Page 7 of Unmatched

“Great,” Lydia says quickly. She opens her mouth to say something else, then closes it again. She knows how bad things were a few weeks ago. How many hoops Seth and I had to jump through to get Mom into better care. Lydia and my mom used to be close—really close—so it stings that she doesn’t manage to say more than this now.

Heartthrob is already snoring in his bed, and though it’s not even ten o’clock, I decide I’ve had enough and follow his lead. “I’m beat. Think I’ll go turn in.”

“Uh...me too,” she says, jumping up from the table. “That sounds good.”

This makes me hesitate. But I’m confident she’ll disappear into our office before reaching the bedroom. That’s her favorite way to avoid me. She’ll go “check on something” for work, then wait to come to bed until I’ve fallen asleep. I toss the leftover pizza in the fridge and head down the hall, taking my time in the bathroom brushing my teeth.

I nearly do a double-take when I enter the room and see her in our bed, resting against the pillows, covers drawn up like she’s waiting. For me? I fumble taking off my watch and spend an extra moment straightening my shoes, completely on edge.

I slip under the sheets in my boxer briefs, noting the fact that she’s still fully clothed in the anti-sex getup, but I take some satisfaction in the knowledge that she hasn’t found the striped pajamas. On the rare nights we go to bed together, we usually turn away from each other toward our screens. It’s familiar and safe, so this is what I do now, and she takes up the same position facing the opposite way. I exhale, allowing myself to relax a little, settling in with the driest economic news I can find and willing myself to get drowsy. The sooner I fall asleep, the sooner I get to my five a.m. alarm and can leave for the gym.

But Lydia shifts next to me, rocking the bed a little, and the next thing I know she’s crossed the miles between us, burrowing under my arm. I lay stock still, holding my breath, trying to figure out what to do. She’s spent the last hour signaling stay away, so I’m not sure what’s going on, and I’m afraid to get my hopes up. Several minutes pass and then she withdraws, flipping over, turning her back to me again.

Shit...should I have touched her? Made a move? I couldn’t tell what that was about, but now it feels like a missed opportunity. She shifts again, clearly getting comfortable under the covers, and I focus back in on my phone until I become aware of a light pressure against my hip. Lydia’s backside pressing against me. I glance down, deciding she must be cold. It’s not super chilly, but she often jokes about using me for warmth. I stay where I am, letting her take my heat if that’s what she wants.

Until she moves again.

With her back still to me, she reaches behind her, finding my free hand under the covers. I clutch my phone in my other hand as she takes my fingers in hers, guiding them to rest on her hip. After placing them there, she pulls away. My heart beats in my throat. There’s no sound but the two of us breathing. Several minutes pass, but I don’t know what this is. Am I supposed to do something? Then, maybe as an afterthought, she reaches out again. She takes my fingers another step, guiding them beneath the layers of her yoga pants and cotton underwear until she’s placed them against the bare skin of her ass. Her hand retreats again, leaving mine squeezed just inside her pants. And then she goes still. As still as the dead.

All this time, she hasn’t said a word, but now her message is awkwardly clear: access granted.

I’m being given permission. To touch her, climb on top of her, do what I need to do. I know because I’ve been here before. Last time, it was after I’d worked myself up to cup her breast on the couch after we’d finished a movie. When she didn’t turn away, I confused my relief with excitement, not realizing till later that she’d never turned toward me or reached for me either. She just lay back and spread her legs. Not sure how to proceed, I asked if I should continue. She’d said, “Of course,” and helped pull down my pants, then let out a few unconvincing moans while I fucked her for fifteen minutes. So dry and unaroused I actually got a friction burn on my dick.

It’s the same message this time. Not an invitation so much as a concession. Since this is something I want, I can let myself in and meet my needs. She doesn’t even have to be present.

My throat burns.

I pull my hand out, away, launching in reverse across the bed. When the edge of the mattress doesn’t feel far enough, I throw off the covers, shuddering, and storm out of the room. I slam the door behind me, stalk into the living room, and grab my keys. The night air hits my burning skin as I open the front door, and it’s only then I realize I’m standing barefoot in my underwear.

I clench my fists. There’s no fucking way I’m walking back into our room after that, but my options are limited without my wallet or clothes. And where would I even go if I could leave? I close the door and pace the living room, my body shaking. With revulsion. With shame. I work my ass off at the gym, but I might as well not bother for all the desire my body produces in my wife. I’ve bought her negligee, brought home flowers. I’ve tried both seduction and giving her space. I love Lydia, and the frustrating thing is, I know she loves me too.

It’s just clear she doesn’t want me.

CHAPTER FIVE

I sink to the couch, phone still clutched in my hand. My heart slows as my fingers move to unlock it and open the browser. I don’t know what I’m searching for. What the internet could provide that would change anything this evening. I wind up typing: No sex for months. Because we might not be there yet, but I don’t need a fortune teller to see where things are heading.

The search engine pulls up “10 Signs Your Wife Doesn’t Love You Anymore,” “What To Do When Your Sex Life Is Over,” and “Why Men Deserve Sex.” I grunt and keep scrolling, but pause farther down when I spot an ad with a familiar logo. It’s actually pretty discreet. A white letter U inside a gold ring. I click before I can stop to think, and then I’m staring at the landing page I’d been so ashamed to open...was that just this morning?

Welcome to Unmatched! Where everyone plays and no one gets caught.

I glance down the hallway, but our bedroom door remains closed. Lydia would’ve come out by now if she wanted to talk. And honestly, I’m relieved she hasn’t. I just need some space to move on and forget everything about today.

Except. I’m too keyed up. My gaze falls back on the screen in front of me. To an image of a long leg peeking out of gold satin, stretching down to a pair of discarded wedding rings.

I don’t need this site. I could just pull up some porn and take care of my needs. I might not be willing to treat my wife like a fuck doll, but I could still use some release. I have some go-to amateur feeds composed of real couples that I prefer over the “professional” accounts. I used to feel bad looking at them, like getting off watching other husbands fuck their wives somehow counted as infidelity. But honestly? It made me feel better, having somewhere to turn when Lydia was too tired or too busy. Like I could hold out for the next time because what we had still felt like enough.

Except it hasn’t lately.

It’s not like we used to have crazy wild sex or anything, but it sure felt less forced, and definitely more frequent. She used to smile when I reached for her, not pull away. Lydia’s always been a bit shy, but it was fun to coax her out of her clothes and get her to play along. We probably had sex at least once a week during the first couple years we were together. Not as much as I would’ve liked for sure, but when it happened, it felt like everything, and I’d forget the wait in between. Until it became more like every other week. And then maybe once a month. And now...here we are, inching toward seven weeks.

I’ve been telling myself that happens to everyone. It’s just marriage. After a while, relationships change, sex goes on the back burner. But two people who love each other will still make it happen.

I never expected complete disinterest.

Now, staring at the Unmatched screen for several minutes, I close my eyes and realize how much I miss Lydia. I want to touch her skin, breathe her in. I want to march back into our bedroom and be welcomed into our bed. Fall asleep with the heat of her body curled into mine. Wake up and enjoy being together rather than worry about to-do lists or responsibilities. We took vows seven years ago to hold, love, and cherish each other. But that feels like something we never do anymore.

The image on the landing page shifts, and now it’s a beautiful blonde beckoning someone to follow her through a door. I tilt my head. It wouldn’t hurt anything just to browse. Satisfy my curiosity.

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