Sex in the early days of your marriage was amazing. Later, it became prescriptive. To be taken like medication. Every four or five days to allow his sperm cells to mature. Never miss the ovulation period. Do not get up immediately after sex. Make sure he penetrates deep, the doctors would advise. One even said you had an inverted womb and the only way you could get pregnant was through doggy style. You’ve had all sorts of bizarre diagnoses over the years. After many years, sex became a rarity that you had to beg for. Beg, because you needed a child and, also, because you needed sex.
When you asked Biyi for sex, he would say, “Fucking you is like pouring water in a basket. It’s a fucking waste of time.” Biyi said he withheld sex from you not just because he considered it futile, but also as punishment for your “barrenness.” You hated and dreaded that word: barren. Because, to you, it connoted a closure. He found an ally in his mother who was always lashing you with words. “What makes a woman female is her womb. A woman incapable of procreating is not female,” she would say. “I had gone to the market to buy a female donkey for my son. But your family had diddled me and offered a sterile mule instead. You either give me a grandchild or leave my son alone!”
Even when Biyi “deigned” to give sex to you, it was always a quickie. He didn’t care about your orgasm. And what is sex without orgasm? It’s like coffee without caffeine, like beer without alcohol, like cigarettes without nicotine. Being denied orgasms had drastically reduced your quality of life. You had resorted to “selfie,” touching yourself, to get your life back. A thing you had discovered by serendipity while you were a teenager. Then, you had felt itchy down there. You scratched, it was pleasurable, you continued to scratch, and scratches turned into strokes and… eureka! But then again, no matter how good a soloist is, they can never beat the joint effort with a partner. The results are different. You still needed Biyi.