The Opposite of Love

By Dahlia Salvatore

What do you do when fate doesn't offer you a happily ever after?

Everyone must choose his or her own path.

I chose to play pretend.

I lived every day with guilt, frustration, and dissatisfaction. Despite the fact that we loved each other, my husband didn’t want me. Counselors and doctors had no answers for us. For a long time, I longed for something I couldn’t have. For love, I sacrificed pleasure. I struggled against desires ... until I got stuck in a cabin during a raging blizzard with Luc Partridge.

And I simply couldn't ignore the truth anymore ... 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dahlia Salvatore
• Release date: Jul 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536556391

Dahlia Salvatore

Dahlia is an erotica and romance author living in Seattle, Washington. Originally from Coos Bay, Oregon, she's always dreamt of the big city and headed north where she met her husband and settled down. She's always been a reader, and has recently spread her wings and expanded her horizons. Now that she's begun writing, there's no end in sight to what she'd like to accomplish.

Book preview

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This is my story. It's not the story of a perfect woman in a perfect situation. It's not the story of a woman who made all the right decisions. It's not a story about how I became a different person because of something or someone that happened to me.

This story is about me rediscovering who I am, and being that person immovably, irrevocably, and unshakably. This story is about how I changed my life.

It begins six months ago, during a conversation over an unshared dinner … and it doesn't end with me being sorry.

sep

Hey, there's a special on cabins at Mount Rainier this weekend. Do you want to go? I said over my plate.

Hm? he answered, not looking away from his flashing computer screen.

Rainier. This weekend. I pieced up the details so he'd be able to hear my words between the sounds of gunfire in his first-person shooter game.

Sounds good. Have a good time.

I'd said we, but he hadn't heard me.

He was my husband, Dan. Good ol' dependable, loyal, faithful Dan. Dispassionate, introverted Dan. Not unloving, mind you; I can't say that my husband didn't love me. In fact, I was sure he did. Unfortunately, he had a problem. He had no sex-drive. What was worse, he openly admitted it.

I suppose some back-history is in order, since what will follow won't make much sense without it.

Our courtship began with a sturdy, passionate base. We had lots of sex— rough, dirty, amazing sex. Then, over the course of our second year of marriage, approximately six years into our relationship, his libido died.

We spent the next four years fighting over it. I am and always have been a lusty, hot-blooded woman. I was tempered and civil in day-to-day interactions, but if you got me in a room with Dan, then I became something else altogether...a woman who could have sex for hours, one who was willing to experiment. I went to lengths to please him.

I was not okay with celibacy. I'm not made that way, and really, I'd never understood why my husband didn't want sex.

Neither of us had major health problems. If we did, we weren't aware of them. I don't think he'd ever broken a single bone in his body. In terms of my looks, I jog, watch what I eat, and have a trim figure. I even have a little bit of an ass. You'll never hear me boasting, but I'm not bad looking. Needless to say, the idea that I was ugly didn't last long.

In terms of stress, I couldn't imagine he had any. His home-life was good. I kept the house clean and finances running smoothly. We had no children, and we'd never thought about having any. We'd decided long ago that neither of us was parenting material. Money wasn't an issue. He was a programmer, and I blogged for a living. Occasionally we went out together, but we'd reached the stage of our relationship where we'd more or less done and seen it all.

Anyone looking at us from the outside thought we were the perfect couple. No doubt they also expected we were the type of couple to go home and have sex until the bed broke, but they couldn't have been more wrong.

After four years of fighting, we went to counseling. It became less about anger and resentment and more about acceptance and treatment. Couple's therapy confirmed what I already knew. We did, indeed, love each other. Dan's testosterone lab-work yielded standard results. The simple, bottom-line truth was that he'd become a non-sexual person...while I'd remained the same.

I remember, at times, being desperate, to the point where I begged him for sex. Sometimes he was able to oblige, other times not so much. Scheduling sex had variable results. There were nights I'd initiate contact, only to have him fall asleep or apologize because it just wasn't happening.

The sex-therapist suggested experimenting more. I was never against that. Over the following two years, I tried almost everything to get and keep his attention. Lingerie, playing porn in the background, experiments in kink, and just about anything else you can think of. I played all the parts—whore, virgin. I used devices as cheap as ice and as expensive as a two-person sex swing. On a good week, a technique used might work well twice, but subsequent attempts would yield no results. I had taken it slow, never flooded, bombarded, or antagonized him. After all, I didn't hate Dan; the case was quite the opposite.

We had a lot of long, painful conversations. Once, I did pitch the idea of an open sexual relationship. This sent him into a rage—which I hadn't seen him do. Ever. We didn't speak for weeks. Finally I apologized, but for what exactly, I wasn't entirely sure. It was a fact based on his patterns that he couldn't fulfill my needs. All I wanted was permission to have a little physical fulfillment, not permission to give my heart away. Maybe it'd hurt his pride, maybe he felt like he owned my body. No matter what the case, it was better to apologize for causing him pain, face that I'd struck a nerve, and promise never to talk about it again.

After seven years of marital bliss everywhere except in the bedroom, and trying everything in my power to excite him, I was at my wit's end.

The ugly truth stared me in the face: Dan had let me go sexually long ago, and that was supposed to be that. I was supposed to suffer and be grateful to him for being good to me, absolving of his natural dysfunctions, and turn off my sexuality. I was supposed to go on with my life as though my vagina didn't exist. It seemed like such a sad road to walk by myself.

My vibrator became the only balm for my affliction. But even the satisfaction which came from the commercial-size packs of double-A batteries lasted only so long before my body demanded more. Why do I refer to my sex-drive as an affliction? What else could I call it, when it'd caused so many problems between us?

With our new arrangement in place, our king-size bed became a cold wasteland, where my disappointed sexual desires went to die. And for a long time, I cried myself to sleep while he snored away.

I learned not to beg. I learned not to ask. I learned to be a non-sexual being where he was concerned, because he simply couldn’t answer in kind. After a few months of being strictly auto-sexual, I realized I'd created a secret place deep in my heart for my fantasies. The sexual woman inside me hid there, where she could thrive and not feel quite so lonely. And that woman only came out in stolen periods of solitude, when my vibrator buzzed away on its highest setting.

It's time that I reiterate that I'm not perfect or even especially wise. I'm a flawed, passionate woman, one who loved her husband dearly. Despite the fact that he'd lost interest in me sexually, I still believed that one day, time would change our situation, and this helped in nursing a tiny hope that we could one day become lovers again.

That summary, which I hope you read all of, doesn't necessarily justify the events that are to come. It rather explains them, gives you a clear snapshot of what my life was before. The story sounds sad so far, but it has a happier ending, I promise.

That night at dinner, the small hope I still tended led me to ask if he wanted to go to the mountains. He hadn't heard me say we because he was too occupied to listen. Involved in a new game, which had come out three weeks prior, he was too absorbed to look away from his computer screen.

Gaming was his passion. I'd participated in it for a while with him, but he preferred to play on his own. It seemed no matter how much I tried to be part of his recreational time, he enjoyed it more when he was alone. He was much more introverted than I was. I mean, I enjoy my internalized activities, but not enough to ignore the person I love. Yet, I knowingly made excuses for his obsession, because he was a good person. He wasn't irresponsible with money, didn't gamble, get drunk, beat or cheat on me.

He was nearly faultless.

But me? In the end my biggest fault was that I wanted too much from Dan, when he didn't have enough to give.

The moment he told me to have fun, I was miserable. I wanted to cry and beg him to take me, so we could breathe the cold air, watch the snow fall around us, and make love in a hot-tub on the side of a massive mountain. I thought if we went away together, we could forget the rest of the world for a while.

Crying was a show of emotion, and all that did for Dan was confuse, frustrate, and occasionally anger him. Like a few times before, he might see it as manipulation. I learned to control my tears, too.

I decided to go to Mount Rainier by myself, bundling my secret self up in a parka and promising her lots of vibrator action when I got to my cabin.

I packed normal clothing as well as something fancy. I'd be staying at the Elk Resort, known for its high-profile guests and secretive locations. I stood at the door to our office and watched as Dan sprayed bullets into another player.

I'm going, honey, I said.

Fuck yes! I leveled! Oh my god! I'm finally getting the sub-machine guns! He pumped his fist in the air. Yes! He took off his headphones and turned in his executive chair. Did you say something, babe?

I smiled at seeing him so happy and beaming with joy. I'm going.

Have a good time, he said cheerfully.

Thanks. I leaned over awkwardly to get a kiss and his smile faded a little. He pecked me on the lips. Even that small amount of contact excited me for some reason. Almost as soon as I felt it, he rotated back to his screen and dove into his game again.

I reminded myself of how I lucky I was, of how great a husband he was, that he was so cute and handsome. All the way out to the car, I counted off all the things I loved about him, but I was close to crippled by sadness. He didn't want to go with me. He was great and I—I was lonely.

Dan might be happy forever, as long as he had his pixels and his sub-machine guns.

Don't think about it, I told myself as I set the radio to my favorite station. Just have a good time at the mountain. This weekend is for you.

The hour-and-a-half trip from Seattle to Rainier was pleasant. I managed to forget my grief and concentrate on the road. I'd become adept at turning off negativity when it came on me unexpectedly. It'd been years since I'd taken a vacation just for myself, so I felt like it might be a good thing after all that Dan hadn't come.

As I pulled up to the Elk Resort, I marveled at Rainier's majesty. I'm convinced you'd be taken in by its sheer size. It's like someone melted together a whole mountain range and made it into a single, solitary monolith. Dominating the horizon, its snow-capped peak rises high into the clouds, far out of view. I decided it was the perfect setting to have an adventure.

I parked in the guest lot and trudged up the hill to check in. All around me, people of various social standings were talking, milling about, planning out whether they'd be eating in the lodge for dinner, or having it privately in their own cabins or rooms. After receiving my keys, I gingerly navigated the frozen parking lot back to my car and followed the signs to where I'd be staying.

I'd chosen a small, two-bedroom cabin. It was slightly more expensive than the single-room accommodations in the lodge, but I knew it'd be worth it to have private space for myself. Plus, it had an outdoor Jacuzzi. I would probably spend my entire weekend in it.

Fresh snow started falling as I pulled up. After hefting my luggage through the drifts, I turned to check out my view. Nestled in a patch of trees, the rustic cottage was high enough on the mountain that I could see the surrounding valley. My breath floated up in puffy clouds as the frost nipped at my cheeks. I grinned like a little kid, convinced this was going to be fun.

I unlocked the door and, once inside, immediately smelled warm oak and pine. The modest but plush furnishings begged to be lounged on. A vase of long-stem red roses greeted me. In the bedroom, a four-poster mahogany bed brought a smile to my face. I collapsed onto the down comforter.

On second thought, I might spend the rest of my time right here.

Blogging wasn't exactly strenuous work, but I hadn't realized just how mentally worn out I was. This place was a perfect distraction from worrying about what lay just outside its walls.

I opened all the curtains to let in the pale afternoon light and began unpacking. I'd brought a multi-use little black dress, one formal blue dress that I rarely got to wear, jeans, blouses and shirts, skirts. Lastly there was...

Wait...where are my PJs? I shoved through the clothes and didn't see them. I'd only brought clean bras, underwear and my outerwear, no pajamas. Crap. I figured that at least I'd be sleeping alone and I could do that in my underwear, although that wasn’t my usual practice.

The next order of business was food. I faced the same choice as the other guests, whether it'd be better to eat in my cabin or at the lodge. Since I felt particularly energized by my surroundings, and uncommonly sociable, I decided to go up to the dining rooms. For that, I'd have to dress up. Resort dining wasn't an affair one could wear jeans to.

I picked out a black skirt and blue blouse. That particular shade brought out the blue in my eyes and made my brown hair seem less ordinary. After accessorizing and primping, I was ready to go.

I hadn't considered that my heels wouldn't work well with snow and ice. This is a mistake, I thought, taking a major risk and sliding out to the car. I managed not to bust my ass, thankfully.

Once safely inside the car, I jacked the heat up and decided that when I got back, I’d park closer to the door. I pulled up to the lodge entrance and passed the keys to the valet. I followed the sound of the crowd as visitors filtered into the dining room.

Candles were everywhere, casting shadows over the lavish trappings. It was decorated like one might expect a lodge to be. Antlers, lacquered hardwoods, and brass fittings adorned each room. Overstuffed plaid, suede and leather chairs were positioned around roaring fires. Bear and dear skin lay on the floors. While decidedly masculine, it still looked inviting.

I was asked at the door if I would be dining with a party or alone. Inwardly I shrunk, then replied, Alone.

Would you like to sit at the bar?

That was a tantalizing suggestion. I nodded.

He led the way. I dodged crowds, couples and families until we'd reached the bar. Its windows overlooked the mountainside and valley. I ordered dinner and sipped water while waiting for it to come. Before driving up, I'd decided to avoid alcohol. I was a lightweight and had no desire to be intoxicated. I much preferred to be sober and conscious of my surroundings, so I could fully absorb them. That, I could do in perfect solitude.

But I was not to be left alone.

My dinner, my solitude and my life were about to be interrupted by a statuesque, hard-featured stranger with a dominating presence. He'd been a part of the background at first. He'd blended in so well that I'd failed to notice him initially. It wasn't until an unordered martini was served to me, pink and frosty, that I became aware of the man that would eventually change my life.

This is courtesy of Mr. Partridge, said the bartender, indicating the man at the end of the bar.

He'd chosen an indirect approach to initiate contact. In retrospect, I'm glad he didn't introduce himself personally for our first encounter. I do count that drink as our first encounter, because whether I was ready then to admit it or not, we had met. Through our eyes, through his alcoholic 'hello'.

I obeyed, immediately, my first inclination to deliver a subtle rebuke by refusing the drink.

Kindly inform—Mr. Partridge was it?—inform him for me, that I appreciate his kindness, but I’m not drinking tonight. I slid the glass back to the server. In return, I received a puzzled expression. Something wrong? I asked.

He's a very rich man. The bartender placed his hand on the stem but didn’t remove the glass.

His finances are of no concern to me, I said with a forced smile. Thank you.

He shrugged, giving me an ‘if you say so' look.

My eyes fell on Mr. Partridge, the man who obviously could not see wedding rings on women's fingers, and when he looked back, it was fucking electric. (You'll have to excuse my use of expletives because there are a lot where Luc Partridge is concerned...for various reasons.) When I say electric, I mean that his ice-cold stare triggered something in my brain that sent an electrical impulse down my spine and straight into my nethers. It was a look meant to paralyze.

He was holy-shit hot, a man with the brand of good looks no woman in my position on the 'tens' scale hoped to gain the attention of. I always imagined myself to be a six on my best day. There was no way this man was bedding less than tens. No way.

Despite being seated, he towered above the bar. He had a slight five-o-clock shadow over his angled jaw. His shiny black hair was combed, but still managed to curl at the ends like it didn't give a damn. His eyes were gray, snow-storm disks set under black,