Sex and Grief

There's a phenomenon called 'widow's fire' which means, in layman's terms that the sudden death of one's spouse makes the widow or widower feel incredibly sexual. It's normal. I've been under Its clutches for at least the last six weeks or so.

Sex equals guilt for me. My Mother is puritannical, thus it was referenced at home but her moral lectures as the late Mr L used to call them were frequent and oh so cutting. Apparently 'women dropping their drawers' was the crime of the century as was fornicating in her house (if piles of crap and stacks of  ten Fray Bentos pies turn you on then you're in luck.) Kinky. As Mr L said, whilst a bit drunk "she hardly held herself back when she was servicing that American Airman in the late 1960s." Naughty old Mother.

I'll be completely honest and say that my intimate life has been very dull for a number of years. I guess that it's par for the course when one marries another civil servant, especially one fifteen years your senior?  Personally, I always relished the juxtaposition between the boredom and technicality of meetings with the absolute filth fest which was going on in my mind. Edging was one: that's that delicious gap between the build up and the climax of an orgasm. The best orgasms are always achieved solo I have found; if I leave it for two or so weeks the release is unbelievable - so many deep contractions. Utter bliss.

Today marks the first anniversary - he fell down dead in the sitting room at noonish. Master L, sixteen at the time, was there too. There were no ambulances available as it was New Year's Day. He had no pulse. He was stiff and his body, grey. 

I miss him every day, but things change. I feel an awful sense of guilt, but he's never coming back, is he?  If he did it would be the ultimate prank. Mind you, I wouldn't put it past him. Git. 

Bob - I will always love you.