Yup-- been there, done that. Didn't go any better for us. He really did not like being asked to generate a program for my erotic behavior. That got pretty darn dark.
It has to be me that initiates it because he needs it to be. It is, evidently, very tiring and insecurifying to be the one who does all the pursuing. Everybody wants to be wanted, and all that.
As I really can't handle the consequences of his insecurity any more, something has to be done. Besides-- we might be a poor match, but if so, it's fifteen years and four kids too late for that realization to do anyone any good. Now it's just fix the problems.
It's not exactly a chore-- more of a gift, just one I don't think to give 'cause it's not one I'd care to get.
I don't think changing medication or anything else will fix it-- I have literally NEVER had a sex drive. NEVER. I used to masturbate occasionally in my late teens and early 20s because the hormone rush helped me get to sleep-- that's been the peak of my libido so far (I'm now 35). I've only been on medication for 2 or 3 of those years (birth control pills for a few months in 2001 and fluoxetine since late 2011).
They say fluoxetine kills sex drive. I told them it didn't matter; I didn't have any to lose. It has destroyed the capacity to reach climax-- which I actually appreciate. Sorry-- climax for me basically involves every cell in my body screaming, "MAKE IT STOP!" I did ask for tips on faking it convincingly, and surprisingly got a few.
One wonders why I married at that rate; all I know to say is, for companionship. I do love him and do enjoy his company. I enjoy our family life. I'm grateful for our kids. I want it to stay together, and I want him to be fulfilled and happy.
Ergo, banging the hubby is a gift. Like a lovingly prepared meal or a clean house or a movie I hate but watch with him anyway. The act is indifferent to me, at least as long as I remain, um, insensitive down there. The gift is something it would please me very much to give (as long as I see it as a gift, not an obligation).
It's not just banging the husband-- it's all the chores that are hard to see. Bang the husband, get the mail, remember to change the oil in the car if the little sticker falls off the windshield. Pay the damn bills.
Things like dishes and cat pans and laundry are easy-- there are visual (or olfactory, or auditory) reminders. I will remember to pick up when I trip over toys on my way to the toilet (daily, if they're not picked up a couple times a day) or the baby is chewing on The Encyclopedia of Country Living (expensive-- and useful-- book). Homework gets done because the kids walk in the door carrying backpacks. It's pretty darn hard to forget to feed whining kids and/or cats that orbit my ankles. That overflowing hamper under the bedroom window makes it pretty clear that laundry needs doing.
Nothing does that for "get the mail." Or "change the oil." Or "schtupp the spouse."
Maybe I can come up with a visual reminder about the hubby too-- I don't know what it would be. I don't wear pajamas, or I'd tuck something sexy (ick) under my pillow.
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"Alas, our dried voices when we whisper together are quiet and meaningless, as wind in dry grass, or rats' feet over broken glass in our dry cellar." --TS Eliot, "The Hollow Men"