I open the laptop and my headphones make that sad littlesound to announce that they are out of battery. Shaking my head, I apologize (again) to Josh and tell him to turn the music up or suffer through one of my interviews. “Ten-four,” he responds.
I’m already a minute late when I click the Join button on my calendar reminder. Another day, another interview. Today it’s Tonya fromCosmo. Here we go.
—
“I’m sorry. Youwrite a sex column?”
Can this day get any worse?
“No—I mean yes. It’s more of a digital sex-positivity space. I talk to all types of women—actresses, politicians, entrepreneurs, influencers. The goal is to helpCosmo’s online readers feel more confident in their sexuality by hearing about experiences from complex, dynamic, and badass women.”
The Cosmo interview will be slightly different from others, Lucia had written. Why hadn’t I done any research? Screw research—why didn’t I just google Tonya’s name like a normal person? What am I supposed to say?
“Gracie, I can tell that you’re freaking out a little bit. Here’s the deal: I interviewed Audrey May for my most recent column, which is online now. Audrey freaking May. She’s likely going to be an Oscar nominee next year. Let me tell you, that woman spilledallthe details, and she’s getting nothing but love all over social media. You’ll be fine,” she tells me, before adding in a direct voice, “Sex positivity.”
I’m sitting here at the kitchen island, in a fugue state, when I glance up and look across the room.
Josh has braced himself against the wall, trying to stifle his laughter. He looks over at me with a smile on his face that lets me know he is going to enjoy every second of this. I raise my middle finger out of the camera frame, and his subtle smirk becomes a huge, mischievous smile. He tries to compose himself and puts his earbuds back in, but I notice he doesn’t restart his music.
I take a deep, audible breath. Tonya fromCosmowants to talk to me about my widow sex life (which she probably expects will be boring) while my half-naked, incredibly attractive handyman works within earshot. I’m sweating, but I don’t know if it’s the heat, the hot man, or the stress from this interview. Probably all three.
“Here’s the deal. If we’re going to talk about sex, I’m going to need to make a drink. Can I have a minute?”
—
“Tonya, for asex-positive journalist, I have to say that’s a pretty reductive view of the intimacy that a lot of folks experience in marriage,” I say accusingly but still using a playful tone.
We’re fifteen minutes into the interview. I’ve told her about my early sex life—admitting that I had sex for the first time at sixteen, which will surely make my parents blow a gasket retroactively—and now we’ve hit the twenty-years-of-one-penis commentary.
“Gracie, for a lot of women my age—I’m twenty-six, by the way—the thought of being committed to one man and one flavor of sex for the rest of your life feels daunting, to say the least. I’m trying to understand how you survive that.”
“First and foremost,surviveis a really interesting word choice,” I start. “I think the problem is that you’re afraid of predictability.You’re young and you want things to be new and exciting all the time.”
She nods, indicating that I’m on the right track. I keep going.
“But you’re missing one key thing: predictability and comfort are not the same as being boring. There is nothing boring about someone knowing exactly what you like and the next thing you need without even asking. There is nothing boring about being able to roll over on a Sunday morning and have a little fun,” I say, recognizing that I’m blushing because the stranger on Zoom and the attractive man in my home are both hearing me talk very openly about my marriage and sex life. But I’m on a mission now.
“You’re also assuming that sex stays one way for an entire marriage, and maybe it does for some people, but I can only speak about mine. Ben and I went through a lot of phases depending on what life and work and family stuff were like at the time,” and now I pause, wondering if I want to say the next thing that’s in my mind. “And when Ben died, we were in a particularly experimental stage.”
Her eyebrows shoot up and I know her internal monologue is going something likeYes—finally the juicy stuff. Josh has been screwing on the same switch plate since this interview started.
“Now, Iwon’tgo into any more detail about that,” I add with a smile. “I’m just trying to say that the key in my marriage was to be open and flexible. Ben and I grew up together in a lot of ways. He was a total dude and I have no doubt he would be thrilled that a national magazine might post an article broadcasting that he was having dirty sex right up until the day he died. Talk about a cool, after-death way to impress your friends.”
“That is oddly sweet and romantic,” Tonya says, laughingbefore continuing. “We only have about ten minutes left, so maybe we should pivot to your sex life now as a, um, widow.”
The pause before the wordwidowisn’t surprising. I’ve said the word so many times over the last year that it basically has no meaning, but for most people, it represents a worst fear. Even for the commitment-phobic twenty-six-year-olds.
I’ve grown to like Tonya over the course of this interview, but I’m not going to spill freely without making her work for it a bit. “What would you like to know?” I ask, tossing the ball back into her court.
“Are you dating yet?” she asks.
“I am,” I respond. “I went on my first date about six months after Ben died.”
“Interesting,” she says. I wonder if Dr. Lisa is her therapist, too.
Again, I’m not going to make it easy for her, so I ask, “Interesting how?”
She pauses for a moment. It’s an honest pause, like she’s trying to figure out how to word a complex thought she’s mulling over.
