After 30 years of dating failure, I’d finally gotten married—at the age of 46. Someone I adored also adored me. K. was everything I’d ever wished for. That’s why I had no intention of telling him how terrible sex was, and had been for all three years of our courtship.
It wasn’t just with him though. Relations had been bad with almost everyone I’d ever slept with—a result of having been molested as a child.
I would never enjoy erotic coupling.
I had always accepted that. But now that I’d found my soul mate, and was on our honeymoon in Rome, where I knew I was supposed to be enjoying the most romantic, erotically mind-blowing experience of my life, I wondered:
Was it possible that my body could stop making war, and finally learn to make love?