Title : Ipgoong Sex*(Chapter 1)

[English Version]

 

Short Story

 

Title : Ipgoong Sex*(Chapter 1)7

*sex in communion with the womb

Author : Shin Ki

 

Chapter 1. The Death Sentence of the Senses

 

For a married couple to stop having sex—

it is not simply the result of physical distance or the fatigue of daily life.

It is the death sentence of the senses,

a silent funeral marking the end of love.

Sexlessness arrives slowly, yet with certainty.

Like rain seeping through a cracked ceiling—drop by drop—

each fall rotting the wallpaper, breeding mold,

until one day the entire room collapses.

At first, nothing feels wrong.

I’m tired, I’m busy—let’s just skip tonight.

Then it becomes a week, a month, two months…

As time passes, the memory of each other’s flesh fades.

The body forgets. The hands grow unfamiliar.

Even breathing together feels awkward.

And then, at some decisive moment,

we realize—

our bodies have lost their color, their scent, their touch.

Our bodies

were no longer red, nor soft, nor warm.

They had become like

fifty-year-old concrete,

faded to gray,

a ruin with cracks that let the wind seep in.

If you rubbed it with your fingers,

the dry surface would crumble like dandruff.

Gone was elasticity, luster, life—

leaving only the “function” of a biological structure.

It was no longer a human body.

It was a living fossil,

a remnant of a relationship that had long since stopped.

Sexlessness decays the senses.

Hope grows stale, like mold spreading through the cracks in a wall,

and our gazes ferment into sighs of silence and indifference.

Love no longer grows.

Like a potted plant left unwatered,

the stems remain but the leaves wither and fall,

the roots slowly rotting beneath.

The bed,

once a place of love,

becomes the grave of the defeated.

Even lying together,

there is death in it—

the smell of deprivation,

the wrinkles of time we could not escape,

the residue of regret,

the lukewarm shimmer of guilt.

Sexlessness is not merely the absence of sex.

It is the loss of life’s direction,

the disappearance of desire,

the dimming of vitality,

the draining of conversation from our eyes.

It is the surrender of the last instinct of being human.

To live, yet have no proof of being alive.

And the most frightening thing is…

we adapt to it.

We grow used to it, we resign ourselves,

and eventually mistake the loss itself as part of who we are.

Until one day, standing before the mirror—

in rumpled underwear, with faded firmness,

dry skin, and creased flesh—

 

I see my body walking like the dead.

This is not the death of the body, but the death of sensation.

A hopeless emotion, an empty desire, an irreparable distance.

Sexlessness is evil.

It is death—

but slower, more merciless.

It is the guilt born of lacking desire,

the residue of regret for something that could have been avoided,

and, above all,

the cold defeat that comes when hope vanishes.

Sexlessness is not the end.

It is the quiet sinking of an entire life—

not a flame snuffed out in an instant,

but a slow cooling,

until even the ashes are gone,

leaving a complete void.

In that void,

I could no longer feel myself,

and she no longer sought me.

Our nights were no longer together—

they had become separate caves of deep isolation.

Our bodies were left with nothing but the shape of people,

their senses stripped away,

living statues.

And now I understand—

from the very bottom of all this loss—

that something must be revived, even now.

Because

sexlessness does not simply make us people who don’t have sex;

it makes us people who don’t live.

Yes, the state we came to—this no-sex—

cannot be explained by a single event.

The most direct cause was my wife’s dyspareunia—pain during intercourse.

At first, I thought it would be a temporary physical issue,

but gradually, the pain hardened into a chronic condition.

We delayed medical care,

let the awkwardness and silence stretch on.

From that time,

the word sex became a taboo between us.

It was branded as an act that brought pain,

and worse,

a trigger for emotional conflict.

To reveal desire to the other began to feel impolite,

selfish,

and eventually we stopped attempting such intrusions at all.

What was more frightening was how accustomed we became to this.

Indifference turned into habit,

and that habit ossified,

making us believe it was normal.

We ate meals together,

slept in the same bed,

talked every day—

but the deepest connection remained locked away.

We stayed inside the shell of marriage,

cooled into the likeness of housemates.

As if to justify it all, I told myself:

“This is what happens when you get older.”

“It’s just not that season of life anymore.”

“There’s no need to start again.”

But deep inside, something was breaking.

It was not merely sexual desire.

It was the terror of being forgotten,

the emptiness of feeling like the dead while still alive,

the silent scream of a soul divided and disconnected.(to be continued)