I was in my late 30s when my husband of seven years died unexpectedly. He had been unwell for years, but not terminally ill, so his death was a shock and left me numb, unable to fathom physical intimacy. Several months after losing him, I could have put my hand on the hob and not felt a thing.
Seven months on, a confused Adonis 12 years my junior followed me around like a puppy on my summer travels, and it dawned on me that a second chance at a fulfilling sex life was mine for the taking. I was flooded with guilt: my husband and I had enjoyed natural intimacy from the start, but over the years our sex life had waned considerably as his physical and mental health issues increased. Miraculously, our sex life experienced a renaissance the month before his death.
A year on, I decided to spend a dirty weekend with an ex with whom I’d had electric sexual chemistry but zero romantic interest. He’d reached out to offer condolences, and I ended up visiting him in the picturesque European village where he’d relocated, joking with friends that I was a sex tourist and he’d “pop my widow cherry”.
After that, the floodgates opened. I had sex several times a week with half a dozen different partners, all met online, most younger than me by between five and 15 years.
Now, having met a wonderful man with whom I envisage a future, I’m finding old habits die hard. After everything that’s happened, I’m questioning whether monogamy is still for me.
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