Grieving Sex: I desperately wondered if the joy of sex would ever again replace the pall of death
I had never been around someone who had just lost someone – as in death – and it was unsettling, uncomfortable. Even though I was crazy about Ben, I wasn’t sure how to help him, what to do or say. At first, all I did was hold and kiss him. His kisses were … ah, dead. He wasn’t there. His eyes, usually as warm as maple syrup, were … dead. His body, his spirit, usually a cornucopia of life was … dead. But he was putting on a good front, being stoic, strong. But was he just playing strong for me? Because there wasn’t anyone else around.
We were in New York on the weekend before New Year’s Eve, taking in the festive season, right after a not-very-festive funeral – in Brooklyn. For him, the weekend was an attempt to escape the grief. For me, it was to do some shopping. The grief didn’t affect me much, except for how it affected him. He was doing it to immerse himself in something other than the drifting stench that death had dumped on his heart.
The death of his ex-girlfriend, Penny, was tragic. It was a week ago and the pall was hanging around longer than the silent void that lingers after a lovers’ quarrel. He was hollow. Going through the motions. Going through something I didn’t understand. I get that he has to grieve. But I don’t have to like it.
Suicide is terrible. Inexplicable. Such a waste.
Penny had been fairly recent – the relationship – and when he and I first met, I considered I might just be an on-the-rebound fling. But he was so scrumptious, so charming, so rock-handsome … and those fathomless eyes. WTF Bianca, go for it, at least the fling will be memorable. I dove in, actually jumped into bed on our second date. I would’ve had sex with him on the first date, but he was such a gentleman – attentive, respectful, flirtatious but not aggressive. I didn’t want to be too forward, look too anxious. But when he kissed me in the restaurant, in the corridor to the washrooms, little did he know that he could’ve pushed me into the men’s room and taken me right there.
We’ve been together three months now – Ninety-seven days to be exact – and I certainly wasn’t a rebound according to what he’d said, ‘Bianca, you’re absolutely necessary to me.’ And I felt it. Until Penny’s death, seven days ago. It was fucking awful. All of it.
They’d split up about a month before we met – thirty-four days to be exact (I keep a calendar, not a diary, of everything important that happens to me) – and although he’d convinced me it was over, it had been a serious, long-term relationship – over three years. He talked about her a few times and didn’t seem hung up on the breakup. He said he was, ‘way fuckin’ over her.’ And everything about our outrageously wild and crazy – and oh-so-hot – ninety-seven days had convinced me. I was special. He was special. We were special. Well … except for the last seven days, which have been oh-so-painful, and cold. Cold like a mausoleum. Empty. Together but apart. And not so special. And no sex.
I went along with the grief, but after seven days, my caring, kissing and smiling had morphed from sympathy to empathy to drifting to drowning in my own fake sorrow. I didn’t get why Ben was so mired in it. He was more pathetic than sorrowful. He smiled a lot but was withdrawn, languishing around and hanging out like a flaccid penis. After three months of fucking each other into exhaustion every day, literally, I was alone in a sexual desert hoping for some relief from the grief, and every time I hugged and kissed him my desire surged. But his didn’t.
Maybe it was guilt? But why? WTF has he got to be guilty about? Apparently, he was ‘way fucking over her.’ So what’s with the grieving? I get it. If one of my ex-boyfriend’s had committed suicide, I’d feel bad. But I wouldn’t go in the tank for days on end, especially if I was with someone new, who was ‘absolutely necessary to me.’ No way. Maybe he wasn’t over her?
When we were alone, I tried to penetrate his stupor and arouse his feelings with lingering wet kisses, a searching tongue, a squeeze of his butt, even a loving lift of his precious equipment. But nothing. He was polite, kissing back but never shedding his dank shroud. His body was half-dead. But not his junk – more than once I’d felt the blood flow.
I was being worn-out by the grieving – his – and it was tough to know what to do. It was like being a non-smoker in a smoke-filled room and wanting to scream, ‘I can’t breathe, open a fuckin’ window.’
In the hotel room in Manhattan, we were getting ready to go and see Cats on Broadway and he’d just pulled his pants on over his sexy, blue boxers and was buttoning his blue shirt––he was yummy in blue. In that moment, he looked his magnificent self – dashing, daring, impulsive, spontaneous. Wearing only red panties, I stepped next to him, brushed the back of my hand across his cheek and slipped the other hand under his package. I held, gently. Lifted slightly. His pulse quickened. A discernible throb. I took his lips. Mine were burning, his were cool. I was hungry, he was … another throb. He stepped back.
He might not be interested but his best friend, and my favorite fuck buddy – we called him ‘B,’ for Ben’s Beast – was most definitely interested. Despite the grief and pain, somebody needed pleasure and relief.
I let him finish dressing while I slipped into a white robe and went to do my makeup in the elegant bathroom with its marble counters, twin sinks, jacuzzi tub and a window seat overlooking 57th Street, with Central Park in the distance. We had booked a suite as part of our New Year’s self-indulgence, hoping the extravagance would make us feel better. It hadn’t, and the self-indulgence hadn’t included sexual indulgence.
I was struggling in this prolonged wasteland of too much grief and no sex. For how long? For what? For who? For Penny? No way. This man had become deeply mine, not only by his own admission but by his unbridled abandonment. Sex every day, anywhere, anytime. Never enough. Until the grief.
He walked into the bathroom, looking gorgeous, with one of his spectacular ties around his neck, still untied.
I said, “One more kiss before I put on a little lipstick.” He didn’t like lipstick.
He smiled. “Shall I tie my tie first?”
Enough. I undid my robe, slipped my fingers inside my panties, pushed them below my knees and stepped out.
Those beautiful brown eyes stared at my nakedness. He seemed passive, but his eyes weren’t. The maple syrup was stirring, ever so slightly. He started to tie his tie.
I dropped the robe to the floor.
He stopped tying his tie. He looked lost. Stuck.
I held his eyes. Then reached out and cradled his balls in one hand and slipped the other around his cock … and squeezed. He pulsed – in my hand and in his eyes. The deep brown grew dark, almost black, his cock grew bigger, almost hard. I felt urgency, saw anger. I was not going to let go, not let him relinquish his anger to the grief. I wanted his anger.
I grabbed his tie and pulled his mouth down on mine. Hard. Wet. Open. And squeezed him again. Hard. Hurting. Angry. He broke.
It was almost violent. Ferocious. Ripping. Desperate. It hurt. I wanted it. Loved it. The pain, his pain, was my pain. He grabbed. Lifted. Pushed me onto the marble counter. I tore his pants off. Grasped his engorgement. He bit my neck. Tugged my hair. Clutched my breasts. His thick thighs splayed my legs and his powerful hands dug into my buttocks, yanking me to him. I lost control.
His voice was a guttural cry – grief exploded … “Bianca …”
I muffled a scream, “Yes Ben … yes.”
The pain was numbing. Everything hurt. The marble, the sink, the faucet, the edge of the counter, his ravaging hands, his ravenous teeth, his relentless cock. He slammed, thrust and furiously ploughed deep into my inner desire. It hurt. I loved it.
He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. He was consumed somewhere between the depths of grief and the heights of ecstasy.
I was his way out … I was absolutely necessary to him.
I was separate from his grief, his anger, his agony. From his force and dominance and the physical pain he was inflicting on my body, inside and out. Hard. Harsh. But my ache was just a silent bystander to his surging, soaring, flight from grief. His swollen need relentlessly pounded toward the promise, engulfed by the euphoria rising from the crucible of joy – me. I delayed erupting into rapture as long as I could. Then couldn’t. My heat released, my spasms flooded, my explosion embraced him. He gave me everything. I claimed him – and his grief.
Ecstasy had exorcised grief. The healing had begun.
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