I don’t want to remember the good times we had; it fills me with angst recalling the bad. I have no wish to replay the memories of our drinking pints in the pub, arguing about film and politics all night. I want to avoid my guilt about not contacting him for so long even though I said I would be in touch. I won’t spend all waking hours racking my brain to understand why, or how, or if something or someone could have prevented it: I don’t need answers, because the end result will always be the same. I don’t want to be consumed by the thought of those he left behind; all those people whose lives he affected, mine included. I refuse to succumb to the grief, to the sadness, to the sensation of being punched, hard. I have no wish to let my tears fall, now.
But I cannot escape the present feeling of being eaten up from the inside; the immediate loss of appetite; the huge lump in my throat. Death is always the same, isn’t it? The loss of someone creates a pain-sized gap, and if it was sudden, it makes the grief all the more hard to swallow.
Some people drown their sorrows in alcohol; others drugs. Others still, find depression their way of coping. Me, however, I turn to that which pleasures me the most: sex. But it’s not about numbing the pain, self-medicating using sex as a distraction from my feelings; rather, it’s about embracing them.
Sex reminds me of what it is that connects us to each other; what makes us vibrant and energised and happy. Sex is about pleasure and closeness and joy. Sex is not just about the intimacy or the satisfying orgasms: it’s about the overwhelming sense of vitality. It is when I feel most alive.
Right now, I want to be with a man; I want to fuck him with fury and with passion and with tenderness. I want to envelop myself in his smell, the sensation of his naked skin, the taste of his lips. I want to press my body to his; feel his heart beating against my breasts. I want to run my hands across his torso; drag his chest hair through my fingertips and gently caress his neck. I want to pull his hips towards me, feel him hard against me and then slide his fingers between my legs to let him know I need him inside me – now.
Some people might think this need makes me some kind of addict; that I use sex as escapism from my problems. Perhaps in this case it’s partly true: I do want to bury my grief. Mostly though, my present desire to fuck someone is not because I am trying to avoid how I feel, but rather, because I want to be in touch with it: thinking and feeling and experiencing what it means to be truly alive. Having a man fuck me until I forget where I am and what I am doing connects me to the living, and right now I need to be reminded of why being alive is something to be valued and enjoyed, not forgotten amongst the grief over the dead.