I remember the day my libido died. Or, perhaps I should say, the moment I killed it. I was standing in front of my workbench; its pegboard studded with tools designed to remedy nearly any repair. And it struck me, like a hammer hitting my thumb, there was only one way to maintain my relationship.
That's when I made the decision. To bury my need. To breathe in deeply and let go of desire. To swallow the fact that to remain with her, the woman I loved, I had to accept that I could only be fulfilled if I accepted that I wouldn't be.
I imagined myself on a beach. Slowly covering my body in sand, everything from the waist down, packed tightly until there was only a heavy numbness. And then I simply walked away. Abandoning my genitalia like a litter of unwanted puppies.
Silently, I acknowledged defeat. Her uncle -- the one who abused his way through three generations of children -- stood between us. The smear of a smile on his rotted face. Thirty years in the grave, and his touch still touches so many innocents. Deadening the lives of those who once trusted him so completely.
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