Come Together

Come Together Plot Summary

Introduction

Hannah and Shane's love story defies conventional expectations. As an interabled couple, they navigate intimacy with creativity and communication that many could learn from. "I can say like, 'Hey, can you roll me towards you or can you move my arm so I can reach your neck or cheek?'" Hannah explains. Their physical connection isn't choreographed like movie scenes—instead, it's built on honest conversation and profound knowledge of each other's bodies. "I feel like I just know his body and preferences as well as I know my own," she shares with quiet confidence. This essence of authentic connection transcends physical ability or circumstance. Whether navigating disability, aging bodies, shifting desires, or the simple evolution of a long-term partnership, the path to lasting sexual connection isn't found in performance or perfection. It emerges through vulnerability, communication, and the willingness to see our partners as they truly are. The journey ahead explores how real couples have created and sustained meaningful erotic connections despite life's inevitable changes. Through their stories, we'll discover that the most profound intimacy often blooms not in spite of our challenges, but because of how we navigate them together.

Chapter 1: The Dance of Desire: Hannah and Shane's Story

Hannah continues describing her relationship with Shane, explaining their intimate shorthand developed over years together. "You're not just saying, 'Can you please put your legs up under my legs?' I feel like I just know his body and preferences as well as I know my own." This simple statement encapsulates years of research on long-term sexual connection: it doesn't look like the movies, but rather involves ongoing communication about desires and developing deep knowledge of each other's bodies. Jessica Kellgren-Fozard and her wife, Claudia, offer another illuminating example of an interabled couple who've mastered the art of mutual care without falling into caretaker-patient dynamics. Jessica lives with two genetic disorders affecting her nerves and connective tissue, causing an array of health issues including deafness, chronic pain, and occasionally dislocating joints. When asked if Claudia ever feels she can't complain about her own minor ailments because Jessica "has it worse," Claudia immediately shakes her head. "No. That's a firmly resounding no," she answers, while Jessica adds, "No no no no no no no." In fact, they explain, Jessica loves caring for others while Claudia enjoys being looked after—regardless of their physical situations. Their relationship demonstrates how physical needs don't define who gives and receives care. Jessica remains Jessica—a person who loves to bake and dance—regardless of her physical condition. Claudia remains Claudia—who loves gardening and travel—regardless of hers. While they maintain appropriate boundaries about discussing their sex life publicly, their mutual adoration, admiration, and tenderness is unmistakable in how they look at each other. This perspective on physical challenges belongs in a book about sex because long-term relationships inevitably involve bodily changes. Whether through disability, injury, illness, or simply aging, if you stay with someone long enough, you'll eventually navigate physical transformations together. Research shows that adding stimulation isn't always what's needed to maintain sexual connection; often, we need to eliminate obstacles. When those obstacles can't be changed, we can change how we feel about them. Consider menopause—a transition most uterus-having people will experience. While no specific hormonal situation directly influences sexuality, perimenopause and menopause bring changes that impact sexual functioning: hot flashes, unpredictable cycles, changing fat distribution, and reduced estrogen affecting vaginal tissue. These changes can increase pain during sexual activities, potentially reducing desire. However, as Generation X ages into menopause, many are rejecting medicalized and gendered narratives about this transition, embracing more inclusive, intersectional understandings. The stories of Hannah and Shane, Jessica and Claudia remind us that our changing bodies don't have to diminish our capacity for intimacy. In fact, the deepest connections often emerge when we learn to see beyond physical circumstances to the person we love. As one nurse-turned-writer observed, "Illness creates the deepest intimacy." The question becomes: can we still see our partner as our partner through illness, and can they still see us through ours?

Chapter 2: Beyond Performance: Kendra's Journey to Pleasure

Kendra arrived at therapy with a familiar complaint: "I just don't want sex anymore." After fifteen years of marriage and two children, she found herself avoiding intimacy with her husband, Marcus. When they did have sex, she'd mentally check out, thinking about groceries or work deadlines. "I love him," she insisted, "but I just don't feel that spark anymore." Her therapist asked a question that surprised her: "When you do have sex, do you enjoy it?" Kendra paused, then admitted, "Not really. It feels like another chore." Through gentle exploration, Kendra realized she'd been performing desire rather than experiencing pleasure. She'd learned to focus on Marcus's enjoyment while disconnecting from her own sensations. "I've been doing sex," she explained in a breakthrough session, "not feeling it." Her therapist introduced the concept of "pleasure as the measure"—the idea that sexual success isn't about frequency, technique, or even desire, but about whether both partners genuinely enjoy the experience. This shift in perspective transformed their relationship. Kendra began communicating what actually felt good to her, while Marcus learned to slow down and pay attention to her responses. They established a "pleasure practice" where they'd spend time touching without any goal beyond discovering what created genuine enjoyment. Sometimes this led to intercourse, sometimes not—and both outcomes became equally valid. Three months later, Kendra reported something unexpected: "I'm actually looking forward to our time together now. When pleasure became the point, everything changed." She described how removing performance pressure allowed her to reconnect with sensations she'd been missing for years. "Last night," she shared with a smile, "I completely lost track of time. No grocery lists, no deadlines—just us." What Kendra discovered reflects a fundamental truth about sustainable sexual connection: desire often follows pleasure rather than preceding it. When couples focus on creating contexts where genuine enjoyment can flourish, rather than trying to manufacture desire or meet cultural expectations about how sex "should" be, they create the conditions for lasting connection. This approach is particularly liberating for those who've been taught to prioritize their partner's experience over their own—it gives them permission to reclaim their right to pleasure as an essential part of intimacy rather than an optional bonus. The journey from performance to pleasure isn't always straightforward, but it offers something far more sustainable than the elusive "spark" many couples chase. By centering enjoyment rather than desire, couples like Kendra and Marcus discover that the most profound connections emerge not from what they do, but from how fully present they can be with each other in moments of vulnerability and joy.

Chapter 3: Changing Bodies, Deepening Intimacy: Margot and Henry

Margot and Henry were experiencing the normal challenges of aging: menopause, less reliable erections, and physical changes including Margot's rheumatoid arthritis and Henry's coronary artery disease. Beyond physical challenges, they faced the emotional stressors that come with longevity—concerns about children, grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren that they wanted to support. With these combined pressures, Margot found herself stuck in a caregiving mindset, unable to relax into playfulness or curiosity. Drawing on advice from a grandchild's school counselor, Margot began exploring different types of social support that might help create contexts where pleasure became more accessible. "Four kinds of social support," she reviewed, "Instrumental, Informational, Emotional, Appraisal." Instrumental support involves concrete aid—if you're hungry, I give you food. Informational support means sharing knowledge or teaching skills. Emotional support involves being present with empathy and compassion. Appraisal support offers feedback to help someone change their situation. Applying this framework to their intimate life, Margot asked, "What are some things we already know make it easier to get to the sexy?" Henry immediately identified emotional support as crucial. Margot added, "Actual instrumental support. Helping me get done allllll the different tasks and chores and errands. The more we can get off my plate, the easier I can walk away from my day." Henry seemed surprised by this insight: "It didn't occur to me that the cleaning and things weren't just symbolic, they were real things that were really weighing on you, and if I just do them...it's almost like your sexual brakes have a to-do list!" Margot explained a deeper dimension to this dynamic: "Dishes and laundry and fixing the leaky faucet are things I used to be able to do easily on my own. But lately..." She paused to rub her arthritic knuckles. "The pain hits my brakes, but, more than that, it reminds me that my body is not what it used to be. I worry that I'm losing my independence. And when you can do those things for me, without my even having to ask? That's emotional support and instrumental support all in one." Understanding different support types was just part of their process. They also addressed practical aspects of their erotic context. They purchased supportive pillows to make various positions more comfortable, including those that facilitated oral sex. They incorporated tools like cock rings and strokers to reduce physical strain during manual stimulation. And they followed one universal piece of advice: using high-quality lubricant from specialty stores rather than drugstore varieties. For their specific needs, coconut oil proved most comfortable for Margot's menopausal tissues. Their story reveals how creating sustainable pleasure in long-term relationships often involves both emotional understanding and practical adaptations. Sometimes the most profound intimacy emerges not from grand romantic gestures but from folded laundry, supportive pillows, and the willingness to acknowledge how our bodies change. By addressing both the emotional and physical dimensions of their connection, Margot and Henry discovered that performance matters far less than the context they create together—one where pleasure becomes not just possible but natural.

Chapter 4: Healing Shadows: Transforming Sexual Shame

A woman shared a revealing story about the origins of sexual shame: While watching her brother change his baby daughter's diaper, she observed something telling. After cleaning the baby, he reached for a fresh diaper, and when he turned back, the infant was touching her genitals. He immediately scolded her, "Ah-ah! Don't touch that!" The woman wondered: Would he have reacted the same way if his baby had a penis instead? Or if the baby had been touching her feet rather than her genitals? Don't we typically delight when babies discover their feet? This baby won't remember this specific moment, but similar incidents will accumulate to create what might be called a "dark place" in her developing mind—associating her genitals with being scolded and punished. By adolescence, she'll likely feel her genitals don't truly belong to her, that sensations from those parts are dangerous or disgusting. Her entire relationship with sexual desire might become shadowy, difficult to access, filled with unexamined shame. And she may never connect these feelings to explicit messages she received. These dark places are designed to remain hidden. Some disguise themselves so your mind glides past without noticing. Others are guarded by threatening emotional responses that make you run away before exploring. Sex educator Nadine Thornhill experienced this firsthand when her three-year-old son was discovered showing his penis to a friend. Despite being a professional sex educator who understood this as normal childhood behavior, Nadine found herself reacting with shame and anger, yelling at her son. Later, she realized, "I just totally got triggered and became the mean mom who yells at her three-year-old because that's what happened to me." When she was five, Nadine was falsely accused of initiating genital exposure with boys at her babysitter's house. Though she had refused their suggestion to "pull down our pants and look at each other," when the babysitter discovered one boy with his pants down, he blamed Nadine. She was dragged upstairs, sat on the couch in her pretty birthday party dress, and lectured about how wrong, bad, and dirty she was. Though her mother believed her side of the story when she got home, the damage was done. "There had been a tiny part of me that was curious," Nadine admitted. "And that stayed with me for years. I would feel ashamed if I just felt curious about sex." This shame interfered with her sexual fantasies well into adulthood, making it difficult to imagine herself as a participant rather than observing through an avatar. The revelation came not when she recognized how shame affected her fantasies, but when she saw herself repeating the pattern with her own child. This wasn't the moment everything instantly changed, but rather the moment she decided change was necessary. Despite being a sex educator, she recognized she needed professional help: "I need to get into therapy. I've heard about 'breaking cycles,' but I don't know how to do that." When we encounter these dark places within ourselves, we often experience dread, anxiety, or anger before we even begin exploring. Rather than pushing through these uncomfortable feelings, we must breathe through them. Stay with the difficult emotions and turn toward them with calm, warm curiosity. Confidence means knowing what is true—including the difficult truth that we live in a world where sexuality is often weaponized and shamed. No one completely escapes this conditioning, which is why we all have dark places, sometimes hidden even from ourselves.

Chapter 5: The Couple's Garden: Cultivating Erotic Wisdom

In any relationship that lasts long enough, it is inevitable that partners will experience a time when they have different levels of interest in sex, different desires, and different abilities to be sexual. This isn't a problem—it's normal. I've been through it myself and used the tools I'm sharing to find my way back to my partner. For us, rebuilding emotional accessibility and addressing my training as a "giver" were essential parts of the process. When this book is published and I start traveling again, we'll probably experience another dry spell, but now I know we'll always find our way back to each other. The most efficient way to turn this normal, inevitable season into a problem is to worry about it. The sex imperatives and gender mirage want you to believe something terrible will happen if you abandon their rules and embrace who you truly are. That's why joy—loving what's true—can feel frightening, like jumping off a cliff in darkness with no idea what comes next. But isn't that just like life? We step into each new day with no guarantee of what will happen, only a commitment to make something worthwhile of our time. Our only certainty is that one day, we won't get any more days. While writing this book, a friend in her sixties had a stroke, my twin received a serious medical diagnosis, multiple in-laws faced health crises, and I received my own serious diagnosis. Just as I was finishing, my friend Anna died in her forties, after just ten years of marriage to her wife. She was a librarian, fiber artist, and activist whom I loved dearly. It's unfair, enraging, and a cavernous loss. Also: Fuck cancer. But Anna always said, "Queer joy matters. Stay safe, stay fierce, practice hope." So in the face of life-altering and life-ending events that happen every day, we practice hope at my house, and we practice pleasure. Life is too short and too uncertain to have sex you don't like—or, at the very least, aren't really curious to try. Couples who sustain strong sexual connections over the long term differ in countless ways, but they share one crucial trait: they collaborate to create contexts that make pleasure easier to access. They turn toward each other's whole, authentic selves with confidence, joy, and calm, warm curiosity. Be who you truly are, safe in a connection where all of you is welcome. Love who you love. Love how you love. Will other people have opinions? Sure. Keep weeding the garden.

Chapter 6: Breaking Free: Ama and Di Challenge Gender Expectations

My friend came out as lesbian in her late twenties, only to discover a culture with even more rigid binary expectations than her heterosexual relationships had contained. "It was like, you're either a butch or a femme and ne'er the twain shall meet," she explained. "So many people were like, 'I have sex with you, you don't have sex with me.' And it was okay if you were a butch in the streets and a femme in the sheets, but then that's your only role in the sheets. I had more freedom in my hetero relationships than with women in that subculture." The first time she hooked up with the woman who would become her wife and co-parent, my friend established a different dynamic. "Okay, every item of clothing of mine that comes off, one of yours comes off too," she insisted, challenging the expectation that only the "femme" partner would be fully naked. While some people genuinely enjoy rigid power dynamics where one person remains clothed, my friend was pushing back against a culture that prescribed specific roles based on gender presentation rather than personal preference. "I had nothing to lose," she told me. "So I could be clear about who I am and what I want and what I don't want." What she didn't want was to be locked out of any sexual engagement that gave her and her partner pleasure, regardless of prescribed roles. This story illustrates how any combination of people, regardless of gender identities, can find themselves trapped in cultural expectations. Every relationship involves the ongoing task of pulling unwanted, uninvited messages that pop up repeatedly in our shared erotic space. One such message that haunted my friends Di and Ama was the concept of "lesbian bed death." Di wanted to know how often a typical couple has sex, according to research. Despite my repeated assurances that other people's sex lives have nothing to do with hers, she was troubled by the idea that sex eventually evaporates in long-term relationships between women. After looking up the average frequency of sex—a measure of central tendency that doesn't mean anything useful—she inevitably compared their sex life to that irrelevant number and worried they were "doing it wrong." What I love about this story is how simple facts helped solve the problem. I explained that while lesbian partners do report having sex less frequently as relationships progress, they also report: - Similar levels of sexual satisfaction as straight couples having more frequent sex - More variety of sexual behaviors, including oral sex and using sex toys - Longer duration of sex - More orgasms and more gentle kissing - They're also more likely to say, "I love you" When you look beyond frequency, lesbians generally have better sex than straight couples. They're more likely to have orgasms, sex lasts about twice as long, and they report greater satisfaction. Why? Because when they don't worry about patriarchal, penis-centric models of sexuality, they can love their sexuality as it is, without judging themselves against irrelevant standards. The beauty of Ama and Di's story lies in how they ultimately rejected arbitrary cultural standards to embrace what genuinely brought them pleasure. By focusing on quality over quantity, connection over performance, and their unique desires over prescribed norms, they transformed their relationship. Their journey reminds us that true liberation comes not from conforming to any identity's expectations—even within marginalized communities—but from the courage to define intimacy on our own terms.

Chapter 7: Finding Your Way Back: The Path to Reconnection

Trauma, neglect, and abuse leave lasting imprints on our sexuality. As a sex educator, I sometimes fantasize about writing a book that doesn't need a section on trauma. Unfortunately, at least one in three women, one in six men, and half of trans and nonbinary people reading this have likely experienced some form of intimate partner or sexual trauma. Beyond isolated incidents, trauma can emerge from ongoing abuse where someone feels trapped, or from childhood neglect that does as much damage as violent episodes. This means a large proportion of the population carries deep wounds that affect their intimate relationships. When trauma influences your emotional landscape, it creates unpredictable pathways between different emotional states. Your caring feelings might suddenly plunge into panic or grief. Your nurturing instincts might collapse into rage or fear. For some, trauma creates a one-way door from sexual arousal to fear—a coping mechanism the brain developed to survive. Fear responses aren't limited to running away or trembling in corners. They include people-pleasing, perfectionism, and the compulsive need to keep everyone happy regardless of personal cost—sometimes called the "fawn" response. Fear can also manifest as "freeze," a numb, checked-out feeling. I've seen this happen when people approach me with questions about difficult experiences; as I begin answering gently but frankly, they visibly depart from behind their own eyes, their trauma response whisking them away. These adaptations aren't signs we're broken—they're evidence we're survivors. Our emotional architecture got us through. Now that we're safer, we might prefer to make changes, but we get to choose. For survivors, I offer this specific tip: Sometimes our "escapist" behaviors are actually part of our healing. Be curious about the metaphors and stories that soothe you. Consider how many people find profound meaning in The Lord of the Rings. They don't reread those thousand pages because it's fun to spend time with characters of different statures. They return to it because they need somewhere that feels the way they feel inside, and nowhere real captures what trauma feels like internally. When Frodo says, "I will take the Ring to Mordor. Though...I do not know the way," it echoes the experience of choosing to heal from trauma—deciding each morning to carry this burden another step closer to wherever it can be destroyed, even without knowing the path. For my own healing, the Disney film Moana provided an unexpected metaphor. I saw it three times in theaters, which is unusual for a fortysomething woman. The pivotal moment comes when Moana confronts the lava monster Te Kā, recognizing beneath its rage the goddess Te Fiti whose heart was stolen. Instead of fearing Te Kā's fury, Moana approaches, singing, "They have stolen the heart from inside you / but this does not define you." She restores Te Fiti's heart, they touch foreheads, breathe together, and the lava monster transforms back into the goddess of life. This metaphor explains what healing feels like more accurately than any literal description. Like Moana, I see beneath the surface of my own pain; I turn toward it without fear. The pain and I breathe the same air. And the pain transforms into power.

Summary

The stories shared throughout these chapters reveal a profound truth: lasting sexual connection in long-term relationships isn't about performance, frequency, or conforming to cultural expectations. It emerges when partners collaborate to create contexts that make pleasure accessible, regardless of changing bodies, desires, or circumstances. From Hannah and Shane navigating intimacy with physical disability to Margot and Henry adapting to aging bodies, from Rowan and Jamie healing from sexual shame to Ama and Di rejecting harmful cultural narratives—each couple demonstrates that authentic connection flourishes when we turn toward each other with curiosity rather than judgment. What binds these diverse experiences together is the willingness to see our partners as they truly are, not as cultural scripts dictate they should be. Whether confronting trauma, navigating changing bodies, or dismantling gender expectations, the path forward involves the same fundamental approach: turning toward what's true with confidence and joy, even when that truth challenges our assumptions. The most vibrant sexual connections don't require perfect bodies, spontaneous desire, or prescribed roles—they require presence, communication, and the courage to tend our shared erotic garden by continually weeding out unhelpful messages while nurturing what genuinely brings us pleasure. In this ongoing cultivation, we discover that our capacity for intimacy deepens not despite life's challenges but because of how we navigate them together.

About Author

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Emily Nagoski

The official bio is:"Emily Nagoski has a PhD in Health Behavior with a doctoral concentration in human sexuality from Indiana University (IU), and a master’s degree (also from IU) in Counseling, with a clinical internship at the Kinsey Institute Sexual Health Clinic. She has taught graduate and undergraduate classes in human sexuality, relationships and communication, stress management, and sex education."What all that means, really, is that I am here to teach women to live with confidence and joy inside their bodies. It's a small goal in the grand scheme of things - I'm not trying to bring peace to the Middle East or repair the ozone layer - but it's a goal that I think truly does have the power to change lives and, ultimately, the world.You can find me online: Twitter @enagoski Facebook Emily NagoskiMedium @emilynagoskiBlog

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