Virgin at 51 despite being married twice

Our hotel overlooked Salcombe Bay on the English Riviera and a rosy sunset dappled the sky as we drank champagne on the terrace.

I had booked the bridal suite for our weekend away, not because we were newlyweds but because I hoped it would inject some romance into our ten-year-long relationship.

That night, after a candlelit dinner, I dressed seductively in new lace underwear, nestled into my husband and kissed him.

As usual, Carol (named by his romantic-minded parents after a Romanian king) responded with a perfunctory peck on the cheek and rolled over in bed.

Determined not to be rejected again, I persisted. Then he snapped at me to stop. All the longing I'd felt evaporated, replaced by feelings of shame and humiliation.

That night as Carol snored, I lay sleepless, tears silently rolling down my cheeks. I cried because the man I loved - the man who had vowed to love and cherish me - seemed repulsed by me.

It was not simply that our relationship had become stale. The truth was more shocking: we had never consummated our marriage; never once had sex. And throughout the 26 years we spent together, we never did.

It sounds almost unbelievable that an attractive, intelligent woman with healthy sexual urges should ever have agreed to stay in such a union.

It is all the more extraordinary to know that I had two such marriages to men who refused to make love to me.

My first lasted from the age of 18 until I was in my mid-20s. My relationship with Carol began when I was 25, we wed when I was 38 and remained married for 13 years.

So, yes, I was still a virgin at the grand old age of 51 - the prime years of my life spent without ever knowing the intimacy and wonder of becoming one with a man.

So how did this come to be? I met my first husband John, a compositor, in my home town of Tiverton, Devon, in the mid-Seventies. He was a customer at the newsagent shop my mother ran and asked me out one day when I was 18.

John, who was 12 years my senior, was dependable and bookish. He looked strikingly similar to the young Billy Connolly and, although lacking charisma, was rock-solid and kind. I found his physical reticence appealing: it reassured me that he wasn't just after me for sex.

However, when I look back now, I wonder if my mother's dysfunctional attitude to intimacy skewed my understanding of relationships.

As an adolescent she told me sex was to be endured, not enjoyed. At night I'd overhear my parents arguing in their bedroom. My father Phillip craved affection, but my mother Irene would threaten: 'If you don't leave me alone, I'll go to the spare room.'

It left me believing sex was a chore, rather than an act of love.

When I was around 16, I had a couple of innocent relationships, but in Devon in the early Seventies pre-marital sex was still a matter for shame. I wanted to save myself.

Then along came John.

He and I both concluded we should not have sex before we were married.

So when he proposed during an admittedly unromantic casual conversation on a date, I said 'yes', imagining the passion that was yet to be unlocked in my fiance.

We were married in 1977. He was 32, I was just 20, and we spent our honeymoon night at a Devon inn. It was incredibly romantic. A river meandered past our window and I felt like a fairy-tale princess in our chintzy room.

But it was my time of the month. John recoiled when I told him and, as a result, we did not make love during our honeymoon.

I was not unduly worried. I thought we had a lifetime together to explore the physical side of our relationship.

Once home, I strove to be the perfect wife. I always had a gin and tonic waiting when John returned from work and cooked meals from scratch. John, in turn, was kind. After supper we'd sit on the sofa holding hands, occasionally kissing. He was sweet, but we always stopped short of sex.

John, who was a Catholic, eventually told me he believed sex was for procreation only. Because I wasn't ready to have children, I agreed we shouldn't sleep together until I was.

As a naive young woman with no previous sexual experience, I thought this must be normal for some couples. We would kiss and cuddle, but he'd stop before things went too far.

Then, about a year into our marriage, I got impatient and suggested we go together to the family planning clinic to talk about contraception. During my discussion with the female doctor, John passed out.

He said it was because he was overwhelmed by the smell of disinfectant. Now I realise he probably had a deep‑seated physical revulsion to the idea of sex. So even though I came home equipped with a contraceptive cap, he still failed to take any interest.

Gradually, I got used to the idea that we'd never have sex. It seems extraordinary to me now that I accepted the situation so meekly, but given what I'd learned from my mother, I concluded I was having a lucky escape.

It caused me surprisingly little sadness: because I'd never known passion, I didn't have a clue what I was missing.

Dailym