I rarely talk about sex in real life, apart from when I’m having it. Thank God for a blog.
Lesbian Non-Widow (also known as TG#2) continues not to be horrified at the whole widowed shizzle. My therapist says I shouldn’t be amazed that I’m desirable. I don’t know. I cooked LNW/TG#2 dinner last night, we chatted, I pounced and we retired to my bed, eventually falling asleep in one another’s arms, exhausted from romping for 2 hours. I’ll admit to being disappointed that she wasn’t wearing matching underwear. I’ll confess to knowing absolutely nothing about dating etiquette but I do believe that the third date is faaaaaaaaaaar too early to start being lazy.
After wife died, I swiftly embarked on a messy relationship with a super hot former friend of my wife’s. Mistake. Live and learn. This happens to quite a few widows and widowers. Ex adored me but detested seeing pictures of wife in my home. I’d have to sneakily put them away before she visited and slip off my wedding rings. I eventually had the guts to break up with her because, despite the best sex of my life and the comfort I felt of being held, I simply couldn’t be with someone who was permanently jealous of a dead person and couldn’t understand griefblasts. She is a doctor and wanted to fix me but those who haven’t lost someone close to them before just don’t get it – it’s not possible to fix my grief because I’m not broken. No pills, no treatments, just a gradual adjustment to life without my loved one.
I met my wife at university when I was 21 and she was 20. A blind date, although I’d already facestalked her and knew she had ridiculous, distinctive blonde hair. God, I miss that woman’s hair and how soft it was. I knew straight away there was something special between us and was instantly grateful that my housemates forced me to get back in the bath and shave my legs in advance. From her ogling my boobs, I could tell wife wanted in my knickers (also carefully selected lacey ones). It was a simple date – a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon whilst sitting closely on an uncomfortable sofa in a bar, a swift text to the housemates to tell them it wasn’t necessary to pull the phone call trick of “my grandma’s been taken ill. I need to go,” followed by a short stroll back in the direction of our colleges. With a swift casual mention that I had another bottle of white in the fridge (not potato waffles like TG#2) I lured the beautiful woman who was to become my wife five years later back to my bedroom, my little university single bed, and served her wine out of a Disney mug. She brushed her teeth with my toothbrush. Classy. It was slow. It was passionate. It was intimate. I kicked her in the face. She still kept seeing me. She had a bruise.
The 17th of February would have been the 7th anniversary of our meeting. I’m bracing myself for the griefblast. I can’t believe it’s been so long since our first kiss (and fuck).
In the mean time, let’s have a little bit of fun and distraction. Whatever keeps me going… Am I whoring myself out? Possibly. Will I hurt LNW/TG#2’s feelings? Likely, yes. I’ll tread as carefully as my little widow brain can and document it here – I promise.