They pretty much agree that towards the end and sadly some of them throughout the entire length of the marriage things were welll ummm…. You know how it is, when you first met your husband things were spicy and fun but as time went on, real life happened and you both got stressed and tired. Honestly sex was your last priority. Things you should incorporate into your sex life for the remainder of your days, married or single. Find an awesome vibrator.
Whatever your wife is doing is not working to decrease stress long term, but phone time and masturbation are great at short term stress relief, which is why she may be getting addicted to both. There can be too much of a good thing. What do I do? May Allah reward you abundantly for your interest in knowing the teachings of Islam! My doctor also advised me to please myself and since January im have followed her instructions Divocred am enjoying it thoroughly. I'd met my human husband when I Divorced women and vibrators in college.
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Help, my wife is replacing me with plastic! To start, my wife is constantly absorbed in her phone. Whenever she is at home, she either has her nose buried in the phone or she has her headphones in listening to a podcast. It's to the point that the kids know not to go to her because she won't hear them and even when we are sitting on the couch watching TV together she is messaging with friends or reading articles. I have confronted her, and her response is that it's work or she's helping a friend with something.
She doesn't talk to me anymore about anything of any importance and I feel as though she has replaced me emotionally. And I now feel like she has replaced me sexually. We had a great sex life up until recently that has continually improved over the years. We had been having sex several times a week and even on occasion meeting each other at home for quick lunchtime breaks.
So about a year ago I bought us a vibrator to use together and spice things up. We regularly keep it in a dresser drawer that we both keep things in and I use on a daily basis for my keys and wallet etc. Because I use the drawer regularly I notice when things get moved around. Shortly after we got the vibrator I noticed that it was getting moved and left in different places in the drawer even when we hadn't used it together.
No big deal, I was happy for her and I said nothing. But within the last few months I noticed that it was getting moved more and more often almost on a daily basis. Unfortunately this coincided with a dramatic and sudden drop in her sexual interest in me. She stop approaching me at all for sex and turning down my advances more and more often. So now I am left with this feeling of uselessness in my marriage to the point that I am pulling away and distancing myself. I have tried to tell her how I feel but I just end up feeling like an ass for even bringing it up.
If she prefers her other emotional and sexual connections to me then who am I to say what she should do and I should just accept it. But then I am faced with losing my emotional and sexual connection to her. What do I do? I am sorry that you are feeling so lonely. It may be that your wife isn't feeling close to you, but honestly since she's avoiding talking to the kids also, I think it's likelier that she is depressed, or at least overly stressed has she had any increase in responsibility at work?
Stress is a marriage killer if people don't make time for each other , and depression is very hard on marriages as well. Whatever your wife is doing is not working to decrease stress long term, but phone time and masturbation are great at short term stress relief, which is why she may be getting addicted to both. I encourage you to take a step back and think about how your wife's mood has been lately. This uptick in self-medicating behaviors is associated with feeling depressed.
It is easier to engage in conversations via text than in person, if you have limited energy and motivation, and it's also easier to have an orgasm with a vibrator than to engage in a sexual encounter with a partner. I suggest that you tell your wife that you are worried about her, because she is pulling away from you emotionally, sexually, and even mentally.
Tell her that you are worried she is depressed or running herself ragged. Be prepared for her to say that she is tired, overwhelmed, busy, and has no time or inclination to work on things, and that she feels "fine" and the problem is you. This is when you need to come out with that you've been observing the vibrator placement, and that you miss your sex life, and that you and the kids also really miss talking to her.
State that you are feeling very lonely in your marriage right now. Ask if she would be willing to see a couples counselor , or a counselor on her own. I would recommend that you research individual therapists and couples counselors and have someone that you can make an appointment with right away if your wife says yes to either or both. Tell her that you have someone picked out, which seems a lot more serious than just mentioning counseling randomly.
If she says no to individual and couples, go to a couples counselor yourself the first time and ask her to join you for the second session. Often, spouses who refuse the first session will go to the second, just to make sure their partner isn't telling the therapist a bunch of lies about them. For real. Anyway, good luck and kudos to you for reaching out rather than just detaching and allowing your marriage to deteriorate. This post was originally published here on Dr.
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Why Every Single Woman Over 40 Should Use a Vibrator
When my husband and I weren't feeling especially close, I would often spend long, contented afternoons reading or napping with the cat on my lap. Once in a while, the cat would gaze dreamily at me, then nuzzle me, pressing the flat of his head to the underside of my chin. Sometimes he'd stand on his hind legs, put his paws on my shoulders, and regard me with those golden, soulful eyes of his.
My heart melted at the touch of his wet nose against mine. Sometimes I would wish he were my husband. I even made jokes, calling the cat my "fur husband". There was something so instinctively affectionate, so uncomplicated about our relationship, that I often thought how simple it would be to be married to the cat. Meanwhile, after years of a low-grade marital malaise, my husband and I had become entrenched in a cycle of increasingly hurtful arguments that seemed to erupt over issues both large and small.
During a particularly sour family holiday, when I'd stormed off to take my frustrations out on a treadmill overlooking a wide-open landscape, I pictured myself running and running, and never coming back. Back at home I pored over the accommodation listings; when my husband, Paul, saw what I was doing, I told him what I hadn't fully admitted to myself: I wanted to move out. For the next week, we talked about our relationship more freely than we ever had before. We agreed that after nearly 20 years we didn't want to end our marriage.
We wanted to work on it. But we both knew it would take a radical step to force us out of the unkind and ugly patterns we'd got into. And so, with surprisingly little drama, we agreed to see a marriage counsellor and to separate. When I moved to a small apartment a few blocks away, my one consolation was fantasising about the cosy, fireside nights the cat and I would spend alone together.
I would have "custody" of him one week-night and every other weekend, a schedule similar to the one I would keep with my year-old son.
I bought him the cat, that is a new litter tray, toys, his favourite food, and counted the days until our first date. Week-nights and alternating weekends with my son turned out to be delightful. I cooked the meals he liked, we watched second world war movies, and read the sports section together over breakfast. The one and only weekend when I had feline custody, however, the cat cowered behind the dish drainer, crying. When I tried to pull him out, he peed on the worktop.
No amount of sweet talk or chicken giblets could coax him back into my arms. One of the terms of the trial separation was that Paul and I each agreed not to see other people: we had separated to work on the marriage, not to dismantle it. But after a few months of single living, my needs for affection had gone beyond what the cat used to offer. It was at this point that I met the electric husband. I arrived looking every bit the former Catholic schoolgirl I am - guilt-ridden and nicely dressed - only to be confronted with a Star Wars-like assortment of vibrators, dildos, whips, and harnesses.
I instantly headed for the corner of the store where the books were and pretended to read. The only person on duty was a very, very large woman - picture a refrigerator with a shaved head and more studs on her face than on Dolly Parton's jean jacket - seated at a desk on an elevated platform where she kept an eye out for shoplifters. The word intimidating doesn't come close to describing her. She grunted, then came down from her perch and in a very loud voice asked what I wanted help with. She went on - "Maybe a butt plug?
At this point she morphed into a kind, gentle big sister - albeit a gigantic one in work boots - leading me around the store, explaining, still at a high-decibel level, the basics latex v plastic, G-spot v clitoral. After I'd made my selections - a pink teddy bear-shaped clitoral vibrator and a less-menacing version of the Big G a whimsical, tie-dyed purple banana-shaped thing mounted on something resembling a hand mixer - she informed me and everyone else in a mile radius that, "You're gonna need some lube with that!
I paid, thanked her, snuck out. It was the purple Big G that I fell for. After an awkward first time, we spent some lovely evenings together. And some lovely afternoons. If we had a quickie in the morning, my friends would ask about the glow in my cheeks. Had I had a facial, they'd ask. It was about this time I started thinking of my vibrator as the electric husband. This was not a thought I shared with my friends. They were having a hard enough time trying to understand how moving out was supposed to help my marriage.
One well-intentioned friend called and invited me to the cinema. No thanks, I said, I don't feel like it. Next time she called to invite me out I said I had plans. I did. I'd make a nice meal, have a glass of wine, put on some romantic music, light a candle, then retire to the bedroom with the purple Big G.
One night after I'd had a glass of wine OK, maybe two at the candlelit table I'd set for a romantic dinner, I got a cartoon image of the two of us sitting there together: me and the electric husband. I pictured the purple banana-shaped part propped up at the table across from me, a little napkin tied in a neat triangle an inch or so from the tip. I imagined the two of us at the movies, at a posh hotel, taking a drive in the country in this scenario, I was in the driver's seat, the electric husband seat-belted in next to me.
Meanwhile, I was learning to live alone. I'd met my human husband when I was in college. I remember thinking, even then, "Right man. Wrong time. But those things seemed increasingly unimportant as we fell headlong in love. Before we knew it, we'd moved in together and settled in a surprisingly traditional division of labour. Paul handled the home repairs, the car, and the barbecues. I took care of the cooking, the laundry, and most of the childcare when our children came along. Now I was on my own, it was up to me to change the oil and grill the steaks.
To my great surprise, I found I wasn't bad at the chores I'd entrusted to Paul. I even developed an affection for tools - so much so that I bought a tool belt to wear during my home improvement efforts, along with a baseball cap and overalls.
Anybody inspecting my wardrobe might have reasonably guessed that I was dating the large woman from Toys in Babeland, instead of one of the items for sale there. A lot. Especially in the beginning. I think I was feeling a lot of unexpressed sadness that I finally had room to notice and crying a lot of pent-up tears that I finally had the privacy to shed. The marriage counselling also took an unexpected course.
At times it seemed we were well on our way to working things out; at others, we left sessions steaming with rage and ready to divorce. And as my apartment went from a stop-gap to a potential home, I began to have moments of contentment - even happiness.
I got into Irish fiddle music in a way I would have been too self-conscious to do within earshot of anyone else. I fell back into the habit of reading late into the night. And I reveled in keeping my tiny flat spotless. I did things Paul used to do: I did up a set of second-hand chairs, changed the windscreen wiper blades. I did things I'd always wanted to do: I decorated my bedroom in lavender, strung paper lanterns across the living-room mantelpiece, and had chocolate fondue for breakfast.
And I did things I assumed Paul wouldn't have wanted me to do: I visited a psychic, wore my hair long, and ate tofu hotdogs. And I bought batteries and scented candles by the dozen for my dates with the electric husband. In short, I did whatever I wanted. All the while, my real husband and I continued to meet twice a week with our gifted marriage counsellor.
As we excavated the issues that had ground away at our marriage - mutual and lingering resentments from the bad old days when Paul was drinking, old betrayals, and ancient grudges over money, in-laws, and child-rearing - we realised that if we were going to fix what was wrong with our marriage, we'd have to dig deep. We started the process thinking we just needed a little distance and a few months of counselling to patch up the cracks in our marriage; we ended up doing a gut renovation.
Reconciliation began to seem impossible. We still trudged dutifully off to counselling, but sometimes it was as if we were going to a funeral. Without either of us realising it, we had begun to talk in tones full of resignation and sadness; we both hired lawyers and we were using terms such as amicable - which is nearly always followed by the word divorce.
Almost a year and a half after I'd moved out, all the old grudges and disagreements had been aired; we had apologised, in profound and meaningful ways and, as best as we were able, had made amends. But we were at a loss as to what to do next. I trudged home after one particularly downbeat counselling session unable to stop crying.
Later that day, I called Paul. I asked if he could come over. I was finished with marriage guidance, I told him. He nodded wearily. He was, too. My heart nearly broke. I hadn't had a chance to finish; I'd called him over to tell him that I wanted to get back together. I'd felt we'd done all we could to look at what went wrong, that the only thing left now was to make things right.
I was about to propose a step that felt even scarier than moving out - moving back in - and there he was saying he didn't think we could get back together after all. Maybe I was just being contrary - a trait that had helped land us in marriage counselling in the first place - but I disagreed.
I said I thought we could. He looked at me. I went a step further.