Sitting on the edge of the bed
Looking at my toes
Forgot to shave my legs
Wearing his T-shirt
Wet hair frames my face where water got through the shower cap.
I remember when I decided to treat myself to £200 worth of sex toys. I ordered the famous Rabbit, a couple of dildo vibrators, and a big silicone dick with balls and a suction cup attached that I guess you can use to stick it to… the floor? The wall? I didn’t get very far with it. It hurt too much to be able to shove in without being really turned on. I even tried lube, but it didn’t matter. What else did I get? Gadgets claiming to be like wagging tongues that flap and vibrate. They all sucked. All of them. I threw half of them away recently. I couldn’t exactly offer them to friends or sell them online. I tried watching porn and using the fake dick but just couldn’t get into it. It was a sad moment. There is nothing like the real thing. I guess I have lost my sexual spark and don’t have much of an interest. It has been too long now and it’s as though my body is giving up hope. My 32-year-old vagina is giving up on me.
What I’m really missing is the connection with another body and another soul.
I had the best sex with him thousands of times, but never will again.
It hasn’t helped having our new-born baby in the next room. The longer I stay up in bed trying to discover any remaining sexual desires within myself, the more tired I will be when the baby cries out at 5am, wanting to start his day. I’m a night owl. That has been ruined, too. I don’t get to have sex, I don’t get to sleep in, and I don’t get to search for any stillness within my grief through a deep breath over a cup of black coffee.
The only reason I could sit on the edge of the bed this morning and reflect on that online sex toy purchase is because I checked myself into a hotel last night and left the baby with friends. I had romantic notions of locking myself away and having time to reflect, cry, soak, write, masturbate, sleep. I brought one vibrator and never used it. I’m just tired. I slept for a solid 12 hours. I don’t know if I feel refreshed and therefore more myself again... because I don’t really know who I am now. Is it weird to feel guilty about working on becoming a better version of myself? What if I end up preferring the new, stronger me? Even though it wasn’t my choice to lose him. It went against everything I wanted for my life. But somehow I know I will come out of this a better person. What if that means that it’s ok that he died? It’s not ok that he died.
He will never touch me again. I do a lot for myself these days but I can’t grab myself, pull myself in close and wrap myself in big, strong arms. I can’t kiss myself passionately the way I deserve to be kissed.
My body loves to be loved and there is no one to love it.