In nearly six years of dating and marriage, my husband never saw me naked once. I even had to show him pictures of another woman’s breasts just so he would know what my breasts looked like. There was no way I was showing him mine.
He was a motorcycle enthusiast, and he loved to buy glossy magazines with photographs of all the rallies across the country that he wished he was attending. Many of the photos from those motorcycle rallies showed topless women.
When I saw a picture of a topless woman in one of those magazines whose breasts looked like mine, I pointed it out to my husband. “That’s what my breasts look like,” I said.
“Oh, cool,” he replied.
The truth is that he didn’t seem interested.
My husband and I met and started dating when we were teenagers working part-time after school at a grocery store. He was fifteen, and I was seventeen.
He wasn’t my first boyfriend. I wasn’t even a virgin. Even though we started having sex with each other shortly after my eighteenth birthday, we didn’t explore each other’s bodies as most horny teens do.
The first time we had sex, we were in the bedroom he shared with his stepbrother. His father, stepmother, and stepbrother were out of the house for some event that I can’t remember, but our mutual friend was waiting in the kitchen.
Even though we weren’t alone in the house, we went into his bedroom and got under the covers. I took off my shoes and my panties, leaving my shirt, bra, and skirt on.
I can’t remember whether he stripped naked. Even if he did, we stayed under the covers with the lights off. I didn’t see a thing.
Although we hadn’t made any noise during our two-minute sexual encounter, our friend knew exactly what we were doing in the bedroom.
We’d made it obvious that we were retreating into the bedroom for sex, and he’d begged us not to do it with him in the house.
It was over nearly as quickly as it was begun. I didn’t feel a thing except for the embarrassment I felt when we rejoined our mutual friend in the kitchen.
My previous sexual encounters were all similarly lackluster. I’d spent a summer sleeping with a tall handsome punk rocker with a mile-high mohawk and zebra-print spandex underwear, and he never saw my breasts either. He’d never even asked, and I didn’t think to offer.
Before my husband and I got married, most of our sexual encounters were in the back seats of cars or the front seat of his truck. It made sense for us to remain clothed since we were essentially sexing it up in public.
Not getting naked in public places came in handy on the night that a police officer shined a spotlight into the back seat of the car while we were having sex and announced, “The park is closed. You have to leave.”
We got dressed in a hurry, but the incident didn’t help with my aversion to taking off my clothes.
Unfortunately, I have no explanation for why we didn’t fully undress once we were married and had our own apartment. Even after we bought our own home, I continued leaving on as many garments as possible during sex.
At the very least, I would wear a nightie or semi-modest lingerie and a brassiere that covered my breasts. I even wore a bra while I was sleeping.
At the time, I didn’t even realize there was anything unusual about having sex with my clothes on.
To this day, I still wear a bra to bed beneath my nightgown, but I plan to take it off to have sex — if I ever have sex again. Only time will tell, but for now, I’m looking forward to it.