The husband sat in the dim glow of their living room, the TV flickering silently, a glass of untouched whiskey in his hand. At fifty-eight, he still felt the ache of desire, a slow burn that hadn't faded despite the years. His wife, fifty-seven, sat across from him, engrossed in a crossword puzzle, her silver-streaked hair pulled into a tight bun. They hadn't touched each other in over a year--save for that one fumbling attempt last winter, a rare, mechanical act that left him yearning and her retreating. It was always the same: once a year, if that, a brief collision of bodies before she'd bolt to the bathroom, scrubbing away the evidence and returning with fresh sheets, the scent of lavender soap erasing any trace of intimacy.
He craved more--slow kisses, lingering caresses, the warmth of her skin against his in the shower, water cascading over them as they rediscovered each other. But she'd flinch at the suggestion, muttering about her dry vagina, how intercourse stung, how she was too sensitive afterward. She'd come in a quick, sharp shudder--almost reluctantly--then push his hands away, insisting she couldn't bear to be touched. He'd lie there, staring at the ceiling, wanting to hold her, to talk, but too shy to press. She'd shut down, her face closing like a book, and he couldn't bear the silence that followed.
One evening, desperate and alone with his thoughts, he booked a discreet appointment with a sex medical expert--a woman with a calm voice and a reputation for unconventional advice. Sitting in her office, surrounded by anatomy charts and soft lighting, he spilled it all: the infrequency, her discomfort, his longing. The expert listened, nodding, then leaned forward. "She might need a spark," she said. "Something to wake her up, to remind her of her own body. Have you considered... introducing someone else? Another man, perhaps, to seduce her gently, rekindle her fire? It could shift her perspective, get her to care for herself again--physically, emotionally."
