Why Sex Is Often the First Thing to Disappear (But Rarely the Real Problem)

Why do I love this person but don’t want them touching me anymore?

You love him. You enjoy talking to him. You still laugh together. You might be raising kids, running a household, planning holidays and collapsing on the couch together at the end of the day. It’s not like you’re secretly plotting your escape.

And yet... he reaches for you in bed and every cell in your body seems to whisper:

Ugh. Please don't.

And then comes the guilt. You don’t want to reject them and so you start asking, ‘What's wrong with me?’

Have I lost my libido? Am I not attracted to him anymore? Is this perimenopause? Am I just exhausted? Do I not love him enough?

Or the really scary question:

Is this what our relationship has become?

I know those questions because I've asked them too.

For a long time, I thought I had a low sex drive. Which was weird because there have definitely been times I’d been told the opposite.

My partner seemed to want sex more often than I did, so the explanation appeared pretty straightforward: he had a high sex drive. I had a low one. Then came the assumption it must be a result of peri-menopause. Again ‘my fault’ or at least my body’s fault.

Except the more I've learned about desire—particularly through reading sex educator and author Emily Nagoski's work—the more I've realised that explanation was far too simple.

In fact, I had one of those hugely illuminating lightbulb moments where I put the book down and realised:

OH MY GOD. THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH ME!

My sex drive wasn't low. I wasn’t broken.

I'd just spent a very long time driving around with my foot firmly planted on the brake.

When the sex disappears, we blame the sex

Sex is often one of the first places couples notice something isn't right. We might overlook the fact that we don't talk like we used to.

That we've stopped holding hands.

That resentment has quietly piled up.

That conversations are increasingly about who's picking someone up, what's for dinner and whether anyone remembered to pay the electricity bill.

We become extremely efficient co-managers of Family Incorporated... but somewhere along the way, we stop being lovers.

Then sex disappears and suddenly:

WE HAVE A SEX PROBLEM.

But do we?

I've worked with couples who believed the lack of sex was why their relationship was falling apart. Or that more sex would fix their relationship.

Yet when we dug beneath it, the pain wasn't necessarily about intercourse.

One partner was devastated because he didn't feel wanted anymore. He didn't feel important, desirable or chosen. Sex had become symbolic of something much bigger.

I’ve worked with women who wanted more sex than their male partners, and felt incredibly alone, undesired, and neglected.

I've also worked with women who genuinely believed something was wrong with them because they'd lost interest in sex. But some were so stressed and consumed with managing everyone else's needs that they'd lost connection with their own pleasure altogether.

And I don't just mean sexual pleasure. At the basis of our sexual pleasure is our sensual pleasure. We are after all sensual creatures. We use all our senses every day even when we aren’t aware of it.

When was the last time you noticed how beautiful something smelled?

Put music on because you wanted to hear it?

Lay in the sunshine?

Enjoyed beautiful food without simultaneously answering emails?

Wore something because you loved how it felt against your skin?

Danced around the kitchen while cooking?

When we spend our lives overriding our needs, rushing, worrying, caretaking and getting shit done, is it really that surprising when our bodies don't magically transform into sensual goddesses at bedtime? If you've spent all day disconnected from pleasure, expecting yourself to suddenly switch into sexual pleasure at bedtime is a pretty big bloody ask.

Sometimes sex is the messenger, not the message.

Maybe you don't have a "low sex drive"

One of the ideas that completely changed how I understood desire came from learning about the Dual Control Model, developed by Erick Janssen and John Bancroft. In very simple terms, our sexual response has two systems working simultaneously. Think of them as the accelerator and the brakes.

Your accelerator: “Ooooh... yes.”

Your Sexual Excitation System, or SES, notices things your brain has learned are sexually relevant. These are your accelerators.

Maybe it's a gorgeous dinner.

Feeling relaxed.

An incredible conversation.

The smell of the ocean.

Warmth against your skin.

Music.

Flirting.

Holding hands.

Seeing your partner looking particularly delicious and thinking... Hello, broad shoulders...

Ahem… Where was I?

Oh yes. Science. 😂

What surprised me was realising that I absolutely did have these responses.

Here I was telling myself I was sexually broken, yet I could see my partner in a tight wetsuit and very much notice those broad shoulders. I could remember intimate experiences we'd shared and feel something stir.

My accelerator clearly wasn't missing. So what was the problem?

Your brakes: “Nope. Not now.”

At the same time, your Sexual Inhibition System, or SIS, is scanning the environment for reasons that sex might not be a particularly fabulous idea right now.

Stress.

Exhaustion.

Kids.

Grief.

An argument you haven't resolved.

Feeling disconnected.

Resentment.

Body-image worries.

Sexual pressure.

Sensory overload.

Perimenopause or other physical changes.

That pile of washing you're pretty sure has developed consciousness and is now silently judging you from the corner.

And you still haven’t done your tax return. Ugh!

These are brakes.

Different people can have more or less sensitive accelerators and more or less sensitive brakes. But here's the bit that really struck me:

Sometimes the problem isn't how sensitive your brakes are. It's how often life is pressing them.

My “there's nothing wrong with me” moment

I did a questionnaire looking at my own sexual excitation and inhibition. And I expected it to confirm what I'd already decided about myself.

Sensitive brakes. Weak accelerator. Low sex drive… right?

WRONG! Instead, I came out roughly medium on both.

Wait... what?

If my brakes weren't extraordinarily sensitive, then what the hell had been happening?

And that's when I stopped looking at myself as the problem and started looking at the context.

There had been a lot of stress.

Resentment.

Anger.

Feeling unappreciated.

Loneliness.

Grief around my eldest daughter leaving home.

Changes in my body and feeling less confident because I'd gained weight.

There had also been pressure around sex and conversations that left me feeling guilty about my partner feeling rejected.

And some of the ways my partner approached sexuality didn't feel sexy to me. Sometimes they felt crass. I didn’t want to feel like I was 19yrs in a pub with grabby middle aged men.

And, with love to the man, the falling-asleep-while-slouching-on-the-couch routine isn't necessarily screaming ravish me either.

But then I started noticing what happened in a different context.

We'd go somewhere together and have fun.

We'd have one of those meaningful conversations where you remember why you chose this person.

We'd laugh.

I'd smell the ocean air. Feel warmth on my skin. Experience beautiful textures. We'd hold hands. Jason would give me one of his huge hugs.

I'd look at those shoulders and…

Hello again.

And suddenly we’re basking in the post-sex snuggles. How did that happen?

That was an enormous revelation.

This had nothing to do with my libido. Maybe my sexual system had been responding quite reasonably to the conditions around it.

It also helped me stop thinking of us as:

Jason = high libido.

Verity = low libido.

What if neither of us needed a label?

What if we simply had different sexual systems responding to different things?

It seemed after all these labels actually prevented us from understanding the bigger picture, and understanding ourselves and each other better. They actually completely misdirected us, and made our sex life even worse.

Stop flooring the accelerator and look at the brakes

When couples notice desire disappearing, the instinct is often to add more accelerator.

Book a date night!

Buy lingerie!

Send sexy messages!

Get a hotel room!

Go away for the weekend!

There's absolutely nothing wrong with any of those things.

But imagine trying to drive your car by flooring the accelerator while your other foot has the brake slammed down.

You're not going anywhere.

So perhaps before asking, ‘How do I make myself want more sex?’ ask:

“What's pressing my brakes—and how often is life pressing them?”

Your brakes might be life stuff:

Stress. Sleep deprivation. Parenting. Work. Grief. Health issues. Hormonal or body changes.

They might be relationship stuff:

Unresolved resentment. Criticism. Feeling emotionally disconnected. Feeling taken for granted. Carrying too much responsibility. Not enough affection.

Or they might be specifically sexual:

Pressure or guilt. Feeling responsible for your partner's sexual satisfaction. Worrying that every cuddle is going to turn into an attempt at sex. Previous painful or disappointing sexual experiences. Feeling like you're performing rather than experiencing pleasure. Not feeling comfortable or attractive in your own skin.

This isn't an exercise in deciding whose fault your sex life is.

It's an invitation to become curious about it. And about your own sensuality.

What actually presses your accelerator?

We spend so much time asking why we don't want sex that we often forget to investigate when we do.

Think back to some of the intimate experiences you've really enjoyed.

What was happening?

Not just in the bedroom.

What was happening that day?

How were you feeling?

How had your partner been interacting with you?

What could you smell, hear, taste or feel?

Were you laughing?

Were you somewhere different?

Had you had a meaningful conversation?

Did you feel appreciated?

Playful?

Rested?

Attractive?

Did you have privacy?

Were you anticipating the experience?

Did your partner look particularly gorgeous?

Our accelerators and brakes aren't identical.

And they're influenced by our experiences and by what our brains have learned to associate with pleasure, sexuality, safety, pressure, connection and discomfort.

It's a little like the principle behind good old Pavlov and his dogs—not because human sexuality is as simple as ringing a bell and expecting everyone to get their kit off, obviously.

But our brains do learn associations.

If affection regularly becomes associated with pressure for sex, affection itself can eventually start feeling pressurised.

If sex becomes associated with guilt, obligation or disappointing someone, those associations matter.

Likewise, if touch becomes associated with warmth, safety, playfulness and pleasure, those experiences matter too.

What activates my accelerator might leave you completely unmoved.

You may be utterly indifferent to broad shoulders.

That's okay…. More for me.

The point is:

Learn your own sexual system instead of measuring it against somebody else's.

Can we please rethink foreplay?

While we're here, I would like to lodge a formal complaint against the way most of us were taught about foreplay.

We learned that foreplay was basically the sexual stuff that happened immediately before penetration.

Passionate kissing.

Wandering hands.

Oral sex.

Then—ta-da!—SEX.

But what if we've misunderstood foreplay completely?

What if foreplay starts at breakfast?

And no, I don't mean unloading the dishwasher earns you sexual reward points (unless of course you’ve associated dishwashers with sex – no judgement!)

Expectations based on entitlement aren't sexy.

Guilting your partner isn't sexy either.

I'm talking about something much bigger.

Erotic connection exists inside the broader relationship.

It's a hand on your back as you walk past each other.

A kiss that isn't trying to go anywhere.

A message saying, Thinking about you.

Listening when your partner tells you something that matters to them (and putting your phone face down on the counter).

Laughing together.

Holding hands.

Singing in the car out loud together.

A long hug.

Affection that is allowed to simply be affection.

The Gottmans have long talked about the importance of “small things often”—the tiny, everyday bids and moments of connection that build friendship, affection and trust over time. Their work similarly emphasises emotional safety, friendship and closeness as important to a fulfilling physical relationship.

Which brings me to my favourite analogy:

Connection is a lifestyle, not a crash diet.

You don't create long-term health by eating broccoli for three days before your doctor's appointment and then living on doughnuts for the rest of the year.

Likewise, we can't ignore affection and emotional intimacy all week and then expect to manufacture sexual connection at precisely 10:37pm on Saturday night.

Don't set yourself—or your partner—up to fail.

And a quick word about responsive desire

There's another idea from Nagoski's work that deserves its own blog, but it's worth introducing here.

We're culturally obsessed with spontaneous desire.

That's the:

Oh! I'd quite like sex.

And then you go looking for it.

That’s what’s portrayed in the movies and the porn industry. But it isn't the only normal way desire works. Spontaneous desire is real but the problem is treating it as the only benchmark everyone should meet.

Desire doesn't always work in that order.

Responsive desire is common, particularly in long-term relationships, and is often discussed in relation to women's sexual desire. Desire can emerge in response to pleasurable or erotic cues and experiences.

Rather than starting with I WANT SEX, they might start with:

I'm open to some affection and seeing where this goes.

Pleasurable connection begins and desire emerges in response to what is happening.

Nagoski's own description of her work challenges the idea that spontaneous desire is the gold standard couples should strive for if they want satisfying sex across decades. She also emphasises the role of stress, body image, relationship difficulties and our beliefs about how sex “should” work.

That does NOT mean pushing yourself through sex you don't want.

Please don't turn responsive desire into another stick to beat yourself with.

"Apparently I'm responsive, so I suppose I should just start and hopefully I'll get into it."

No.

Sex experienced through obligation, pressure or resentment can create exactly the associations we don't want.

Being genuinely open to discovering whether desire develops is very different from feeling obligated to participate.

Maybe we need to change the question

So perhaps the question isn't:

What's wrong with me?

Or:

Why don't I want sex anymore?

Maybe it's:

What's pressing my brakes?

What presses my accelerator?

When do I feel most open to affection and connection?

What has changed in me, my life or our relationship?

What kind of touch actually feels good to me?

And maybe—just for a while—we take sex out of the equation completely.

What brings you pleasure in everyday life?

What lights up your senses?

What smells do you love?

What textures?

What music?

What foods?

What makes your body feel warm, relaxed, playful or alive?

Because sometimes before we rediscover our sexuality, we need to rediscover our sensuality.

We need to remember that we're allowed to experience pleasure without it being productive, useful or for somebody else.

Can we stop keeping score?

There's another thing I'd really love us to throw in the bin while we're here: the idea that there's some magical number of times a healthy couple should be having sex.

Once a week. Twice a week. Three times a week.

According to whom?

Because knowing how often a couple has sex tells me very little about the health of their relationship—or the quality of the sex they're having.

A couple could be having sex three times a week because they genuinely desire each other, enjoy it and walk away feeling connected.

Or they could be having sex three times a week because one person feels guilty saying no, worries their partner will sulk, feels responsible for keeping them happy, or has learned that it's easier to just get it over with.

Those are very different sexual relationships with exactly the same number on the scoreboard.

And the reverse is true too. A couple having sex less frequently isn't automatically disconnected, unhappy or headed for divorce.

This is where comparison really screws with us.

We hear how often our friends supposedly have sex. We read some headline announcing how often "happy couples" do it. We compare ourselves to the early years of our own relationship. And suddenly we're trying to meet a benchmark rather than asking whether the sex we're actually having feels good.

Maybe the better questions aren't:

How often are we having sex?

or

Are we having enough?

Maybe they're:

• Do we both genuinely want the sex we're having?

• Is there room to say no without punishment, guilt or withdrawal?

• Does it feel pleasurable for both of us?

• Do we feel connected during sex—or are we performing?

• Are we able to talk honestly about what we want, don't want and might like to explore?

Because when it comes to sex, quality beats quantity—and consent beats a dumb-arse quota every time.

Your sex drive may not be broken

So let's go back to the woman lying in bed wondering:

Why do I love this person but don't want them touching me anymore?

Maybe she hasn't stopped loving him.

Maybe he hasn't suddenly become fundamentally undesirable.

And maybe she isn't frigid, broken, difficult or cursed with a defective libido.

Maybe her body has been responding to stress.

Or grief.

Pressure.

Exhaustion.

Resentment.

Disconnection.

Maybe affection has disappeared from the everyday relationship and sexual touch has become the only touch left.

Maybe she doesn't need to make herself want more sex.

Maybe she needs to understand the conditions in which her desire actually thrives.

So instead of asking:

“How do I make myself want more sex?”, I'd like you to try a kinder question:

“What would help me feel more connected, affectionate, playful, safe and alive again?”

Start there.

Get curious.

Because there may be absolutely nothing wrong with your sex drive.

Sometimes sex is the messenger, not the message.