Horny widow dating

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Soft jazz warms the air. Conversation fills the room, yet the collective sound of all those voices seems to hum more than speak. The clicks of our heels echo off the dark slate floor Horny widow dating telegraph our arrival. Surrounded by rich cherry paneling and eager servers, all dressed in black with white aprons, we do not fit in with the suited clientele, men and women, enjoying small-plate meals and drinks. The occasional tinkling of glass rims rings above tables and als a deal or a sealed alliance. Our closets ransacked; our indecisiveness tossed onto the floors.

We dug out dressy clothes shoved into the back or hidden behind everyday jeans and casual tops—blouses with a line of dust from more hanging than wearing, Sunday best slacks had to be either cinched to the last belt hole or tossed aside for an elastic waist band skirt. All three of us, retirees, were excited to enjoy a leisurely mid-day meal. Besides the need to be out in new surroundings, besides our delight that someone else has purchased, prepared, and will clean up our meal, and besides our hunger for comedy providing anything from a chuckle to laughter rising from our toes, we share something else: all three of us lost our husbands while we were in our fifties.

Horny widow dating

Mary Lou is taller than me, but arthritis has curved her back. The three of us met at a weekly support group, where teary stories of loss are disclosed and bonds created. Nor is it the proverbial Stages of Grief. Finding simple joy in the day? And at your age. No one acknowledged the obvious. Men complain that they wish they could, too, but compensate by laying her clothes under the covers or on the pillow on her side of the bed. All of us have stepped into closets, hugged their clothes, inhaled the memories of our loves ones, and collapsed onto the floor in tears.

Pheromones float in and out between the chairs and across the tables in the room, Horny widow dating us back to our bodies, to remember the heat rising from our groins, the excitement of hands gliding down to pull hips to hips, and the smell of day-old sex. I enjoyed lovemaking with Jack and missed the good sex before cancer and its treatment ruined it. Perhaps some of my peers had negative experiences and were actually relieved that, with death, they no longer faked enjoyment or lying still as a willing spouse. Death was a release from an obligation.

But that, too, needs to be said aloud. Over here! Pick me! Back in those days, we were trying to breathe in our constricting strapless bras, hoping our dress stayed up over our flat chests. Now, breasts are less of a problem than liver spots, wrinkles, and need for glasses to see what is right in front of us. But I do. As a young adult, I was aghast at the thought of Horny widow dating parents having sex; but now, after five decades of life, I see the immaturity of my thinking.

Sex, the need and the want, is ageless. I am a physical being and enjoy my body in motion, whether it is racing the wind, digging into the earth, or lovemaking. This is just who I am. We held hands when walking together and made love on a regular basis. We were both frustrated sharing a bed with the side effects of cancer. After months of tears, the deep grief began to wane. I began to want to remove the black veil off my body. Nary a word. I wanted the pleasure my body could give. I had stored memories to re-enact making love with my absent husband, feeling Jack inside me. I kept our sex life alive.

But typically tears followed: opening my eyes after an orgasm, I saw the ceiling, not Jack. I withered inside, the post-orgasmic glow was extinguished. I was given the reminder that sex was another item on the long list of things I now had to do alone. For now. Molly diverts her eyes to the tabletop, stirring circles into the salad dressing in one corner of her plate with her fork. A reddening tide has begun to rise from her neck. I snicker. I have to wonder what it would be like to have a new lover. Knowing men my age.

Reynolds, are you sexually active? Because you have syphilis.

Horny widow dating

Those images have me backing away from whatever Molly is doing in her bedroom. They might snicker over what they think the oldsters are talking about: Best places for senior discount? Comparing grandkids? Fish for me. As for my friends and I, we are anxious for the day when we slip off our flannel nighties, let camisoles ripple over our breasts, the hardened nipples on a body waiting to be naked, waiting to be touched, again.

When my silk slips off, it will be skin touching skin, his on mine, his in mine.

Horny widow dating

The quilts will be tossed aside; shared body heat will radiate between the sheets. A single taper candle will scent the room and will provide light enough to hold the moment together. Tally R. Reblogged this on Thea Brooke. You are commenting using your WordPress. You are commenting using your Google. You are commenting using your Twitter. You are commenting using your Facebook. Notify me of new comments via. Notify me of new posts via. The same goes for sex and widows. But no one says anything aloud. Not in that room. Mary Lou and I nudge her.

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Horny widow dating

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