Desire

I have no desire for anything—not food, not entertainment, not sex. But we still sleep together. For him, sex is a clear measure of how happy relationships are. The beginning of the end is usually when people stop having sex. We sleep together a lot, multiple times a day.

Sex has become a chore, like doing the dishes; you have to stay on top of it so that the mess doesn’t get out of control. I haven’t told him about the horror of feeling nothing. I don’t want him to believe he’s bad in bed. He’s not bad. The sex has gotten rough. I just want him to take control, to shake me out of this deadness. He slaps my ass, digs his nails into my skin, pulls my hair when he fucks me from behind. If he looks into my eyes while we’re fucking, I tell him to grab my neck, to choke me, and sometimes I hope he’ll lose control in the heat of the moment and kill me. But accidentally, so that he feels bad and has to call my parents crying and beg their forgiveness for riding their daughter to death. That would be good of him.