Content warning: this post contains details of grief, death, suicide, cancer and graphic descriptions of (consensual) sexual activity. If you think that reading about any of the above is too much for you right now, or will trigger traumatic or upsetting memories for you, please do not read this post. 

This is likely to be my last post of 2018, and I’d like to say I’m sorry that it is such a dark one. But the truth is I’m not sorry, because if there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s that every human being will encounter death and the grief that comes with it. Death is a part of life, it’s part of what shapes us and makes us the people that we are. My sexuality is woven in to the fabric of my being, and death and grief affects that just as much as it affects my thoughts and emotions. Sex in times of grief is a comfort and an outlet; a way to wordlessly express all that I am feeling, and a way to shut it all away.

What has triggered me to write this post are the events that have been happening in my life over the past couple of months. This isn’t my first time grieving, and it is unlikely to be my last, but at present it feels like there is so much to deal with. I wanted to write this because I know I’m not the only one trying to cope right now.

Two months ago, my aunt died. She was only 51 years old. She’d been battling cancer for years, but living her life to the fullest through all of it. She visited countries Africa and Asia, she went to music festivals with her children, she hosted and attended parties and weddings. Throughout my life, she always talked to me as if I was important. I never had any doubt that she cared about me, and her life was full to the brim with people she cared about. At her funeral the chapel was so full that people were standing around the whole length of the room. The door wouldn’t close for the amount of people trying to pay their respects. She left a massive hole in so many of our hearts.

This isn’t a fairy tale of cancer coming to take a good woman away from her family though. There’s no scene with her telling her family to look after each other on her death bed, as so many soppy movies now use as a way to evoke tears from the audience. In reality, knowing you are going to die doesn’t make death any easier. My wonderful, kind, and loving aunt, was fucking furious that she was going to die. She refused to accept it, making more plans to travel, more people to visit, and when she couldn’t get out of bed anymore she was so angry. She was absolutely devastated that she would never meet her grandchildren, that she would not live to see her children flourish in their adult lives. She made it clear that she didn’t not want her funeral to be a celebration of her life; she wanted everyone to know that she was not ready to leave this life; that she did not want to go.

Although I knew she was going to die, it all seemed so sudden when she finally did. I didn’t cope with it in the best way. I was so scared of breaking down. I felt if I let myself feel all that was raging inside of me I wouldn’t be able to function, and there was so much to do. I needed to schedule time to grieve. I knew it was important to do so, but I just couldn’t let go. I didn’t want it to be real.

Whilst this was going on, I’d had some disappointing news of a different kind. Those of you who follow my blog will know I have PCOS and I have been trying to get pregnant for a while now. In August it finally got to the point where it was reasonable to go to the doctors for help with fertility. In the UK we have a public health service called the NHS, which offers universal free health care for all. My doctor made a referral for me and my husband to the fertility department of our city’s hospital. Within a few weeks I had an appointment booked and I was feeling really positive, like I might finally be able to get pregnant.

Then I got a letter in the mail saying they believe that we are oversea’s visitors to the UK, and that my appointment has been cancelled while they investigate. My husband is an immigrant to the UK from outside of Europe, and although he has lived here since 2008 he is not a UK citizen. The visa he is on is a family visa (because he is married to me), which allows him to live and work in the UK but has to be renewed every 2.5 years. When we renew his visa we pay a mandatory big lump sum to the NHS, so that he can access healthcare should he need it. In 2017 the UK government created a law that says that immigrants like him cannot access NHS fertility services, even if they pay the NHS surcharge that is necessary to get a visa, and even if they pay UK taxes. For us, it means that the only way we can get access to fertility treatment is if we pay for it ourselves. At this point in time, we cannot afford to pay for it, especially as we have a visa to renew in 2019.

Although I feel a lot calmed about this now, when we were first rejected for NHS treatment I was utterly devastated. I felt like my best chance at having a baby had been ripped away from us. I felt utterly hopeless, and like I had to choose between being financially crippled or being childless. Worse than that, I could end up financially crippled and still childless, as there is no guarantee we can even get pregnant with medical assistance.  The weight of this realisation added to the grief of my aunt’s death and began to crush my chest every time I was alone or without distraction. My thoughts raced, I felt sick all the time, I couldn’t concentrate at all at work. My head ached from the tension as my brain pinged back and forth between grief and worry.

Underlying these anxieties was also the constant worry that my abusive ex partner is going to demand that I sell our home. His name is still on our mortgage (even though he has never made a single payment, I pay it all), and our combined salaries are too low for the bank to allow his name to be removed. This is something that is always in the back of my mind; that he still has power over me and he could force me into a legal battle, or borrow against my home at any point. I buy lottery tickets, just hoping to win enough to pay off my mortgage and be free of him.

The week before Christmas arrived and I’ve made up my mind to forget about fertility completely for the time being and try to enjoy the festive season. My husband and I have plans to go and stay at my parent’s house, and my sister and her family will be joining us there. My mum calls me and I get this sick feeling in my stomach, like I know something bad is coming. My sister is pregnant with her third child and my first thoughts are worry that she’s lost the fetus. That’s not it though. My mum, her voice hard and controlled, tells me that my Uncle has taken his own life.

I try to process what she has told me, but it doesn’t make sense to me. It feels like some sick joke that I just don’t get. I slowly realise it is not a joke and I burst in to tears. All that weight on my chest doubles and crushes me to the floor. Suddenly, I’m angry. I’m really fucking angry, and I’m sad, and I’m frustrated with myself for feeling angry with him. I have attempted suicide in the past and I should be the last person to judge, I’m disappointed in myself for feeling such anger. I think about my cousins and wonder how they can possibly cope with this so soon after losing their mother. I feel guilty and think about all the times I should have been kinder, been a better person, supported my Uncle more. I remember vividly how off he was acting at my Aunt’s funeral and keep replaying that dead look in his eyes again and again in my mind.

I can’t take it anymore. I can’t understand or process anymore. My emotions are raging through my body, flipping between anger, sadness, worry, and just being numb. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know how I feel. I’m not one thing long enough to process it fully. My thoughts move so quickly I can’t latch on to them. They won’t let me sleep.

I finally do something I have not done in a long while. I call up an old friend of mine. I ask him if he will come over. I ask him to bring rope.

Jacob arrives and he’s big and warm, his deep voice is soothing. His long dreadlocks are tied at the base of his neck. I stroke down the length of his muscular arm, breathing in his faint scent. It’s a relief to be with someone who does not know what’s going on, someone who doesn’t ask questions, other than the kindest “What do you need, Jez?”. I need to be taken control of. I need my body to feel so my soul doesn’t have to. I need to be looked after without the burden of caring for another person in return.

Jacob grips the base of my skull, his warm hand tugging on my hair. He lifts my head up and kisses me deeply. I melt. His other hand is under my top, stroking my stomach and lifting the top up. He lets go of my hair and pulls the garment up over my head, exposing my bra. He kisses down my body and I try to focus,  I try to push all those other thoughts away, but they keep sneaking back in, confusing my arousal.

He’s at my jeans now, tugging them forcefully down until they are off, socks and all. He kisses me again, this time firmly holding the back of my neck. The sureness of his grip brings me back to him and that solid sensation. He reaches in his bag and pulls out several lengths of soft black rope. “Is this okay with you?” he asks, nodding towards the rope. I consent. “Let me know if you want to stop or if it gets too much, okay?” he says in his deep, smooth voice.

He strips me down, then throws all the pillows and duvet from the bed. I lie face down as he tightly secures first my wrists, then my ankles to the four corners of the bed. I pull a little at my restraints then ask him to tie me tighter. He bites my back, leaving little marks all over it. He undresses himself, joining me in nakedness, his penis erect. He holds my hips in his large hands, sucking biting at the sides of my waist. All that I am carrying begins to lift, as I squirm away from the biting sensation and he grips my hips harder in response, holding me down.

I give total control to him. He asks nothing from me, but to use my body. He goes down on me while I’m face down, sensually licking my vulva from behind. I moan in pleasure. I feel warm and cared for. He puts a condom on before he begins fucking me, one hand on my waist, the other gripping my hair at the back of my head. He starts off slow, then gets faster, his hand moving from my hair to my neck, choking me as he fucks me hard.

In this moment, I am free. All the pain and grief and worry have subsided. All there is is sensation, the hand gripping my throat, the solid weight of a warm human being on my back, the tight rope rubbing at my wrists and ankles, the hard penis thrusting into my vagina. I am filled with such relief for the first time in months. I ask him to hit me and he slaps my ass hard. He loosens my restraints so he can get me up on all fours, pulling my hips towards him and angling them for deep penetration as he slaps my ass again before fucking me from behind.

He comes with a masculine moan, then he’s untying me and I’m clinging to the relief that I feel, willing it to last longer. I’m not sure if he sees it in my face, or if he just isn’t ready for our sex to be over either, but he flips me onto my back and ties my wrists together above my head. Then he grabs a bullet vibe from my night stand and turns it on. I try to sit up a little and he holds my neck down. Then he’s kissing my breasts and touching the buzzing bullet to my clit. As I moan and squirm he does his best to hold me down until I come, the orgasm creating an explosion of emotion inside me.

Suddenly I’m crying, loud sobs of devastation, my whole body crumpled down against his. The floodgates have opened and all the emotions have been let loose. I cry fat ugly tears, gasping for breath as the sobs choke me. I don’t even feel being untied, I am so wrapped up in my tears. My body is shaking, it is hot and wet and salty, but my mind is calm. I’m wrapped in his arms and he is kissing my cheeks. Then he covers me with the duvet from the floor, and turns off the light. I can’t speak for the waves of tears that keep flowing from me. Then my husband is here, and he is quietly holding me, his scent more like home that anything else in the world. I feel so grateful and so lucky to be so loved.