It’s been a long, cold and lonely winter. Actually, it’s been two long, cold and lonely winters. Translation: I have not had sex in sixteen, count’ em, sixteen long months. That’s two winters without somebody pressing his cold lips against my forehead. Two winters without somebody asking me if I have enough brandy in my egg nog. And for me, that’s two winters too long.
There’s a good reason for this abstinence and not one of them has to
do with religion, purity rings or the Jonas Brothers. And no, it has nothing to do with me waiting for an infection to clear, the restraining order to be lifted or the vaginal rejuvenation to take effect.
I’ve been without The Sex because sixteen months ago I unexpectedly lost my husband. And when I say unexpectedly, I mean that I never had the chance to say goodbye. He was an electrician. He went to work and never came home. That makes me a thirty-seven year old widow and mother of three.
MADE FOR CABLE SEX
Widow. Ugh, just the word conjures up images of an old Italian woman with ankles as thick as her thighs, bent and shrouded in black,
draping wool blankets over reflective mirrors and shoving cannoli in
my mouth. What’s worse is the term Young Widow. Sounds like the
love-starved protagonist of some Lifetime movie; something my mother would watch in marathon-form on a Saturday afternoon. I would be played by a perfect size four, with perfect tits and perfect fringe bangs. I’d seek guidance for my heartbroken condition from a therapist who possessed the sculpted looks only Zeus himself could have chiseled. He’d comfort me, and love me, and medicate me and we’d have passionate made-for-cable sex. You know … the kind of sex that starts with doe-eyed come-hither looks and a glass of something bubbly and expensive that doesn’t come in a box with a spout. Then he tilts my chin, kisses that pout I call a mouth and the next thing you know, it’s all mood lighting, missionary positions and flesh by firelight.
The next morning I’m wearing dirty panties, his wrinkled shirt and
drinking hazelnut coffee from the deck of his palatial home that
boasts a view of his vineyard. My kids are happy, my heart is full
and my vagina’s writing me thank you cards.
Cut to commercial because my life is not a Lifetime movie. Not unless
you count the ones where Mommy may or may not drink too much and may or may not sprinkle Xanax in her granola.
I loved my husband and together we loved The Sex. But he’s gone and I can’t live for yesterday. And that leaves me alone with a small cache of sex toys and an armory of re-chargeable batteries. Unfortunately, it’s just not enough anymore. Plus, those re-chargeables are fucking expensive.
MY DESIRE TO KISS A MAN
What are the modern day mourning rules? Victorian women, in their
crape hatbands and veils, mourned for two and a half years. Husbands
only mourned their dearly departed wives for three months (bastards). The Ancient Greeks grieved for just forty days. Forty days! After forty days, I was still burying my face in his sweatshirt trying to remember what he smelled like. I’m guessing there has to be something in the middle that won’t cause women to grab their pearls in horror at my desire to kiss a man on the mouth and for him to kiss me … well, not on the mouth.
Here’s the other twist to add to my already knotted knickers. My
eighteen year old daughter prefers, no, expects me to close up shop
for eternity and kiss my clitoris goodbye. Believe me, if I could
kiss my clitoris …
[insert sound of me never leaving my house]
And the cherry on top of this no-sex sundae is that I have absolutely
no desire to date. Yes, I know this entire article is about me and my
vagina and Me-Want-Sex and all, but I’d rather set my hair on fire
while watching America’s Got Talent than to go on an actual date.
Does this mean that if left unsatisfied, I will be found unleashing
The Sex at truck stops nationwide with burly men who wear garter belts and want my panties, not my phone number?
Maybe. Not really. No.
I do, however, have a plan. My entirely fallible solution to this
problem is to sleep with a friend. Maybe even a former lover who is
still a good friend (I’m sure I have at least one). A friend that
won’t mind a random game of slap ‘n tickle. One that won’t mistake a
little lovin’ for a little love.
What could possibly go wrong, right?
Written by Gina Stratos
aka Miss Spoken of Miss Spoken’s All You Review
Free Digital Images. Photo by Tuomas_Lehtinen.