As described in Part One, I’ve had lots of positive and helpful widow encounters. So, when a young widower in the UK circuit connected with me on FaceyB just a few months ago, I promptly did the usual “You’ve got a dead wife, I’ve got a dead wife, how about we go for a drink and cry into our wine glasses?” thing. You know, share the widow love and a bottle or five. He lost his dear wife to cancer a year ago. Being widowed in your twenties is a massive thing to have in common – those of us who have seem to just “get” one another.
In this case, Boy Widower and I “getting” one another combined with some wine somehow manifested itself in kissing. LOTS OF KISSING. I think the conversation might have gone down the lines of:
Me: your wife was beautiful
BW: your wife was hot too
Me: I miss my wife
BW: I miss my wife too
(Brief interlude for dabbing at eyes with napkins. Catch one another’s teary glances and..)
Boom. Cue lips touching, tongues in mouths, hands straying.
There were a few breaks interspersed for me to exclaim on loop “Oh my God, but I’m gay. Oh my God, but I’m gay. Oh my God, but I’m gay. Oh my God, but I’m gay,” and for him to repeatedly say “I’m so sorry!” like a true gentleman. Yet we kept kissing. In the restaurant window for all to see. While we waited for the chip and pin machine to accept his credit card and print the receipt with the waitress watching. Standing on the escalator at Oxford Circus Station (better angle for my neck). I think I nearly dragged him home with me. It’s a haze of Bordeaux.
Wife must have been watching screaming at me “WHAT THE HOLY FUCK? YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE EVEN MORE GAY THAN ME!”
This was literally the first time in eight years that a man has been anywhere near me who wasn’t a medical professional. There was a beard. A beard! I woke up the next morning with a horrific hangover smelling of man. I guess it a refreshing change from the “Yep, she’s still dead” waking moments. I threw up in the loos at work (allergy to men), having only managed to eat one piece of sushi all day, and spent hours fretting about my sexual orientation and how many boy kisses it would take to make me need to re-identify.
One Toronto friend reassured me, “I’m sure your sexual orientation is intact and if it isn’t, pft, you now have access to dating the whole population, not just half. BONUS!”
Good point. Well. Grief does funny things. Because it turns out my sexual orientation is not intact. It’s really, really not intact. For the second encounter, this eerilycheerily lesbian crashed Boy Widower’s hotel room for a night when we were abroad, minced around in a teeny tiny lace thong under her oversized neon pink vest-top-come-nightie, and was disappointed when he was a perfect gentleman and didn’t get frisky. Don’t worry, I didn’t go totally mental and stalk him all the way to the same holiday destination. We both happened to be there at the same time.
Let’s just say conversations have progressed. Hours of messaging to and fro while he holidays on the other side of the world. We’ve certainly gotten deeper, talking about our grief, our attitude to the world, our belief in heaven, our determination to live fulfilled, happy lives, sharing happy stories from our pasts. Conversations have also gotten dirtier especially as one of us is usually tipsy due to the time zones. It turns out, he wasn’t being a perfect gentleman on holiday. He was being a responsible adult – he didn’t have any condoms. Ha. I forgot that whole sperm and egg issue when it comes to sex with men. Take note.
Ladies, you know that feeling you get where you start to fancy someone and then your mind runs away with you and you start thinking about what you’ll name your babies, whether you can afford to send all three to private school, what colour the Aga and Smeg fridge will be, and whether you’ll have enough room for a Dalmatian or two? Well, I got that. But then I also got the “what on earth am I going to do to top my last wedding?” and “I’m going to have to come out backwards and my grandmother might have a heart attack again.” Woah. Back the truck up a little. We’re just friends and that’s what I want. Maybe some sex on top.
I’m acutely aware of how vulnerable all widows can be emotionally, and also that I’m a massive girl with a ridiculous imagination, so honesty’s the best policy. Helloooooo internet!
So again, to remind myself -we’re friends. He’s also a very handsome widower who hasn’t had sex for three months. I’m a card carrying lesbian who has surprised herself. But after much ridiculous teasing and probably a little too much oversharing of tales of, ahem, special experiences, the following poetic honesty came out of me two nights ago:
“Can I shyly admit to really wanting to fuck?” Uh oh. Fuck Fuck Fuck. Stupid fingers still being able to type when drunk.
“Can I shyly admit to it too?” said the ripped Boy Widower. Uh oh. He’s not even drunk. Mega Fuck. Like actually, for real potential Mega Fuck.
He’s back next weekend. I think I need to acquire supplies. I’ve done my red lingerie shop. Now I just need to do some frantic googling to read Cosmopolitan’s tips on how to have sex with men…