Widow in the City

Hey, everyone! Narratively Editorial Director Brendan Spiegel here. I’m so excited to share this new story — an excerpt from Amy Gabrielle’s just-published memoir, “Widow in the City: A Memoir of Heartbreaks and Hookups.” I worked with Amy on a developmental edit of an early draft of her book, so it’s been extra special to see her revise the book, finish it, publish it and celebrate her launch. On May 21 at Narratively Academy, Amy will join me for an Open Book live conversation about how she got her book published and out into the world. Hope you enjoy reading this one!Photos courtesy Amy Gabrielle | Story edited by Brendan SpiegelThe intercom buzzes twice, but before I answer it, I take one last look in the mirror. The woman looking back at me is wearing a sexy maid’s costume. I’ve never owned anything like it, and I almost don’t recognize myself.A year ago, my husband, Steven, and I celebrated our son’s ninth birthday as a happy family of three. Six months ago, he prepared his special homemade lasagna for our thirteenth wedding anniversary. Three months ago, I joined Bumble. A month ago, I joined Feeld, a kink-friendly dating app. Two weeks ago, I matched with a new man and sent him naked photos of myself. Last week, I secretly sexted while out to lunch with my colleagues. And now here I am in the middle of the afternoon about to have sex with a stranger in my bedroom.How did everything change so quickly?“Incurable cancer,” the doctors said. “Three to five years.”We were hoping for five. We only got three.I thought I knew how I would react when Steven died. I imagined being grief stricken, of course, and perhaps unable to function for a short time. Then, I would start to heal slowly and resume my regularly scheduled life. My plan was to get through the year of “firsts without my husband” (holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, etc.) and then I could move forward with a new man. But grief was nothing like I expected.Three months after Steven died, my brother came into the city for a visit. He was worried because I had distanced myself from most of my friends and he thought I was spending too much time alone. When he recommended I sign up for Bumble, the dating app, I wasn’t opposed to the idea.“You can go on a few dates and get out of the apartment,” he said. The truth was, I had already started to think about other men. I was lonely, and still angry at Steven for leaving me, whether that made sense or not.At the same time, I felt emboldened to do whatever I wanted. At 54, I was still very much alive. For some people it may have seemed too soon to start dating, but after everything I had been through it felt right for me.“OK,” I said, handing him my phone. “Just take a couple of photos for my profile, I don’t have any recent ones of just me.”A week later I sat drinking alone at a local Mexican restaurant as I waited for my first date in 14 years. When Jay walked in, my first thought was that everything about him was average. Average height, average weight, average hair, average clothes. I could have passed him on the street every day and never noticed him.We exchanged a few pleasantries about the weather and then moved on to the get-to-know-you questions.“What kind of work do you do, Jay?” I wasn’t that into him, but if I was going to throw myself into the dating pool I had to start somewhere.“I’m an educator at a museum.” I mentally gave him points for working in the arts. “Nice. I handle the finances for a small grant-making institute at Columbia University’s Graduate School of Journalism. Are you from New York?”“No, I’m from Tampa, Florida, but I’ve lived here for 10 years. And you?”“From New York, born and raised. How about your family, do you have any siblings?”“I have a sister and three brothers. Well, two brothers now — one of them died two years ago. Colon cancer.” That got my attention. I already knew he was 53, divorced for four years, with dual custody of his two teenage daughters.He knew I was recently single and had a son, but not that I was a widow. I wondered, since he had mentioned cancer, if this was a good time to tell him. It felt like such a big part of my identity now, and I felt uncomfortable keeping it a secret.“I’m so sorry about your brother. I know how devastating cancer can be...” I paused and took a swig of my beer. “So, um, I am recently single because my husband died from soft tissue sarcoma, a rare form of cancer.”“Oh! Gosh, I am so sorry,” he said. “It really does suck. As a matter of fact, I finished treatment for skin cancer on my back six months ago.”I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.He was the first to break the awkward silence. “I am totally fine now. The doctor said they got all of it, and chemo killed any lingering cells.”Was he trying to reassure me — or himself — that he wasn’t going to die too?“Oh, I’m so glad you’re OK. What a relief!” I said, flashing him my best smile.But my smile was completely fake. I wasn’t concerned about his future because I knew there was no way I would ever see him again. I absolutely could not dive back into cancer-land, no way, no how.Ping!The next day I got a notification from Bumble; I had a new match. His name was Joel. I pulled up his profile to refresh my memory and saw he was a redheaded cutie. Also, he was 38. Sixteen years younger than me. For a moment the age difference gave me pause, but then I thought, I don’t have to marry him.Women had to send the first message. Why was it so hard to decide what to write?“Hey, what are you up to on this fine Wednesday afternoon?” Ugh, Amy?A few seconds later he sent a voice message. I’d never seen that before. Even though I was alone in my apartment, I felt the need for privacy. I put on my noise-canceling headphones and pressed play.“Hi, I’m so glad you matched with me. You look cool. I’m doing well, what’s going on with you?”The headphones made it sound like he was standing right next to me, whispering in my ear. His voice was very deep, and I couldn’t help thinking he sounded sexy. A man’s voice has always been a thing with me. High-pitched and whiny was a nonstarter, and I remembered the excitement I felt when I heard Steven’s even tone for the first time.Before I could decide how to respond, he sent another voice message: “Hey, we should get together. When are you free?”Do I dare send him a flirty voice message back?I tapped the microphone icon and said in my sultriest voice, “My schedule is flexible, what’s good for you?”“Wow! I didn’t expect you to sound like that, oh man...”He thought I sounded hot! I couldn’t help but feel proud of myself.I replied, “I wasn’t expecting your voice to be so deep. I guess we all have our secrets. There are other things about me that are not in my profile either.”This was the most carefree and sexy I had felt in years.It would be a couple of weeks before our schedules aligned to meet in person, so Joel and I continued to exchange voice messages. Our conversations became increasingly sexual, until we decided our first “date” would be in my apartment from 10 o’clock in the morning until I had to pick up my son at 3.“Imagine I’m tracing my tongue slowly from your mouth, down to your chest, your stomach…” I let my voice trail off.“Actually, I like it rough and dirty.”Not the response I was expecting, but I was curious for more details.“Oh! How rough?”“Nothing too extreme,” he said. “Just some light BDSM. Spanking and hair pulling.”That doesn’t sound bad at all, I thought to myself.Joel continued, “Hey, do you want to see the uncropped version?”In one of his profile photos, Joel was wearing a Stay Puft Marshmallow Man costume from the movie Ghostbusters. It was cut off at the waist, but now he offered a view below the belt.“Yes please,” I said in my most sultry voice.No one had ever sent me a dick pic before, so I wasn’t sure why so many women hated them. I guess it depended on who sent it, and in what context. I don’t think texting naughty photos was a thing back in 2007 when Steven and I met on JDate. Even if some guys were doing it, Steven was not. He was quite shy.I was more experienced sexually, but I liked Steven’s innocence. He didn’t sexualize me the way other men did, which I appreciated. Before he got sick, we had an “OK” sex life, but in truth I wanted it to be a little spicier. There were times when I wished he had been able to see me as both a person with thoughts and feelings and as a sexual being.Being a mom and working full-time left little mental energy for sexual fantasies. I also believed we had a long future together and that maybe one day we’d have more time and energy to explore those aspects of our relationship. Now that I knew life could be ripped away unexpectedly, I was open to exploring and discovering the parts of myself that made me feel more alive.I clicked on the picture Joel sent. He wasn’t wearing boxers under the flimsy white onesie costume, and his giant boner was pitching a tent over his crotch. I assumed he hadn’t left the house looking like that. I couldn’t stop staring at the photo and was surprised by the thoughts running through my head. Suddenly, I didn’t care that he was 16 years younger than me.I did feel self-conscious about my body. I had neglected myself for so long, I wasn’t even sure what it looked like anymore. I walked down the long hallway to my bathroom mirror and stared at my reflection. Braless, my erect nipples were clearly visible under the stretched material. I snapped a headless selfie of my chest and sent it to Joel. I had never done anything remotely like this before, and I wondered if I would regret it later. At that moment, though, it felt not only normal, but like the most exciting thing in the world I could do.I’d had no choice about Steven’s cancer diagnosis and his death. I had stayed by him through all of it, doing my best despite my fear and pain, but now, all of a sudden, I did have choices. I could choose how I moved forward.I wanted to feel free to indulge in what brought me pleasure; hadn’t I earned that? Maybe I was expected to be my normal old self, but she was gone.No one understood that a part of me had died too, and that the part that was still here didn’t care about being polite.I realized now that anticipatory grief had been my constant companion for three years. The anxiety before each CT scan and the fear of what his death would look like were such heavy burdens. Now that the worst had happened, I felt a sense of relief in having survived. Then I felt so guilty for associating any sense of relief with Steven’s death. There was a duality in grief I hadn’t expected.Part of me also felt invincible, not because I believed that nothing bad would ever happen again, but for the exact opposite reason. I had a deep knowledge in my bones that when horrible things did happen, I would survive. My armor had been forged in unspeakable pain. As time marched forward, I felt a desire to strip it off, piece by piece.More and more of my time was spent chatting and sexting with Joel. It had been a long time, at least three years, since I’d felt at all connected to my body and sexuality. Text conversations with Joel made me feel like I was coming back to life, reminding me of the carefree, flirty fun I discovered in college.I had been an art history major and was used to seeing paintings and statues of classical nudes. I never thought they were dirty or subversive. As things unfolded with Joel, I realized that I wanted him to see me that way, as a work of art. I wanted to see myself that way too.I went into my bedroom, took my shirt off, and laid down on my bed. I held up my phone and snapped a photo of my chest. It was okay, but I wanted artistry. I started experimenting — light, angles, pillows under my back — until the photos felt less like snapshots and more like something intentional, something I wanted to be seen.I put my free hand between my legs while altering my position slightly as I continued to take photos. I was happy with most of them, but one was especially well framed. When I texted it to Joel, he loved it just as much as I did.More than ever, I felt the need to be physical with a man, and I was glad Joel would be coming over in a couple of days. I didn’t want to think about death anymore. I just wanted someone to bang some life back into me. Was that asking too much?The morning of our rendezvous, a few days before Christmas, was cold and raw. My hands and cheeks were pink from the icy wind, even though I wasn’t out for long. I dropped my son off at coding camp and had an hour and a half to get ready before Joel would arrive.I walked down the long hallway to my bathroom and stripped naked, leaning into the rain shower to test the water temperature. I hadn’t readied my body for a new man in over 14 years. Pulling the skin folds between my legs taut, I shaved the area clean and smooth. Next, I lathered my legs from ankle to thigh. First one, then the other, I pulled the razor up in long strokes until each was bare of soap and stubble.The steam from the hot water billowed over the shower’s glass door, fogging up the full-length mirror. Pulling my long cotton robe to me, I wrapped it around my body, cinching it tightly at the waist against the chill coming in through the frosted windows.I walked back into the warmth of my bedroom and turned on the light inside my walk-in closet. It was mostly empty. I’d shed a lot of my clothes and shoes during the pandemic. I was barely going outside, and my twice-a-day Zoom staff meetings meant I could wear anything, or nothing, from the waist down.There was only one outfit hanging from the longest garment bar, a sexy maid’s costume with a headband covered in frilly white lace. I had not bought it at Joel’s request, although I hoped it would be a pleasant surprise.I had decided that it would feel easier to pretend I was someone else rather than try to forget that my husband had recently died. I wanted to keep my social life separate from my reality as a widowed mother. I had never owned anything like that maid’s costume before, and I loved it.In retrospect, that costume was quite chaste compared to later purchases I’d make, especially because this time I paired it with black kitten heels, the only “dressy” shoes I owned.It was an impulse purchase born out of my dawning understanding of what might turn Joel on. In a world gone a thousand shades of gray, I was grateful for the absoluteness of opposites: black and white, soft and hard, dominant and submissive. I knew my role, and I was ready to play.I had no idea how these next few hours would play out. It’s not that we never talked about sex, because we did. Joel suggested I craft a few paragraphs describing exactly what I wanted him to do to me, but I didn’t want to. I was exhausted — all the time. I had to be in control of everything in my life now; all of life’s daily admin and taking care of my son fell solely on my shoulders. I felt like I was being crushed under the weight of it. Was it too much to ask for him to write a few paragraphs? Apparently, it was.“If I’m in control,” Joel said, “then I’m not going to tell you what I’m going to do ahead of time. You’ll have to trust me and have a safe word.”I thought he was probably just being lazy, but I still didn’t have it in me to write out instructions for him.“Do you have a safe word?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine a scenario where he would need to use one.“Banana,” he answered, “I like to keep it playful.”“OK, then my safe word is cherry,” I said.I was both scared and excited at the thought of giving up complete control in the way he was suggesting, something I’d never done before. I also liked having secrets. They made me feel badass and slightly reckless. No one from my old life as Steven’s wife would suspect me of having a safe word. They probably didn’t even know what that meant. I could be whoever I wanted in this costume, in this apartment that I paid for on my own. I made the rules here.My knowledge of BDSM was limited, but I watched a few YouTube videos by people who “lived the lifestyle.” I discovered the Dominant had the illusion of being in control, but they could not do anything without the Submissive’s consent. This appealed to me because I could get out of my head, and I wouldn’t have to think about anything. I could just submit and let things unfold — safely.Of course, this arrangement was usually worked out ahead of time; I supposed that’s why I had a safe word. I normally had a high tolerance for pain, so I hoped I wouldn’t need to use mine. There was also that majorly screwed-up part of me that believed I let Steven die and should be punished. I did have some vague awareness of this belief at that time, but I didn’t want to question it then.I just wanted to experience a life that was my own, a life that wasn’t so tied to my memories of Steven and who I had been with him. I had no choice but to create a new me, a woman who could navigate the world without being in excruciating pain.Buzz, buzz!Taking my eyes off the mirror, I open the thick metal door into a tiny vestibule. Joel is smiling, his eyes mischievous as he scans my body from head to toe. “I like the costume,” he says as I step aside to let him in. I am relieved to see he looks just like his profile pictures.He is a little taller than Steven, and bulkier. I take his coat and notice his wide shoulders and tight butt beneath his jeans. What a hottie. His red facial hair matches the short, cropped hair on his head, and I imagine he’s also a real redhead below the waist.Damn, he looks young. I can’t tell if he really does have a baby face or if I am just hyperaware of our 16-year age difference. His nose is long and straight, and I wonder if his ancestors were dukes or earls. He has a high forehead, but without a hint of a receding hairline. His lips are full and pink. What would he do to me if I bit the lower one? It isn’t easy for me to hold back, but I know enough about the game we are playing to understand that he has to be the one to take the lead.I offer Joel a seat on the couch while I sit on top of the coffee table opposite him. I look down and notice a medium-sized duffle bag at his feet. I feel a shiver of anticipation as I imagine what might be inside.Our conversation comes easily, and eventually he pulls me into a slow, sensuous kiss. The feel of his erection straining beneath his pants pushes all other thoughts away. I am fully present, living in the moment for the first time in months, maybe even years. There is no past to long for, no lost future to mourn, just what is happening between us at this moment.We make our way down the long hallway, but he stops me at the threshold to my bedroom. I know my behavior is risky, but I trust my instincts that he isn’t a dangerous man. Joel swings the duffle bag over his left shoulder and pulls me to his right side. In one swift movement he lifts me off my feet and carries me like a baby to the bed. I am a little afraid he is going to throw me onto it, but he puts me down gently.I’m not sure what to do so I watch as he finishes undressing. I can see that he is indeed a redhead below the waist. He catches me staring and laughs. “I guess it’s been a while since you’ve seen one of these,” he says, grabbing his erection in one hand. I feel a little embarrassed because it’s true, but I don’t look away.He bends over, unzips the duffle bag and pulls out the largest vibrator I’ve ever seen. I assume it is a vibrator, although it looks like it can knead a knot out of my back.“Is there an outlet behind the bed?” he asks.“Yes, it’s here. I’ll plug it in,” I say, reaching out my hand. Once it’s plugged in, I turn to hand it back to him, but he is putting on a condom.A few seconds later he’s maneuvering the vibrator between my legs. It feels good but is a little faster than I am used to. It isn’t unpleasant, but I am beginning to remember that sex isn’t usually that great with someone the first time. Our sexting was fantasy, and I realize we don’t know each other’s sexual preferences. He didn’t want to discuss it ahead of time anyway.I’ve heard stories about other widows crying the first time they had sex with a new person after their partner died, but that isn’t my experience. I think I’m making progress, and checking one more “first time since Steven died” off my list. I feel happy, almost giddy.Joel may have been the first man I was with as a widow, but he will not be the last. I make it a habit to write down each new lover’s name in a small Moleskine notebook I keep on my bedside table. I become successful at attracting men, but my fear of another loss causes me to push them away before they can leave me.I will experiment with small whips, collars and a variety of sex toys while role playing. Then, I will quit dating apps and men after that first year as a widow. Devoid of male companionship, my second year as a widow is full of new lingerie and sexy cosplay outfits. I will become borderline obsessed with taking pictures of myself, amassing a collection of images in the thousands. I’d always just worn cotton underwear when Steven was alive, confident in my own skin and in my marriage. After his death, these small strips of material and lace make me feel desirable again, while my photo shoots motivate me to get into the shower on a regular basis.Now, four and a half years after Steven died, I understand something about grief that I didn’t during that first year: I felt better early on because I had hope. Not the vague, inspirational poster kind of hope. A specific hope — that I would re-partner, resume my life along the same trajectory, pick up something close to what I’d lost. The dating, the hookups, the reclaiming of myself, all of it was fueled by that belief. That the grief I felt after Steven’s death was a detour, not a destination.I know now that I’m not resuming anything. Life isn’t going back to its old shape. It’s becoming something else, something I can’t fully see yet. That’s not bad, exactly. But it’s scary in a way the early grief wasn’t. Fortunately, bravery does not require the absence of fear. I trust myself to feel it and move forward anyway.This story is excerpted from my memoir about reclaiming desire after devastating loss, Widow in the City, A Memoir of Heartbreaks and Hookups. If you’ve ever felt like two completely different people at the same time, Widow in the City is for you. Even if the person who wrote it is still figuring it out.Buy the BookOn May 21 at 1 p.m. ET, Amy will join Narratively Academy for a special live “Open Book” conversation about how she finished her memoir, landed a deal and launched her book. Click here to add to your calendar and join us on May 21.Add to Your Calendar