By the time we’d reached our third anniversary, my husband and I were sleeping in separate bedrooms.

It had been four months since we’d last had sex, and every interaction was tinged with resentment. My therapist believed John felt emasculated by my success in business and role as breadwinner. As my career thrived, John’s continued to stall. Still, I wasn’t buying this justification for our sexless marriage. Something crucial was missing.

I first met John under precarious circumstances during my final year of college. I’d just moved off-campus into a cramped two-bedroom with my friend Rachel, a stripper who danced under the name Cinnamon.

Rachel and I couldn’t have been more different: she was petite, brash, and attention-seeking, while I’m tall, slender, and... Read More