We Don’t Make Love Anymore

We don’t make love anymore.

Not because we don’t love each other.
But because life has filed a formal complaint against sex and won.

At first, the reasons were normal.

“I’m tired.”

Fair. I’m tired too. From thinking about being tired.

Then it became medical.

“My head hurts.”
“My back hurts.”
“My neck hurts.”
“My soul hurts.”

At this point, I started wondering if our house was built on a fault line.

Then came the emotional reasons.

“I don’t feel connected.”
“You didn’t listen.”
“You listened, but not properly.”
“You listened, but you didn’t feel.”

I nodded. I apologized. I nodded again.
Somehow, listening required a PhD.

Then came scheduling.

“Not tonight. Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is busy.”
“Let’s see next week.”
“Next week is stressful.”
“Can we pencil it in?”

Romance died the day sex needed a calendar invite.

Then came the conditions.

“After you help with the dishes.”
“After you stop looking at your phone.”
“After you change your tone.”
“After you become a better person.”

I’m still working on that last one.

Then came the wellness era.

“I’m bloated.”
“I’m detoxing.”
“I just ate carbs.”
“I didn’t eat carbs and now I’m grumpy.”

Sex was officially defeated by gut health.

Then came honesty.

“I’m just not in the mood.”

This one hurt the most.
Because the mood apparently went on permanent leave without notice.

So what did I do?

I stopped asking.

I became respectful. Supportive. Mature.
I folded laundry like a monk seeking enlightenment.

Somewhere along the way, sex didn’t disappear.
It just kept getting postponed.

So now we don’t make love anymore.

But hey, at least the dishes are clean.

P.S.
Disclaimer: This post is NOT about my wife.
If it were, I would not be alive to publish this.

PPS I write books too. They live here:
https://payhip.com/samchoo