Sex on Fire

All the commotion, the kiddie like play, it has people talking.

I don’t remember the last time that Mark and I had sex before he died. Come to think of it, I don’t remember the last time we even kissed. There was one time that I remember fondly, but I couldn’t tell you if it was weeks or months prior to his suicide. Also, it happened in our guest room on the bed where he later killed himself, which bitters the sweetness I have about recalling what was otherwise QUITE worth remembering. So I guess it’s not all that shocking that I practically NEVER talk to anybody about sex with Mark.

Sex is a very uncomfortable topic for me in general. This isn’t because I don’t love it. On the contrary, enjoying sex with multiple partners has been of the most fun aspects of being widowed, as I’m sure you can imagine. It’s also been an area of my life where I’ve had some of the most growth. I think some of my widdas, (who know me now for openness with my dating nightmares and the general shitstorm of losing a spouse to suicide, sexual disasters & successes included), might be surprised to hear me shy from this topic. But we Irish Catholic New Englanders don’t talk much about intercourse, you see. Even those of us who, like myself, don’t identify as Catholic. That shameful mindset is ingrained in the culture. I like to joke that we’re not fooling anyone about how much we clearly love getting it on based purely on the number of kids in the average Irish family in New England, but it’s still very hush-hush.

For about two years now, I’ve been asserting that the stories of my sexcapades since Mark’s suicide will all be written about in my book and that my many fans (you) would have to PAY in order to read them.

Yes, I am this ridiculous.

I even wrote an introduction and asked a few friends to read it. But the truth is that there is no book. Sure, there’s a few Google Docs with notes and ideas on them, and the lies I tell myself about finishing it someday. But other than that, there’s just this blog and a nauseating fear that someone in my family, or perhaps someone I respect in the military community, will read about said sexcapades and think that I’m a slut. A big ol’ bad widow of a slut. I don’t much like admitting this fear, but once I put words to it, I realized how much that makes me feel like a phony-baloney. If I can talk to people so freely about their suicidal thoughts, why can’t I talk about one of my grandest and most favorite adventures in widowhood?

Upon further discussion with friends… and about 150 people in a seminar whose sole topic is sex & intimacy… it dawned on me that what’s actually bothering me is that I’ll never have sex with Mark again.

I mean, DUH. The man is dead.

But even after two and a half years, I truly never let it sink in that I would never again get to experience the joy of having sex with Mark. The instant I realized this unfortunate truth, it pissed me off. Days later, it still does, so much so that I can’t even dabble in penning the stories of my widowed promiscuity until this chapter is complete, or at least acknowledged. I’ve had all these fantasies about how funny it would be to tell people about my “list” or how every guy on it has a code name, much like anybody who makes an appearance in my blog. I’m proud of how much I’ve ventured out sexually and have lots to share. I do so in person, but the thought of writing it all down for people to read… EEK!

Now I see, though, that what’s in the way of me doing that, the perfect starting point for me to share all the fun stuff, is this:

Mark and I had really great sex. The first time we ever had sex was in a car on a main road near the beach on Halloween. I can’t drive by there without thinking about it and chuckling. Most of my memories of sex with him were spectacular, and the rest of the time, sex was almost nonexistent. Mark was depressed, though I didn’t realize it at the time. I just thought he was stressed. When he was lying about everything and I couldn’t figure out what was wrong, our sex life essentially died. At one point, I kicked him out of the house for a week, and then we had the most glorious make-up sex that ever was on the living room floor. But then it went back to normal, with him being secretive and distant. I missed our sex life then. I miss it now. Not often, but I do. There were some things with him that haven’t been repeated with anybody else.

I’m wiling to inquire into how my own thoughts and expectations might be getting in the way of some really great orgasms, but I assert that the main issue is that most guys seriously don’t know what they’re doing. There really should be classes they can take to learn to navigate a vagina. Heck, maybe I’ll even teach it.

Since losing Mark, my sex life has been quite an adventure. Simply put, I want to have fun. I may have taken things to a bit of an extreme for a while, but for the most part, I prefer freed-up, slutty Maggie to the wholesome good girl I was before. She was so uptight and boring. Life is short. I get that now. As long as you’re safe, there’s no good reason you can’t have as much sex as you want. I watch people being concerned about things that won’t matter on their death beds and find myself telling them things like, “HAVE MORE SEX!”

Seriously! People about to die often say things like, “Eat more bacon and have more sex.”

At least they do on TV shows. Whomever is saying it, it’s full of wisdom and is a philosophy that quite inspires me. I myself plan to live that way. I regularly savor the goodness of bacon, and I venture out sexually as often as I can. It’s worth noting that while I was super depressed last year, sex wasn’t even on my radar, and I didn’t even care. But once I got myself sorted out and socializing again, the next round of sexcapades began quite naturally. It’s been great ever since.

Even when it’s not! And oh boy, sometimes it’s not.

But that’s a blog for another day. The way I see it, there’s a whole world to sex. It’s like a buffet. You can sample all different flavors and side dishes. Try a new sauce or seasoning. Some are delicious and worth indulging in. Some are an acquired taste. Some are so bad that they leave you longing for the flavors of yesteryear. But most stuff at the buffet is pretty good and at least don’t come with any regret, so you may as well start sampling what you can and see what you like. Life is short. Go have fun!