My husband has no interest in sex. I Helped My Husband.



My husband has no interest in sex

My husband has no interest in sex

Share via Email Christine Benvenuto: Or I can say Tom was a fabrication. Webb Chappell for the Guardian 'I'm thinking constantly about my gender. Sex , among other things, would never be the same. I know that I stayed surprisingly calm, for me. I heard the urgency in his voice and tried to be supportive, as I would often fail to be in the many conversations that would follow.

Our marriage, our family and everything that up until that moment had constituted our story was over. That much I understood at once. Tom and I met and fell in love at college. After graduation we had various jobs. I wrote, we travelled. The Tom I knew was sharp, funny and irreverent. He didn't come across as feminine. His signals were heterosexual and male. He initiated our intimate relationship and responded to me in the ways I expected.

Tom told me a few years later, early in our marriage, that he was struggling with these feelings again. I still thought he was investing gender with a power to resolve his childhood problems. This understanding was so disturbing, it literally made me nauseous and dizzy. For me, there was no wiggle room: I couldn't engage in an intimate relationship with a man who dressed in women's clothes. Not even in secret. I didn't think he had suppressed them; I thought he had let them go.

Over the years that followed, there were moments when Tom seemed distant and preoccupied, but for the most part we were in harmony. We took long walks, frequented cafes and bookshops, spent hours at home reading aloud, cooking and drinking wine. Tom was an avid football fan and he taught me the game so that I could enjoy it with him. We talked about almost everything.

We had every conversation, except the ones we didn't have. We never spoke of the discomfort Tom had once expressed about his gender — but those feelings had been resolved long ago, hadn't they? And we didn't talk about sex. We didn't sleep in separate beds. We didn't forget to touch, didn't find sexless weeks slipping by unnoticed. But we never said much about it. Why don't you check it out? He was kidding, right? Yet Tom was interested in my relationships with other women.

One time he called a new friend in secret to ask for babysitter recommendations so he could take me out for my birthday. It felt creepy every time. What other choice was there? The next afternoon we took a walk on a winding country road, with Lilly, not yet two, in the buggy, and Adam and Bibi on bicycles.

When the older kids were out of earshot, Tom repeated the salient points of the previous night's conversation. He felt wrong in his body. It had gone from being an occasional thought to a constant state of mind. He complained of fatigue, stomach ailments and dizziness. He lost his appetite and began to lose weight. He didn't act the same. Ice cold, the man I had once thought a wonderful father replied, "I would do it anyway. Tom came upon me in the basement, standing before the dryer, staring at them.

I've been trying to keep them out of your sight. Female clothes — tarty and juvenile, conservative and middle aged — appeared in our home. I felt ill handling his women's wear, but sometimes I had to examine the family laundry closely to separate what was his from what was mine. Tom was allowing his once very short, mostly grey hair to grow out. It looked terrible, but of course that was beside the point.

He brought home a hairbrush and kept it in the bathroom closet. One day, he walked into the bathroom while I was combing my hair. Christine Benvenuto with her youngest child the summer before her husband's revelations. Photograph courtesy of Christine Benvenuto Such moments packed a breathtaking array of meaning and emotion.

He wanted me to know: Like womanhood itself, it was no longer my domain. Tom found a circle of women to sympathise with, encourage and dress him. Once, he left his laptop open to a message from one of them that read, "Your wife has to accept losing you.

Among women who consider themselves feminists, a man who declares himself a transsexual trumps another woman any day.

One of Tom's supporters would eventually sum up this perspective most explicitly: My responsibility was to Tom. Tom's responsibility was to Tom. In the Valley of the Politically Correct, being a transsexual means never having to say you're sorry.

Tom shaved off the beard he had been wearing since I met him at In our joint account I saw payments to a voice coach. I discovered that he carried a portable tape recorder with him during solo drives, so that he could work on raising his pitch.

Did the kids notice Tom's transformation? They didn't say and I didn't dare ask. Neither the kids nor I would actually see him dressed as a woman during the two years his transformation took place under our roof, or for many months after.

We didn't have to confront him modelling the new threads, but I, for one, couldn't forget that they were there. Knickers that weren't mine were now regulars in our laundry.

He said it made him feel better. Presumably the falsies I found around the house also made him feel better. The only problem was, they made me feel worse.

I felt like a woman encountering the presence of an intruder in her marriage in the traces of infidelity among her husband's things. Only the lipstick smears weren't on my husband. They were my husband's. Again and again Tom promised he would do nothing further; again and again he broke this promise.

I didn't say anything about today. For more than a year and a half, I put off telling them. When I put this to Tom, he erupted. I'm not leaving this house. They belong to me. If you want to leave, go right ahead. But you're not taking the kids with you. This was the emergence of the new Tom, one I'd come to know very well over the next several years.

The one who intimidated and threatened, who laid down the law and expected me to abide by it. If Tom was becoming a woman, he had never seemed so male — a tyrannical bully he had never been in our marriage.

Many conversations followed from that one, and in this respect Tom remained consistent. The children and I would live with whatever he decided. Around our town Tom began to wear gender-neutral clothes, which in actual fact meant female but not overtly feminine: He went about looking pale and dreadful, and speaking in an exceedingly odd, high-pitched whisper, and so some people concluded that he was ill. I wanted desperately to contain the truth for my sake and my children's. Tom was not trying out a possible lifestyle.

He was making permanent changes. Male legs in sheer stockings. It is creepy for one woman to copycat another, the stuff of thrillers.

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Why Won't My Husband Have Sex With Me



My husband has no interest in sex

Share via Email Christine Benvenuto: Or I can say Tom was a fabrication. Webb Chappell for the Guardian 'I'm thinking constantly about my gender. Sex , among other things, would never be the same. I know that I stayed surprisingly calm, for me. I heard the urgency in his voice and tried to be supportive, as I would often fail to be in the many conversations that would follow.

Our marriage, our family and everything that up until that moment had constituted our story was over. That much I understood at once. Tom and I met and fell in love at college. After graduation we had various jobs. I wrote, we travelled.

The Tom I knew was sharp, funny and irreverent. He didn't come across as feminine. His signals were heterosexual and male. He initiated our intimate relationship and responded to me in the ways I expected.

Tom told me a few years later, early in our marriage, that he was struggling with these feelings again. I still thought he was investing gender with a power to resolve his childhood problems. This understanding was so disturbing, it literally made me nauseous and dizzy. For me, there was no wiggle room: I couldn't engage in an intimate relationship with a man who dressed in women's clothes.

Not even in secret. I didn't think he had suppressed them; I thought he had let them go. Over the years that followed, there were moments when Tom seemed distant and preoccupied, but for the most part we were in harmony.

We took long walks, frequented cafes and bookshops, spent hours at home reading aloud, cooking and drinking wine. Tom was an avid football fan and he taught me the game so that I could enjoy it with him. We talked about almost everything. We had every conversation, except the ones we didn't have. We never spoke of the discomfort Tom had once expressed about his gender — but those feelings had been resolved long ago, hadn't they?

And we didn't talk about sex. We didn't sleep in separate beds. We didn't forget to touch, didn't find sexless weeks slipping by unnoticed. But we never said much about it. Why don't you check it out? He was kidding, right? Yet Tom was interested in my relationships with other women. One time he called a new friend in secret to ask for babysitter recommendations so he could take me out for my birthday.

It felt creepy every time. What other choice was there? The next afternoon we took a walk on a winding country road, with Lilly, not yet two, in the buggy, and Adam and Bibi on bicycles. When the older kids were out of earshot, Tom repeated the salient points of the previous night's conversation. He felt wrong in his body.

It had gone from being an occasional thought to a constant state of mind. He complained of fatigue, stomach ailments and dizziness. He lost his appetite and began to lose weight. He didn't act the same.

Ice cold, the man I had once thought a wonderful father replied, "I would do it anyway. Tom came upon me in the basement, standing before the dryer, staring at them. I've been trying to keep them out of your sight. Female clothes — tarty and juvenile, conservative and middle aged — appeared in our home. I felt ill handling his women's wear, but sometimes I had to examine the family laundry closely to separate what was his from what was mine.

Tom was allowing his once very short, mostly grey hair to grow out. It looked terrible, but of course that was beside the point. He brought home a hairbrush and kept it in the bathroom closet.

One day, he walked into the bathroom while I was combing my hair. Christine Benvenuto with her youngest child the summer before her husband's revelations.

Photograph courtesy of Christine Benvenuto Such moments packed a breathtaking array of meaning and emotion. He wanted me to know: Like womanhood itself, it was no longer my domain.

Tom found a circle of women to sympathise with, encourage and dress him. Once, he left his laptop open to a message from one of them that read, "Your wife has to accept losing you. Among women who consider themselves feminists, a man who declares himself a transsexual trumps another woman any day.

One of Tom's supporters would eventually sum up this perspective most explicitly: My responsibility was to Tom. Tom's responsibility was to Tom. In the Valley of the Politically Correct, being a transsexual means never having to say you're sorry. Tom shaved off the beard he had been wearing since I met him at In our joint account I saw payments to a voice coach.

I discovered that he carried a portable tape recorder with him during solo drives, so that he could work on raising his pitch. Did the kids notice Tom's transformation? They didn't say and I didn't dare ask. Neither the kids nor I would actually see him dressed as a woman during the two years his transformation took place under our roof, or for many months after. We didn't have to confront him modelling the new threads, but I, for one, couldn't forget that they were there.

Knickers that weren't mine were now regulars in our laundry. He said it made him feel better. Presumably the falsies I found around the house also made him feel better. The only problem was, they made me feel worse. I felt like a woman encountering the presence of an intruder in her marriage in the traces of infidelity among her husband's things. Only the lipstick smears weren't on my husband.

They were my husband's. Again and again Tom promised he would do nothing further; again and again he broke this promise. I didn't say anything about today. For more than a year and a half, I put off telling them. When I put this to Tom, he erupted. I'm not leaving this house.

They belong to me. If you want to leave, go right ahead. But you're not taking the kids with you. This was the emergence of the new Tom, one I'd come to know very well over the next several years.

The one who intimidated and threatened, who laid down the law and expected me to abide by it. If Tom was becoming a woman, he had never seemed so male — a tyrannical bully he had never been in our marriage.

Many conversations followed from that one, and in this respect Tom remained consistent. The children and I would live with whatever he decided. Around our town Tom began to wear gender-neutral clothes, which in actual fact meant female but not overtly feminine: He went about looking pale and dreadful, and speaking in an exceedingly odd, high-pitched whisper, and so some people concluded that he was ill. I wanted desperately to contain the truth for my sake and my children's.

Tom was not trying out a possible lifestyle. He was making permanent changes. Male legs in sheer stockings. It is creepy for one woman to copycat another, the stuff of thrillers.

My husband has no interest in sex

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2 Comments

  1. My breasts, which are still covered by my bra, are on show. I stroke him lightly until I hear the doorbell chime. The only problem was, they made me feel worse.

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