Diary of a Widower

Daily entries by a husband, who stayed behind with his two sons

Archive for the category “Sex”

Pre-nuptial shower shag

MONDAY, September 6 – It can be quite a perilous undertaking, making love in the shower. Like dancing on a slippery cord. Not long after C and I met for the first time, in France, we escaped to a bathroom, where we found the first opportunity to be together physically. The unsuspecting children were playing in the pool.

Every time we stand there under the warm jets of water, I think back to that memorable moment.  Just as now, one thing led to another, but this time it was a recollection of Jennifer that surfaced.  Perversely and at random, memory tapped me on the shoulder, taking me back to the sole occasion when Jenn and I made love under the shower.

It was the evening before our wedding. A pre-nuptial shag in the shower. Just to get that out of the way. And those goings-on took place exactly fourteen years ago. Bizarre the cold shivers that suddenly ran down my spine.

Sex on my mind. Only sex

SUNDAY, August 15 – Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fucking heaven! Yeah, any objections?!

Making love. Everywhere

SATURDAY, July 10 – Call it idyllic. I’ve flown to the south of France this morning. Under the olive trees, fourteen steps away from the swimming pool, the sun that winks at us under the parasol. Our tempo is lazy now that my children are three thousand miles from here and hers are with their father. We kiss.

We saunter via the kitchen to the bedroom, where we make love. And then we stroll to the pool to rinse the sweat away.  Recover in the sun, where again we can’t keep our hands off each other, and now feeling sheltered enough under the tall hedges. And so, we pass our days drinking wine, eating, making love, sleeping, cuddling. It’s permitted. We’re allowed to live.

‘Smiling’ at the moon

SUNDAY, June 27 – On our way from Nice to Amsterdam, one day later than originally planned.  Saturday had turned into one long, exhausting ‘smile day’ waking up in the morning, enjoying the afternoon siesta, and gathered around the pool, by the light of a full moon.

Beyond longing for sex

SUNDAY, June 13 – My bedsprings creaked as a result of all my tossing and turning, and I woke up to find myself in a state of extreme confusion. Under the shower I rinsed away my nocturnal fatigue, ran a towel over my face, and looked in the mirror. Then it became clear.

It’s so simple, flirting with single colleagues and mothers in the schoolyard, and sampling various other romantic possibilities.  It’s satisfying, enjoyable, sexy, and good for your ego. But God almighty, how do you keep it up? How do you combine it with work. With children?  And why?  What’s the object of the exercise?

In her book You Can Call me Anytime, author and widow Karin Kuiper says that the patience of the people around you usually lasts about six months. They figure that the period of mourning ought to be over, and before long the potential partners descend on you like flies on molasses. And she’s right. I’ve seen it happen. And while it’s fun, in the long term it doesn’t get you anywhere.

This is something I realized during a long telephone conversation with C. I’d been corresponding with her for some time by email. She’s a recent divorcee with two daughters. At the moment they live in France, but they’ll soon be moving to Amsterdam. This morning was the first time we’d spoken to each other. It’s clear that we have a number of things in common, but we have more to offer each other than consolation. We are genuinely interested in each other, and this morning under the shower I was conscious of a kind of turning point in my present life:  one step back in superficiality in exchange for one step forward towards potential love

19.30 – Damn it, stomach ache. I mustn’t let on. Stomach ache due to nerves, but I see to it that my face is all smiles. Again and again I emphasize how jealous I am and what a lucky dog he is to be able to go on the trip. He just nods.

The youngest son is going on a class trip.

Not a day trip to an amusement park, but three days in Brussels, for Space Camp to learn what it’s like to be an astronaut. The high point is the micro-gravity experience:  the sense of being weightless. That’s what he’s really looking forward to. Just as I’m looking forward to the moment when I can put my arms around him again. Damn it! Why am I so worried? He wants to go, he’s enthusiastic, he’s going to be away three nights and he’s excited that he’ll be sharing a room with two of his best friends. So what’s the problem?

I pace back and forth holding the letter from school, with the list of things he’s supposed to take along and another list with the things he’s not allowed to bring.  Sleeping bag, pillowcase, mattress sheet, shoes with white soles, three pairs of underpants plus one extra, socks, three T shirts and an extra pair of pants go into the sports bag. In his backpack he’ll have his Dutch passport, a copy of his insurance card, and twenty euros for the souvenir shop. Cell phones are taboo, but they’ve made an exception for Eamonn.

He’s raring to go. But I’m not. I remember how he came home holding the letter in which the space camp was announced.  He was simply wild about the idea. Jenn and I exchanged glances, thinking how big our little guy was getting. We had all sorts of plans for those three days. We would have no problem finding an address for Sander for three days.

In the week after her death Eamonn announced that he would definitely not be going. He didn’t feel like going anymore and he couldn’t bear the thought of being away from home for even one night. Far away from me.  I said: we’ll see how you feel when the time comes.

And now that the time has come, I’m grateful and deliriously happy that he’s looking forward to the trip. Which is why I have a stomach ache.

Old trick of the one-night stand

SATURDAY, May 15 – I’d forgotten how boisterously the conjugal bed can creak when used with great frivolity. That’s the art of the one-night stand. You’re spun off into another direction like you’ve stepped onto the wrong tram and find yourself headed in the other direction. Fun. Man lives by hope. Ha!

Sex in the park (not me)

SATURDAY, May 1, 2010 – A stroll through Beatrixpark at dusk. Elsa the dog leads the way and  opts for a path we usually pass by.  She’s curious and passes a row of shrubs and then a small open field where a couple are fucking shamelessly and with abandon.

She’s sitting on top of her boyfriend and panting, and as she comes she looks up and gives me a friendly nod.

Being together – whether it’s lying in the park or sitting on a bench… That evening I feel engulfed by sadness as I make up my queen-sized bed. I still sleep on the same side, at most appropriating a bit more of the sheet. The selflessness of a recovering widower. The pillow next to me serves as a backrest, when I want to read for a while. The other half is reserved for what might later come my way.

My deranged but sexy knee

FRIDAY, April 16 – Sports massage at home. G is a fantastic – and  merciless – masseur. This time he tackles not only my back and arms, but also my calves. You can’t put anything over on G: my body speaks the truth. He can tell that I once injured my left knee.

Overstretched, I say.  The diagnosis was a ‘deranged knee’.

We have a good laugh.  He wants to know how it happened and I grin at the thought. My wife once sat down on my knee.  I think back to the day she put a torn-out magazine article on the nightstand:  ‘Ten positions that will spice up your sex life … with illustrations’.  It proved more complicated than we expected, but still fun until my knee ‘gave way’. I cherish the injury, which still rears its head from time to time. The body never lies.

Entitled to guilt-free sex?

SUNDAY, April 4 – K was talking about vulnerability, something that’s assumed to be  primarily a feminine sensation. A woman wants to surrender, a man wants to conquer, and yet, when it comes to sex, there’s a kind of mental block  for her and for me. It’s probably a question of relaxation and creating total trust between us so that we can make love without thinking about it. Another new experience.

For me, thinking about it entails all sorts of problems. During sex an alarm bell suddenly goes off. A small voice says, ‘Hey, Overdiek, what do you think you’re doing?’  It’s not a reproach or a warning, but simply a reminder. I am with someone, inside someone while for almost nineteen years I had shared a bed with the same person.

After all that time sex was, of course, no longer an adventure. It was planned, prearranged, and perfunctory, but nonetheless it was no less intimate or pleasurable for that. All this was going through my head last night.

‘Do you feel guilty?’ K asked, not for the first time.  No. One hundred percent no! Why should I? Intimacy, affection, caresses, a good screw: these are things that every human being – every body – is entitled to and needs.  At least, I do.

The widower and his pubic hair

SATURDAY, April 3 – So, now we’re talking about the pubic area. Nothing to be ashamed of.  Not really. But one of the first things K said to me when we disrobed on her living room couch was: ‘Hey, you’re not shaved.’

Apparently I’m out of fashion or rather I’ve never been in fashion.  It’s not a department I pay much attention to. The hairy part that is.

That is until now. Suddenly, I find myself in a situation where, as a newcomer in the marketplace of unattached lovers, I have to worry about my dick. Can’t hurt to google the pros and cons – and the risks, if any.  Christ! It’s a whole new world!  The research leans in the direction of ‘shave’.  So, off I go to the drugstore to check out the possibilities.

Examining the merchandise on display, I resolve not to be stingy.  I go for the most expensive razor, plus accessories like shaving gel and after-care products. It’s going to itch.  I remember that from the operation in 2003, when the spermatic chord was blocked and the whole area depilated. First I tackle the bunches of pubic hair while standing under the shower. Then it’s time for the razor blade and the gel.

It didn’t sound like fun:  delicate procedure, possibly life-threatening. I could already see the blood flowing, but it wasn’t half as bad as I expected. It took a while, but the results were worth it.  Reborn and eminently trendy.  I’m going to show it to K tonight.

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