My Thoughts Exactly: Confessions of a Scarlet Widow

There are a lot of things going on in the world today: we’re in the middle of a recession, one of the Koreas has a bomb or something and Michael Jackson died.  None of that stuff really interests me, mostly because CNN uses big words and I don’t care to expand my vocabulary.

However, there are certain things in the world that really jump out at me, especially when it comes to odd things and sex.  So when I saw the article titled: “Confessions of a Scarlet Widow: How I used sex to get over my husband’s death”, I was intrigued.  Amy Molloy was only 23 when her husband died of cancer.  Sounds sad right?  But only up until the part where she becomes a huge whore who shags anything with legs.

The excerpts below are from her upcoming book “Wife Interrupted” available July 23rd.  In italics are what went on in my head as I read this widow’s story….enjoy!

By the time my husband had been dead for 13 months, I had slept with 27 men.

Well you don’t waste anytime now, do you?  And if I’ve done my math correctly that’s about 2 men a month, give or take.  I’m guessing you did both.

Because sex I can do: at sex I’m a pro.

No need to brag.  And what kind of sentence structure is that?  Since when can we use semi-colons in sentences?  Oh wait, you’re from the UK.  That explains everything.

Whether right or wrong, I was having sex just three months after he died.

I’m going to go with wrong for $500, Alex.

It might not have been good sex, but it was safe sex.

Didn’t you just say you were a pro?  LIAR!  And thank you for not reproducing.

I was detached: void of emotion, void of a history and completely anonymous.

Clearly you were void of closing your legs.

To whichever man shared my bed that evening I was nothing more than a female anatomy. And that was just fine with me.

At least you’re honest.

Because at 23 years old, with one dead husband under my belt and a widow’s shroud around my shoulders, anonymous was a tonic: anonymous was just perfect.

With ‘one dead husband’?  How many dead husbands do you plan to have Anna Nicole?

My promiscuous reaction to Eoghan’s death surprised everyone, none more so than me. There is a certain way a widow, of any age, is expected to behave, and sleeping around is usually frowned upon.

Usually?  How about always.  Whore.  Excuse me, widowed whore.

But let me get this straight right now, before you’re tempted to judge me: I’m not proud of my behaviour.

You know, I’m reminded of a popular saying, “Never judge a book by it’s cover”.  That isn’t exactly applicable in this situation.

I loved - love - my husband. I was a loyal wife and a devoted carer, and if his body could have lived with the cancer, I’d have nursed him for a lifetime, just happy to be with him. To watch him die was indescribable.

Maybe you should have gotten down on your knees BEFORE he passed away rather than after.  And I’m talking about praying, not fellatio.

So you see, it’s not that I didn’t love my husband. My behaviour since has no bearing on my love for him. I said my wedding vows with utter conviction. For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health: that part was nice and easy.

Just as easy as, I dunno, having sex with 27 men?

The Catholic Church maps out the dos and don’ts quite clearly. But, I ask, what comes after the death us do part?

I’m pretty sure there’s something that says “Thou shalt not be a slut after thy husband dies”.  Those aren’t the exact words, but it’s in there.

I was a wife for exactly 32 days before Eoghan passed away, late one Monday evening in July 2007.

That’s cute.  You kept count.  Were those hatch marks on the other bedpost?

The cause of death was cancer, which started as malignant melanoma from a mole on his chest he’d had removed two years before, but quickly and silently spread to his liver, lungs, pancreas and, finally, his brain. It was this tumour that led to a stroke.

I’m a tumour, I’m tumour.  I’m a tumour, I’m a tumour.  Oh oh I’m a tumour.  With a British accent gov’nah!

Eoghan was an Irishman, with the charm and more.

So he was a drunk, go on.

He was the first boyfriend I’d had in two years and the first man I’d slept with regularly.

So you have been known to sleep irregularly with other men?  That explains a lot.

He was 34 when we met in Byron Bay, Australia in Christmas 2005 while I was just 21 and on a gap year from university.

Shocking, you met down under, in more ways than one I bet.

I would have gasped at a 13-year age gap before, but if you’d known Eoghan you’d understand why it was irrelevant.

I’m guessing it had something to do with his penis.