My sexless marriage is sending me down a dangerous path

I am afraid I will crack from this frustration

When I met my husband Mohit* at 26, I was still nursing a broken heart. I had been with the man I was crying over for two years, and had been consumed entirely. He was charming in that devastating way men sometimes are: emotionally broken, unavailable, yet magnetic. He was terrible for me, but the sex was electric. With him I discovered what it meant to surrender to desire, to know the dizzying heights of multiple orgasms. When I finally cut ties with him, I felt completely adrift.

Then one night, tipsy and ugly-crying, I was with a friend who called up another friend for support. That friend brought along his friend, who was Mohit. He immediately leaned into making me feel better, even joining me in making fun of our terrible life choices. He later confessed that he was drawn to me instantly, and orchestrated more group meet-ups just to see me again. We began texting and meeting up without our friends and soon began dating.

After my hellish previous relationship, this one felt sweet, uncomplicated and safe. And the sex was good too. We began envisioning a life together. A year later, we moved in together, and married not long after that.

When comfort turns into complacency

At the beginning, our domestic rhythm was comfortingly steady, even mundane. He worked long and erratic hours as a video editor, while I had a predictable 9-to-5. It meant we didn’t see each other often, but when we did, there was a pleasure and ease in simply being together. At least that’s what I thought, until around four months in, the intimacy began to dwindle.

In the past year, we’ve had sex just thrice. And not the kind that leaves you satisfied. Instead, these encounters felt rushed, obligatory. A few kisses and straight to sex, followed immediately by sleep. Before I have time to lose myself, it is over. Each time, I felt a sharp sting of disappointment.

I think back to the early days with Mohit and the way we couldn’t stop kissing, the way his hugs felt like gravity itself pulling me closer. I remember the thrill of our late-night texts that blurred into sexts. Our chemistry was palpable. Now, that spark has been replaced by a gentler kind of affection, which is sweet, yes, but it leaves me wanting.

We’ve been married for just two years, and already our bedroom feels lifeless. I had heard people say that your sex life dries up with age and decades of marriage, but we’re still in our twenties. Why does our intimacy already feel like something of the past?

Lack of intimacy is killing my self-esteem

It’s not just about the sexual act alone, but how it makes me feel. Desired. Wanted. Beautiful. The complete absence of it is slowly eroding my confidence. I’m often left doubting myself: is he no longer attracted to me? Is it because I’ve gained weight since we first met? Or worse, has his attention shifted to someone else? I try to push the thought away, but it gnaws at me. Sometimes I laugh bitterly to myself—maybe this is karma for not forwarding that chain email two decades ago, the one that promised bad luck in bed if I ignored it.

I can’t pinpoint when exactly it began, but Mohit started struggling with erections. The first couple of times it happened, I chalked it up to stress. But soon, it was impossible to ignore. He wouldn’t get turned on at all even when I initiated and tried everything to satisfy him. Soon he began sidestepping my advances, brushing me off with excuses about work or errands. Or he’d respond with affection instead of desire.

When I confronted him, he denied it at first, but eventually admitted that he had been feeling self-conscious about his weight. I reassured him that I still found him attractive, but also confessed how rejected I felt. I told him I wouldn’t push him anymore, and that when he was ready, he could come to me. I waited for weeks and months. Nothing.

The fight has left the bedroom

I found my resentment growing. I was angry with him for not making an effort to fix this issue, for not being transparent, and for not feeling like he owed me a real, reassuring conversation. And this tension has now grown beyond the bedroom too. Our fights have increased and regardless of what we’re fighting about, my mind tells me it’s just one more way in which he’s stealing joy from my life. I sense that he too feels like he’s letting me down.

Eventually, he admitted he thought it could be a medical issue. With much coaxing, he saw a doctor. The diagnosis: performance anxiety. Not a permanent dysfunction, just fear of failing. The doctor said he may have lost his erection the first few times due to exhaustion, but that may have affected his confidence. He prescribed medication that would help him maintain his erection so he could get his confidence back, urged him to disconnect from his devices, and reminded him that sex is as much mental as it is physical.

For a short time, I felt hopeful. But that hope has turned into disappointment again because he doesn’t take his medication, doesn’t try to disconnect from his screens, doesn’t seem to care enough to make a real effort.

That’s what hurts me most, actually. The sense that our intimacy doesn’t matter to him, that my distress doesn’t matter to him. Because sex, to me, is about connection. It’s about saying, wordlessly, “I choose you.”

I’m scared of what I might do next

When I watch TV or movie characters in the throes of sex, I feel a physical ache almost. It’s terrible but I can’t remember what it is like to have my husband kissing my neck or caressing my body. Sometimes, when I am pleasuring myself, my mind flashes with images of strangers instead of my husband. I wonder, why am I not fantasising about him? Is it because I am losing hope?

And what happens if fantasy becomes real temptation? What if I crack one day? I don’t want to cheat on my husband; he is a good man, and our marriage works in every other way. But then I picture myself years from now, still married, still young, still untouched. Will I be able to hold out, or will I reach for the first hand extended to me? Then the guilt follows. I remind myself that cheating is not who I am, that betrayal is not what I want. But when desire is starved, morality feels shakier than I ever thought it could. That terrifies me.

For now, my plan is to also stop seeking sexual intimacy from him or anyone. Relying on myself for my own pleasure is what is keeping me going. I hope that our sex life either gets better, or that one day, I become better at not expecting sex from him. And that I don’t break before that day comes. Because if I end up cheating on him, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself, and our marriage would be over.

*Name changed for anonymity

As told to Akanksha Narang