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Something cruel and unexpected happens when we begin trying to conceive. Sex gets old. It becomes just another chore to check off life’s daily “To Do” list. It’s no one’s fault. It’s the natural regression of anything that loses its magic. And while infertility is a thief of many things, above all else, it steals the fire from the bedroom.

As an infertile, we begin charting our cycles. After a few months, we know the number of days (CDs for cycle days) our menstrual cycles average. Perhaps by using ovulation predictor kits (OPKs), temping, checking our cervical mucus (CM), or all of the above, we can even pinpoint with 99% accuracy the 24-hour window in which we will be most fertile. Sexy, huh?

Then there is the frequency of having sex. What used to be spontaneous, titillating acts for making love in a relationship’s youth has become exhausting, calculated deeds to reproduce. Some infertiles take the every-other-day approach beginning nine to 11 days into any given cycle. While this might seem ideal (more sex!), it really desensitizes us to the operation’s intimate actions. Some of the caresses and unexpected strokes that once aroused us now leave us cold.

I suspect it is not the calculated repetition alone but our persistent inability to conceive that ultimately extinguishes the flame. After all, sex’s primary purpose is for reproducing. When we can’t achieve such a basic evolutionary purpose, what’s the point?