One thing I’ve always valued — both sexually and intimately — is physical touch. I don’t know if it qualifies as a kink or simply a preference, but it’s something I find deeply sensual and, at times, highly erotic. Massages, gentle touches, exploring erogenous zones — these are things that make me feel connected to another person. I’ve often imagined using oils or letting touch become a playful, creative act between bodies both as a part of – or leading up to sex – and outside of sexual settings.
In previous relationships, I allowed that side of myself to show. I used it as reassurance, as a signs of desire, as lust, as a way to show that they were on my mind, and that I wanted to be close to them. With Beatrice, I didn’t. I held back, convinced it wasn’t something she would welcome. We spooned in bed sometimes, but overall, physical affection was minimal.
Looking back, I understand how much intimacy I removed by avoiding touch. Learning each other’s bodies — what feels good, what doesn’t, what creates pleasure or laughter — builds closeness. It’s not just about sex; it’s about curiosity and trust. I denied her that. I denied us that.
By distancing myself physically, I reinforced the belief that I wasn’t interested in Beatrice — that I didn’t want her. And it wasn’t only in the bedroom. I avoided holding her hand, hugging her, or showing affection in public. My absence of touch made her feel like I was ashamed to be seen with her, as though I didn’t want to acknowledge her as my partner. I acted in short the total opposite of how I had behaved towards other lovers in my life.
Even during sex, I wasn’t present. I touched her, but not with care or attention. It wasn’t sensual, it wasn’t playful. I didn’t listen when she tried to guide me or tell me what she liked. My touch was mechanical, detached.
This fed into her growing fear that I didn’t find her attractive — that the cruel things I had once said about her looks were true. My silence and defensiveness made it worse. When she tried to talk about our lack of intimacy, I turned the conversation into an argument instead of a moment of understanding. I also turned the blame over to her. That she could perhaps try different things. All were things that could increase pleasure – at least on my part. Over time, that made her feel unsafe around me, emotionally and physically.
I remember offering to give her massages once or twice, but I never followed through. Each time, I withdrew instead of reaching out. When I did try, it felt awkward and forced, like I was performing rather than connecting. Maybe it was insecurity or shame. I don’t fully know. What I do know is that Beatrice felt ignored, undesirable, and unlovable. The words I had once used to hurt her — “old,” “fat,” “ugly,” “unfuckable” — became the story she told herself because I kept showing her the same rejection through my actions.
The less I touched her, the more tension grew. Physical closeness became rare, and even casual gestures — sitting next to her, reaching for her hand — disappeared. She began to flinch at my touch, expecting harm instead of comfort. I had become someone unrecognisable, and I refused to see it.
Whenever she told me how my behaviour made her feel, I argued. I insisted that my intentions weren’t bad, that I was just insecure or misunderstood. But that didn’t matter. What she felt was real, and my defensiveness only proved that I cared more about being right than being kind.
At one point, we tried role-play — a way to “pretend” we were different versions of ourselves, to create a space where affection and desire might feel safe again. We became more sexually expressive in messages and pictures. For a short while, it helped us talk about sex more openly. But even then, I couldn’t provide real physical closeness. I left her feeling used — wanted for sex but untouched where it mattered most. The simple, human gestures of comfort, care, and safety never came. During this period we went to my home town. I was preparing my house to be sold, and Beatrice would come with me. We would have the weekend for ourselves, and we could be able to focus on us and be more free. While we were there I had some things I had to take care of at the house and to run a couple of errands. This wouldn’t normally have been a problem, but Beatrice got sick as we were there. Instead of changing my plans and take care of Beatrice I continued on. I left her alone in a strange house, away from friends and family and safety, I didn’t show her that she was more important to me than my chores. After a few days she brought this up to me. Again I got defensive and blamed her for not communicating with me. She had in fact tried to do so, but I hadn’t listened. I hadn’t shown enough presence to notice that she had thrown up and almost passed out. How she had gotten her fever back and that she had gotten really sick. I only noticed how she smiled in the morning and accepted some food and tea, and assumed by that, that she was better and that I could just carry on and leave her. I didn’t stay to take care of her, to hold her, support her or to make her more comfortable or just take her home. I left her alone, again. I abandoned her when she needed me, and I didn’t do anything immediately afterwards to make it up for her. I didn’t even get her flowers or cookies. Or just a little rock for her to keep in her pocketses.
I failed Beatrice in the most basic ways. I didn’t show her that she was wanted. I didn’t give her warmth, affection, or reassurance. I made her feel alienated every day we were together. Through my neglect, I took away her sense of safety, desire, and confidence. I took away her belief in love, the thing that she knew was the most powerful and the strongest thing in her life. It was something she didn’t just feel, but something she lived. Something she was. It was her essence and her power.
Eventually, she began to see herself through my actions — as unwanted, unattractive, and unworthy of love. The beliefs I planted grew strong and became her reality. Now, she has told me that when someone shows her interest, fear immediately takes over. She expects to be hurt, lied to, or betrayed. She now sees and believes that people only “keep her around” as long as she is of use for them. That she can provide a service To let them take from her what they need, and give nothing back. And when they can’t get anymore – when she has nothing more to give – she will be abandoned and left alone.
All these things are the result of my choices — my silence, my distance, my refusal to touch and to listen. I took something precious from her: her ability to trust affection. Through my behaviour, I taught her that love meant rejection. I failed to see how much harm I was doing until it was too late.
