Tenors of Love

This is not about some Irish male singing group doing covers of the greatest hits of the 70s on PBS. It'd probably be better if it were, but it's not.

So I've been having a fair amount of emotionally-charged sex recently, as well as, most recently, some physically-debilitated sex as I fight through the Plague (if I started sprouting buboes, I wouldn't be in the slightest bit surprised, actually; I have glands swollen enough to be buboes). Most of the time, the focus in sex is on passion or energy, whether it's rough or not, fast or slow, out of love or out of lust, whether you're just getting through it or wanting more. I know a lot of people probably wouldn't think of sex as an appropriate mechanism for grief either. I'm not saying no one else feels this way, just that I didn't spend a lot of time thinking about it until recently.

Grieving is bizarre because it's like celebrating, only turned on its head. I think the same emotional triggers are there, which is why funerals can be both ways to grieve and to celebrate. And if I can have a celebratory glass of champagne, I can have a sorrowful glass of wine. If I can eat a celebratory dinner, I can eat a funeral feast. (Hamlet's line about funeral meats coldly furnishing forth marriage tables comes to mind here). So if I can have sex in celebration, I can have a sad, sorrowful lovemaking session too.

Loss makes us want to reassure each other that we still have things, and I can't think of a better way to reassure someone that they still have me than to love them, either mentally, spiritually, or physically. Grief gives a particular poignancy to lovemaking which many people have experienced; how many of us have had one last fuck before saying goodbye. But if you can't make love to the dearly departed (and I'm not suggesting for a moment that you should try, either) making love with others who are grieving is a good way to show your love for them and for the one you've lost.

If this suggests that my aunt's funeral was an orgy, it wasn't. It was a very nice service at a church she attended. We missed her, and the people who couldn't be with us for other reasons. I think my Dad missed his parents. And then we went home, and Mom and Dad and I all made love. Not much actual penetration went on; Dad's still having problems and it wasn't really about that. We just cuddled up in the big bed and were together. I think I kissed my mother in a sexier way than I ever have before, and that turned me on, which made me feel guilty for making it about me, which turned me off. I'm not saying it's easy.

Sveta never met my aunt, and that's too bad because they would have gotten along, I think. Aunt Jenny would have been happy for Sveta and me, and Sveta would have liked my aunt's cooking, and also, if this were a perfect world, would have enjoyed getting to make love with another member of my family. But things happen. Still, Sveta and I have enough things to worry and grieve about that adding addition grief didn't really change things; we forget our troubles when making love, as opposed to commemorating them. Sometimes I feel bad about that; I feel like sex shouldn't just be a circus sideshow act to distract us from the mangled body of the lion tamer. Sex is part of life, not an escape from it. But sometimes you need a vacation. It makes us feel better.

And even though I know that I'm sick and weak and shouldn't exert myself, when Sveta turns me on, I have to kiss her, which turns to licking and fingering and rubbing and stroking and all the good things. And while I still feel weak as we make love, the weakness diminishes, and in the afterglow I can almost pretend that I'm not sick. After that, of course, the sickness comes back, and I'm not sure if it just feels this way by comparison or not, but I feel worse sometimes. It's a brief release, if nothing else.

Yet I still do it. And I'm not making love because I feel obligated or forced or I just need to orgasm. It's strange feeling this way. I want to make love. I like cumming, but I want to be with someone physically. Either in sorrow or as an escape from it, I want to love and be loved.

Someday soon I hope, I'll get back to where I was, and I'll feel sexy rather than lonely. I'll cum more often, and I'll enjoy sex in a happy way. I'm not saying I want to give this up, just that there's joy missing right now. My happiness is muted, overcast. I want the sun to shine again.