He puts his hand on the small of your back, and you feel the weight of it, the warmth of it, and nothing else.
You used to feel that hand in your knees. Tonight it lands like a coat someone has draped over your shoulders. Registered. Filed. No charge.
You lie there afterwards running the maths on the last time you actually wanted it, and you cannot find the date.
So you ask the internet the thing you cannot ask him: what is wrong with me?
Part One: Your desire did not leave. Your capacity ran out.
The internet gives you two answers, and both read like a sentence. Your hormones have gone. Or you have fallen out of love and should leave.
I have spent fifteen years with women in exactly this, and it is almost never either one.
Here is what nobody names. Your body has a window, a range it can stay present and feel inside. Stress, exhaustion, years of bracing all shrink that window until there is barely any room left in it.
When touch arrives at the edge of a window narrowed to a slit, your body does the only intelligent thing left. It checks out. It goes numb because feeling has become more than it can hold right now, even though nothing in you is truly gone.
You know the signs, even without names for them.
You brace a half-second before he touches you. You leave your body during sex and plan tomorrow's list. You perform relaxed at dinner while something in you stands guard.
That is a nervous system with no spare capacity, protecting you the only way it knows. It was never a low sex drive.
Desire cannot move into a body that has no room. First you make room.
Part Two: Start smaller than you think. Tonight.
Here is what makes it worse. The weekend away. The lingerie. The big date night you are both secretly hoping fixes it.
You are asking a body with a slit of a window to throw the doors open. It cannot, so it braces harder, and you both go to bed quietly defeated, more certain something is wrong.
The way back is the opposite of a grand gesture. You go so small it feels almost silly.
Try this tonight. Not sex. Not even the promise of it.
Ask him for three minutes of touch that is not allowed to lead anywhere. A hand on your arm. Your back stroked. You are not performing, not reciprocating, not managing his experience. You receive, and that is all.
While he does it, do one thing with your attention. Do not chase whether it feels sexy. Notice what your body is literally doing. Not "this is nice." The plain physical facts. Warmth here. Tightness there. A flutter. A held breath. A wanting to pull away.
That last one counts too. If your body wants to flinch, let it, and notice that.
This is the whole move, and it is smaller than anyone tells you. You are teaching a guarded body that a hand can land and ask for nothing. Three minutes, then stop on purpose, while it still feels safe. Tomorrow, three minutes again.
You are not trying to feel desire. You are widening the window desire can walk back through.
Most women have never been shown what comes next, so let me take you all the way in, to how the feeling actually comes back online, in the order the body does it.