I’m getting married aged 45 – my fiancé and I haven’t had sex in seven years

Like most brides-to-be, I’ve planned my September wedding down to the last detail. The flowers will be a riot of pinks, oranges and yellows, my dress will be off-the-shoulder white lace, and my vows won’t leave a dry eye in the house. Perhaps the only thing missing is a sexy set of lingerie to wear under my wedding dress, ready to be revealed to my fiancé on our wedding night. Because Simon* and I haven’t had sex for the past seven years – and we have no intention of reigniting the long-dead flame of passion once we’ve said: “I do.” When I met Simon through a dating app 10 years ago, I was in my mid-thirties and feeling fairly disillusioned. Since my last long-term relationship had ended, I’d had a few flings, but they’d largely dented my confidence instead of giving me a boost. There was the guy who fell asleep while we were having sex, the one-night stand who told me (after we’d done the deed) that I needed to lose weight, and the friend of a friend who made me laugh like a drain, then rejected me on the flimsy basis that I don’t drink tea. Shorts So, I was delighted when I was matched with Simon and, on a date arranged after a couple of weeks of text-flirting, we clicked right away. We spent the evening laughing over Thai food and bonding over our mutual love of horror films and, after he’d walked me to the Tube, we shared our first kiss. Although it was a few weeks before Simon stayed over at my place, the sex was passionate, spontaneous and fun. My run of bad luck with men had taught me that I really needed an emotional connection with someone to feel any attraction to them, and I had that with Simon in spades. Because I felt so comfortable with him, I was actually more experimental with him than I’d been with my previous partners. But although we both enjoyed ourselves in bed, as we became more comfortable in the relationship, the sex started to tail off. I wasn’t worried – I know as well as anyone that you can’t sustain that initial new-relationship spark of lust forever. But about a year into our relationship, we realised a whole month had gone by without us getting intimate. Back then, we laughed it off and leapt into bed. But then, the time we next had sex, three months had passed. The gaps got longer and longer until, three years into our relationship, we realised we’d simply stopped having sex altogether. Of course, we didn’t know then that it was the last time. It just happened. Or rather, stopped happening. Seven years on, the last time we had any kind of sexual contact is a dim and distant memory – and believe it or not, both of us are fine with that. Because I don’t feel any desire at all any more, I’ve come to the realisation that I’m probably asexual. I’ve always enjoyed the emotional closeness that comes with sex, but the act itself has always been a bit beside the point for me. Throw in some pretty deeply ingrained body hang-ups and bedroom experiences I’d rather forget and, frankly, I’m just not that into it. Meanwhile, Simon doesn’t label his feelings – or lack of them – the same way. Like me, he doesn’t have a high libido (I suspect he may have low testosterone) and with a busy job and plenty going on in his social life, sex simply isn’t a priority for him. We check in with each other regularly, to make sure we’re still on the same page, but the answer is always the same: thanks, but no thanks. I know a lot of people would say we’re not in a proper relationship if we don’t have sex; that we’re no better than housemates. But I think what we have is actually very healthy. If anything, our honesty over being sex-free has made us more emotionally intimate. We’re great at communicating, we make each other laugh, and we trust each other implicitly. And, unlike some couples with mismatched libidos, neither of us avoid other kinds of intimacy in case it leads to something more, so we’re very tactile with each other. We’re constantly hugging and kissing, and we hold hands while we watch TV and when we fall asleep. We just don’t take it any further. Apart from the odd bum-squeeze while we’re smooching, our relationship is strictly an above-the-waist affair. Luckily, neither of us has ever wanted kids – it’s one of the things that led to us matching on the dating app – so we haven’t had to deal with breaking our sex drought to get pregnant. Nor do we have to answer awkward questions from our parents about why we don’t have children, as that was decided by each of us individually long ago. Some people might argue that there’s no point getting married if sex and kids aren’t on the cards. But despite our unconventional relationship, I feel incredibly lucky to have found someone who feels the same way as me. I’m proud to be Simon’s fiancé, and excited about being his wife. In fact, my only reservation is the hen do. For obvious reasons, I’m keen to avoid the willy-straws-and-strippers vibe, but out of my friendship group only a couple of people know about my sex-free life with Simon. After a lot of late-night conversations, my maid of honour has grown to accept that I’m genuinely happy, but she still thinks it’ll look weird if I insist the hen is an inflatable-willy-free zone. So, I’ve agreed to embrace a traditional do, as long as she promises to ditch the sex questions from the inevitable “Mr and Mrs” quiz. I recently discovered that a marriage is actually considered void if you don’t have sex after the wedding. I joke with Simon that if we decide to split up, we’ll be able to get a quick annulment rather than going through a divorce, which will be far less stressful. But although we won’t be consummating it – or rolling around on a bed of petals in our Italian honeymoon suite – I consider our impending marriage anything but “void”. Simon is always telling me how beautiful I am and how much he adores me, so however other people might judge our relationship, I know that on our wedding day I’ll feel as special as any other bride – even if our wedding night involves nothing more thrilling than a goodnight peck on the cheek. *Names have been changed to preserve anonymity