in my voice, but he instinctively knew that I was upset. I didn’t want to forewarn Michael because I needed to see his facial expressions when I questioned him about his “confessions” to Zack.
Later that evening, we sat down to order dinner with the usual pleasantries, but now forced on my part. After ordering, I told Michael about my conversation with Zack and asked him for an explanation. His face became red and twisted with anger. He was so infuriated that I was afraid he would knock the table over. As I calmed him down, I told him that I wasn’t making accusations—I just wanted to know why he would give someone the impression that he was gay.
Michael responded by saying that Zack had started to talk to him about a sexual problem he was having with his girlfriend. Michael could see that Zack was troubled and suspected that the problem might be homosexuality. He didn’t want Zack to feel embarrassed, so to ease his discomfort and win his confidence, Michael told Zack that he, too, had engaged in homosexual experiences in the past. He said that he felt bad about “lying,” but he wanted Zack to feel that he could relate to his problem. Michael begged me not to repeat this to Zack because it would mean that he betrayed my friend’s confidence.
Even though the story was strange, I eagerly accepted Michael’s explanation. I was in love, and my wedding day was only a few weeks away. I was not about to risk losing him because of the sexual problems of my friend, and I dismissed Zack’s accusations. When Zack called me the next day, I thanked him and told him not to worry about it—everything was under control. We never discussed the conversation again, and Zack quietly disappeared from our lives.
Of course, once the thought of homosexuality was in my head, it was hard not to think about it, but I kept telling myself that I was being ridiculous. Over the years I had been friendly with a few gay men, and they certainly weren’t interested in women or marriage. Michael and I had sexual relations two or three times a week, and although he wasn’t an expert lover, he was typical of other men who didn’t know everything that pleased a woman. This didn’t indicate homosexuality—just inexperience.
Michael showed me pictures of women whom he recently dated, and he also had close women friends. Why would a gay man be involved with women? It didn’t add up, so I started to feel better. The fact that there was nothing effeminate about Michael also helped ease my fears. He physically appeared to be a man of strength and was nothing like the weak and fragile images associated with homosexuality. I erased these thoughts from my mind and replaced them with our upcoming marriage.
The wedding day took place three months after we met. We had 150 guests who joined us to celebrate. It was a beautiful event, and I felt hopeful that our future would be as wonderful as the wedding. Neither one of us had the energy to think about anything sexual that evening, but we promised to make up for it the next day.
We left for Florida the next morning for a seven-day honeymoon. I was thrilled to be away from the crowds of people that surrounded both of our lives, but specifically the young men Michael played “Big Brother” to who constantly interrupted our free time together with visits and phone calls. Although Michael’s volunteer commitment was officially two evenings a week and Sunday afternoon, some of the guys showed up almost every day. I asked Michael to limit these visits because we needed more private time alone, but he brushed me off by saying that I was “overreacting” or being “too possessive.”
Our vacation gave us time to talk and to know each other better. During one of those conversations, Michael said he had done some things in the past that he wasn’t proud of, but he did them to survive. I tried to get him to talk about these “things,” but he refused. My past was far from unblemished, so I disregarded his confessions and wrote them off to his unstable past. Michael was raised by parents who were not equipped to do so. His mother mentally and verbally berated him by calling him obscene names; his father physically abused him. That’s why he claimed to be so devoted to troubled youth—he had been one of them. These stories of abuse made me love Michael even more because when he told them, he seemed so vulnerable reflecting the pain he had grown up with.
Every evening during our week away, we made love before going to bed, no matter how tired we were. Michael kept saying that he wanted this to be a week we’d always remember, at least sexually. Sometimes he made sure that I was satisfied, but other times, he pleased himself only, leaving me frustrated. On those occasions, he consoled me by promising to “make it up to me next time.”
I have never been assertive sexually, and it was difficult to discuss my sexual needs. I felt it was humiliating to keep reminding Michael that sex was for two people’s pleasure, not just for one. In the beginning, Michael was a willing sex partner, but he made it clear that certain things about sex were unpleasant for him. He believed that a woman could be satisfied strictly by the act of intercourse. After our first few encounters left me frustrated, I cautiously explained my need for other ways of sexual stimulation. Michael became defensive, claiming that every woman he had sex with in the past was satisfied with his lovemaking. To give credibility to my point, I provided him with several popular books on the market about women’s sexual needs. He eventually conceded that each woman had different sexual desires when I read him selections to emphasize my point. After my campaign for sexual awareness, Michael tried to accommodate my needs at times, but he made it clear that he was doing it for me even though he didn’t enjoy it.
This attitude prevailed throughout our marriage and took most of the pleasure out of having sex. I felt as if our sex life was regulated by the “orgasm bank.” When Michael didn’t bother to satisfy me, he would always say he “owed me one.” This was balanced in his mind by the times he satisfied me, but was unable to reach an orgasm, which meant I “owed him one.” His debits always outweighed his credits, but I became tired of complaining and keeping score.
When we returned from Florida, I resigned from my job. The position required ten to twelve hours of work a day and extensive traveling. I didn’t want to start the marriage with those kinds of demands on my time. Although I firmly believed a new couple needed quality time alone together, Michael felt differently. His group members invaded our home almost every evening for hours. I tried to be patient and understanding, but I resented it. They made me feel uncomfortable, as though I was intruding in my own home with my own husband. When I told Michael that I wanted him to put an end to this chaos, he yelled at me, stating that I was acting “pushy and possessive.” I was constantly reminded that I was his wife—not his boss or mother.
I became depressed. We were living in a suburb of New York, far away from the friends I knew and the city that I loved. We moved there following the wedding because Michael started a new job, and this was a more convenient location. I felt an emptiness in my life when I left my job and friends, and the isolation only intensified the void. Overnight, I went from being a person of semi-celebrity status to the wife of a man I hardly knew. I remember walking in our door one day several weeks after our move and thinking to myself, “How did I get here? Six months ago I didn’t know this man and now he is my husband.” There were still the constant interruptions in our life, leaving little time to build a relationship.
I aired my view to Michael that a marriage needs time and work if it is to grow and survive. I went through a bitter divorce and knew how difficult marriage could be. Michael strongly disagreed—he believed that as long as two people loved each other, this was enough. I tried to win Michael over to my way of thinking, but he kept verbally beating me down with his tongue-lashings. I usually gave in just to keep the peace.
By the sixth month of marriage, our sex life deteriorated rapidly. I felt as though Michael were making love to me more out of obligation than desire. As the months wore on, the frequency continued to decrease. Our sexual activity was reduced to once or twice a month.
When the pattern of diminishing sex started, I spoke to Michael about it. He replied that we were no longer newlyweds, and that married couples don’t have sex all of the time. He suggested that something might be wrong with me—perhaps I was a “nymphomaniac.” I snapped back that wanting to make love with my husband two or three times a week did not classify me as a sex maniac, but Michael ignored my words. On several occasions, when I brought up our sex life, he became defensive, saying that his lack of interest was due to various pressures, such as financial problems. At other times,