Nearly two years have passed since I started my life over unwillingly after being widowed. I’ve aged. I should be having babies. Instead, I’m having lesbian Netflix and Chill. Lots. I don’t even know the right way to use that phrase because I’m so out of the cool zone. I Netflix and Chill. I have Netflix and Chill. I go to Netflix and Chill? #NetflixAndChill.
For those who aren’t following, Netflix and Chill has come to be a euphemism for casual fucking. A contemporary version of ‘Do you want to come up for a coffee?‘. In the very literal sense of the phrase, I do Netflix and Chill a lot. Since my wife died, I’ve worked my way through thousands of hours of series on Netflix. This is not hyperbole. I tell you, if you ever need to get a new widow a present, if it isn’t going to be a year’s supply of tupperwares of food and therapy sessions, let it be a Netflix subscription. At one point, being imprisoned in Orange is the New Black with a bunch of psycho lesbians was looking very appealing compared to my ‘new normal’ existence of having suicidal urges and mascara and snot all over my face. I also considered paying my legal bills by becoming a crystal meth manufacturer but then I had a reality check – my chemistry skills just aren’t good enough.
So, turning to euphemistic Netflix and Chill; I really quite enjoy Netflix and Chill. I do get a twinge of guilt when I think about the number of women I’ve slept with since my wife died, but then I think about how fucking fun and exhilarating it can be, how alive I am, and remind myself that I’m fully entitled to be spending my ‘single’ days having lots of orgasms. I encourage other young widows to give themselves permission to do this too.
Right now, I’m seeing two women simultaneously and the multi-tasking is bloody exhausting. First, we have a bombshell barrister (Tinder Girl #6) who has literally the hottest body I’ve ever laid my hands on, in an objective sense. She’s a girly girl who wears tiny lacy knickers that cost £50 a pair, has a personal trainer, works like fucking crazy and is absurdly rich compared to anyone else I’ve met. She lives in a beautiful flat right in the hub of London which could easily be used for a magazine shoot. She has fresh flowers in the bathroom and owns everything from Jo Malone. It’s insane. She, however, is married to her job and regularly has to pull out of dates. When I do see her though, she can’t keep her hands off me and moans my name alarmingly frequently in bed. I’m big spoon, for a change, because she’s the same height at me. She’s super keen and I imagine this must be what it’s like being a kept wife – treated to lovely things, but for the most part spending time alone.
Second, we have Client #2. She found this blog because she’s smart like that and always up for a challenge. Yes, readers, the sticky post on the homepage actually served its intended purpose, five months after it was written! I’m scared she’ll be back reading this (hello!). I therefore feel very vulnerable, yet relieved at the same time because despite having a relatively uncensored account of my grief, she’s still messaging back. Thus far, there’s not been any heading for the hills (#RunAwayFromTheCrazyWidow) but perhaps that’s because I am yet to follow through on my promise of strap-on sex. Too much information? Meh. Fuck it. I’ve lost my wife. Why not lose my modesty too?
Client #2 is nothing like TG#6, with the exception of brains, beauty and ambition. I’m cradle snatching as she was four years old when the Spice Girls released Wannabe. She would win any debate and is talented at literally everything I’ve questioned her on, apart from art and modesty. Sardonic and sharp, dog loving, musical loving, passionate about politics – I’m so screwed. And her eyes. She has the eyes. The ones that make me fall for people in an instant and send little tingles to my special bits if seductively focused in the right way.
But this is meant to be casual sex. That’s what we agreed. She fucks other women too. I’ve never seen Client #2’s house and she doesn’t do sleepovers at mine. I’ve never fallen asleep in her arms. BUT I’M CONFUSED. She says one thing and does another: she says she doesn’t do datey dates or hand holding, but she got us tickets to Billy Elliot the musical and held hands while we walked her borrowed doggy around the park on Sunday. She says she tolerates me. I think that means she likes me. I tolerate her back and got her a mindfulness colouring book of dogs and cats, and hand delivered a pecan slice from Pret a Manger to her office one day when she was stressed. Yeh, tolerate. That’s all I do. I tolerate her.
Client #2 did actually suggest that maybe I could go round to hers for Netflix and Chill at some point because she knows October is my sad month. This was before I discovered the phrase was also a euphemism. There I was thinking we’d reached a stage of her opening up and being cute back, instead of constantly cocky. Oh. Back firmly in my place as a casual fuckbuddy then, apart from we both cried on one another at the weekend and she held me as I sobbed…
For once, the woman I want to fall asleep with is not my late wife.