When my husband Tom had a massive stroke and died, I expected to feel devastated. I expected to feel a roller coaster of emotions — joy for the 12 years we had together, despair over never seeing him again, full-body laughter remembering how he took up knife sharpening as a hobby after his stroke, seemingly unending tears over my imperfections as a caregiver. I expected some friends to drift away while others would surprise me with their unwavering presence, showing up with lasagnas and placing late-night phone calls when I needed them most. I was warned quickly about the maddening paperwork.
But nobody mentioned the fire I would feel in my loins less than two months later.
I remember exactly when it happened. I’d spent most of the day curled up on the couch with my phone, scrolling through photos of Tom and me together and bawling my eyes out. And then, with tears still running down my cheeks, I felt a pulsing, urgent need that seemed wildly inappropriate given the circumstances. And yet there it was: desire, burning through me with an intensity that left me breathless.
That feeling stayed with me for nearly a year. For a year, I was horny. All. The. Time.
It was as though my body had suddenly remembered it was alive while my heart was still learning how to beat on its own. The contrast was jarring. I’d spend hours sobbing while sorting through his things and then take a break to masturbate.
