be underwhelming to the point of not wanting it.
The question is whether you can get into this new way of having sex with your partner. Have you approached it with patience and given it the necessary time for such an adjustment? Rewiring your sexual expectations can be a process, and not necessarily an easy one. But this is what you have. Perhaps sex starts to mean something different to you than it did before—maybe instead of the carnal lust that gives way to mutual satisfaction, it becomes something a bit more ephemeral, a way of expressing love for your partner while meeting him halfway. Different isn’t the same as meaningless.
That said, if you can’t get with a dynamic that is focused on your pleasure (and the pleasure your husband receives from giving), perhaps you do grieve the loss of sexual intimacy and move on. Before that, I would at least try sex therapy alongside your husband: That process could attune you to this new flavor of sex, and at the very least, it would require enough time for you to be more sure of whether these limitations are as detrimental as they now seem.
—Rich
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