Dead Black Lingerie

Content Warning: Intense Sexual Situations, Death, Widow/Widower Trauma, Chronic Illness

Everything about Joey was ideal in what one might want in a secondary partner. He, too, was a dad with a spouse and a full-time job. He enjoyed hipster cuisine as much as I did, making delicious food with vegetables from his garden, and finding hole-in-the-wall restaurants all over town that served up the sort of meals you’d be proud to smugly post about on Instagram. In the bedroom he was fun and experimental, but not overly so, for my tastes. On dates, he treated me like a normal human being -- we were both polyamorous people with family, not fetishized experiments waiting to be easily pursued and captured by excitable single people or ravenous swingers. 

Joey was warm, with big blue eyes, jet-black hair, and soft, pale skin. He was tall, and lanky: completely non-threatening, kind and gentle from his personality turning outward onto his appearance. His wife, Sara, was quiet but polite, with auburn hair and dark freckles across a tan face. Their six-month-old baby girl was a perfect blend of both, with freckles and tufts of black hair. 

The tinges of jealousy soon began to creep in, however. 

The assumption that people who are polyamorous have conquered envy is rather incorrect, but even so, this was not a romantic jealousy that I was experiencing. I was envious of their house, their massive wine cellar, their house full of archaeological wonders and authentic mementos from a world they had extensively traveled. I was envious of their upper-middle-class home, jobs, their horseback riding and golfing hobbies, and sporadic trips to international resorts. I was envious of their log cabin two hours away in the mountains -- and when they decided to move out there permanently, I was happy to use it as an opportunity to end the relationship. It’d only been casual anyway, right? 

A year later, Sara was dead: a rare, fast-spreading breast cancer. I felt crushed for her baby and for Joey, and my envy turned into the sort of guilt that has no place to go except the inside of your stomach in sharp twists and nauseated regret. My husband, Samuel, and I attended the funeral in a sad room of marble-velvet-embroidery furniture, which was crowded with respectable, mournful people who all seemed equally shocked to be there. 

Joey moved away from the mourners giving out their sorry-for-your-losses, walking toward me with a curious stride. We embraced awkwardly, but deeply, and I also told him I was sorry for his loss, because what else is there to say?

“Hey,” he said. “Thanks for coming,” he leaned in closer. A line of people waited behind me at their chance for the performative apology, knowing there’s not a single word they can actually say to take away the fact that the person in front of them had just lost the mother of his sweet baby girl, who would likely be unable to remember her at all. “I hope we can talk later…” he said, trailing off, distracted by the crowds of meaningless well-wishers. 

I leaned in to hug him and told him: “Contact me any time. If there’s anything, anything, I could do… Please let me know.” I meant it.

About a week later, he texted me, telling me how good it was to see me, and giving me the little private updates you can’t really talk about at a funeral: he was off work for 9 weeks but itching to get back if just for the distraction, he was going through bereavement therapy, he hadn’t really been able to find time for relationships outside of his marriage since the ill-fated diagnosis, throughout the end of Sara’s life, he’d been unable to have any sort of physical intimacy with her in the past few months prior to her death, and he was exceptionally lonely. 

“People ask what they can do,” he messaged me. “I always want to say: send nudes.”

So I did. I wasn’t wearing makeup; I simply took off my shirt and my bra and took a topless photo of myself at a forgiving angle. Did I look different since he’d last seen me naked? My hair was longer—darker, too, as I’d dyed it recently. 

“God you’re so hot, thank you for that,” he texted back to me. “Hey can I call you? I want to ask you something… but it’s kind of weird.” 

I was taken aback, but I agreed, and he called me promptly. His voice was shaking, so I steeled myself for an extremely emotional conversation. We hadn’t really spoken much over the past year. I sat on the social media sidelines, helplessly following Sara’s cancer journey, watching the posts go from assured confidence to long, sober truths until finally the matter-of-fact updates with the tragic news that came too quickly. 

“Hey,” he said to me when I answered. “It’s really good to hear your voice,” he said, when I’d only said hello. “Like I said, this is kind of weird, and I don’t know if you’d be into this, but… look, Sara has a lot of lingerie. I was wondering if you wanted some of it… actually. I was wondering if you could… come over and try it on for me, kind of, model her lingerie. Feel free to say no.” 

I felt my throat collapsing hot onto itself, choked back by this request, unable to respond. I stared at the light on the ceiling above me. How is it, then, that you help someone grieve their dead spouse in ways other than empty air words that do nothing? You can’t give them what they want: which is their dead partner back. What else can you give them, then? What’s the second-best thing? 

I closed my eyes, and said, “Sure,” into the phone. “I’m free this weekend. I can drive out that way, if you want.” 

There was more silence, and he chuckled. “Okay,” he said back to me. When I told Samuel I would be heading out to see Joey that weekend, he seemed kind of shocked. So I said the things you’re not supposed to say when someone dies, which is the truth: “You can’t really get intimate with your spouse when they’re in the later stages of cancer, you know? He’s just… really lonely.” I failed to mention, however, the part about the dead woman’s lingerie I would be modeling. I didn’t want anyone to know I was going to be playing into this game. Obviously, I wasn’t ashamed of having sex with a grieving widower. But I was ashamed of wearing someone’s clothes -- someone who was no longer here. 

It would be my first time driving out to his cabin, which I guess was now his regular house, and my second time driving out in that direction at all -- the first time having been the funeral I’d attended over a week ago. I had actually gotten along quite well with Sara, who had been a gracious and kind metamour. Two hours wasn’t that far. But once they’d moved, and Joey and I had broken up, I treated it as if they’d moved across the country, immediately downgrading myself to an online acquaintance. When I learned Sara had cancer, I offered my support to them both, but from a distance, asking the vague “What can we do?” on behalf of Samuel and myself, knowing that most people will respond with “Nothing.” I mean, I didn’t really think, at first, that she was going to just… die. But she did. She was the same age as me, we had similar relationship structures, we had similar beliefs and interests, and now she was dead. 

There was an unshakeable scent of dread in the car as I got closer to Joey’s new place. I wasn’t sure exactly what to expect. I knew in my heart that this was, well, weird, but if my spouse had died randomly, maybe I would crave something strange to satiate my grief. Would he cry? We would probably end up having sex -- would it be weird, or even problematic, for me to do so? Was I taking advantage of someone in an immense amount of grief? Would he regret this? 

I pulled close to his address. The cabin was smaller than I thought, and the driveway was gravel. I had imagined something bigger, and more exotic. With my car parked, I texted him that I was there, and within seconds he was outside on the unfinished wooden porch to wave me in. I dropped my purse directly on the floor by the door, as if I was a regular visitor. His living room was still full of high-quality furniture and authentic souvenirs from a life of interesting travel, but this time, there were cards and dying vases of flowers everywhere too. There were also a few errant toys here and there, but the baby was at a family member’s house that weekend. 

“It’s just us,” said Joey. “I made us some homemade French fries and Peruvian chicken. Ceviche-inspired salad on the side. No dessert, sorry,” he said sheepishly. This was once my favorite part about dating him, but I was looking at him now and all I could see was “dead wife” when I did. When I came to his house on dates, Sara would often be gone on her own dates or with friends to give us some privacy. She was quiet, but respectful and gracious. The absence this time, of course, was far more permanent. 

We sat down at a small little white table in the kitchen. Dirty disposable aluminum casserole dishes sat out on the counters, but the rest was eerily empty, and clean. “I bought four different kinds of foreign IPAs for you to try with this meal,” he said, “since you like IPAs. These are pretty high octane ones, too, so I hope you’re planning on staying a while.” Joey remembered little details like this, because he genuinely cared about you. He sat all four beer bottles down between us, and provided two pint glasses and served the rest of the meal.

“This is the first time I’ve made a meal for another person in… two months. She was in the hospital for that time. I just stopped cooking, pretty much,” he said. The chicken was spiced perfectly, the ceviche salad fresh and tart, the fries hot and crisp, and I told him so. We taste tested the IPAs and I started to feel a bit flushed from the alcohol and the wretched emotions that were boiling under the small talk. 

Finally, sitting across the kitchen table, I burst, tactlessly: “So why do you want me to try on Sara’s lingerie again? Why me? Couldn’t you have just donated it?” He was unfazed by the question, however, and we fell into that familiar rapport of intimate questions, just like we had done, at least somewhat, while we were dating. 

“Actually, that’s not true. Did you know that? A lot of donation centers don’t accept lingerie. And anyway… I’d rather it go to someone I know.” He examined the kitchen, avoiding my gaze, and lowering his voice, as he spoke again. “I saw you at the funeral, and I just thought you’d look really good in it.” 

My face felt hot again. I wanted to leave. Suddenly, all the back and forth I had felt was gone. I didn’t want to actually do this. If I was honest with myself, despite his good nature, cozy personality, and warm face, I really wasn’t as attracted to him, even when we were dating. The dread from my long drive over had evolved into something worse.

This all felt strange and disrespectful. But--despite feeling that way now, I couldn’t help but honestly wonder how many people in the despair of grief are actually honest about the support they need and want from those who are constantly half-heartedly asking, and how many people can actually give it to them? I liked Joey a lot. I could do this. 

I stood up, and he followed suit. “Alright, show me where it is,” I said, a mischievous grin playing upon my face. Was I supposed to try to appear enthusiastic about this? 

He led me down the hallway, passing by half-open doors leading to his baby girl’s room, empty and darkened from the lack of her presence. If I had not been there, emptiness would have consumed the entire house. 

On Joey’s bed, unmade on one side only, lay a pile of gorgeous lingerie. Lace, silk, harnessed, dresses, bras, specialty underwear. More than I owned, certainly. Most of it was black. In a chair in the corner were her other clothes, set up more neatly, all still attached to their hangers. My eyes were drawn primarily in the direction of the normal, business-casual attire fit for a mom and a professional. He saw me staring at them, and said, “Ah, those ones are getting donated tomorrow. She wouldn’t have wanted me to keep stuff that we can’t use. When she was still coherent, she told me she wanted her clothes to go to the homeless women’s shelter.” 

The warmth and the buzz from the beers dissipated under the comment, which fell onto my chest like an anvil in a cartoon. Joey could sense the heaviness, and said, “Uh, yeah, sorry, kind of a bummer,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed next to the collection of lingerie. I walked over to him, kissed him, and said, “You can say anything to me about her. Anything. I promise.” Despite my own feelings of unease, I still felt compelled to be the one putting him at ease. I wanted this. 

He leaned into the kiss hungrily, grabbing onto my shoulders and pulling me down onto the bed. As we continued to make out, I could feel the lingerie brushing up against my back. That’s when he backed away and said, “Wanna try some on now?” 

“Sure,” I said, standing back up. I was full of anxiety, but I remained composed, giving no outward indication of discomfort. “Should… should I strip, you think?” I asked, and he nodded while I began to undress. My own underwear was plain: white cotton panties and a boring nude strapless bra underneath a simple red-and-black sundress. I was completely nude, but did not feel shy about it. Getting intimate with an ex is never as difficult as it is to get intimate with someone new. 

I walked over to his lap, straddling him, and asked, “Which first?” 

“Well,” he said, pulling a red, silken teddy out from the middle of the pile. “I sort of had an order. Sara loved to wear lingerie, you know. There’s ten different outfits here. And don’t worry. They’re all clean. Try this one on.” He pulled out his camera, taking pictures of each one. 

He threw me the teddy and I stepped into it. Sara and I did certainly have the same body shape and size. I twirled in front of Joey, making coy eyes at him. 

He grinned. “She wore this one five years ago. We were in Tokyo,” he said. Joey turned on some music, and soon enough, his Amazon Echo was playing xx by The xx on Spotify. “Intro” first. 

I stepped out of the teddy, and left it on the floor. He tossed me a mesh white and black chemise, which I slid over my body. There was a slit in the side. 

“She wore this one when we first started dating in college. It used to be her only lingerie, until I started buying her some more.” I remained wordless as “VCR” droned on and switched to “Crystalised,” and walked toward Joey as he spoke. I played with the straps on the shoulders and kissed him tantalizingly on the lips, then moved away, taking off the chemise. 

The next was a black babydoll dress, lined with white faux fur around the neckline and the hem. This one made me feel like twirling around and around and around, so I did, the inherent absurdism silliness replacing the femme fatale vibe I was going for. I looked up and the off-white ceiling and cast iron light fixtures stared back down at me. 

“She wore that one when she hooked up with a buddy of ours one night. She came home and she was still wearing it under a peacoat with high heels. I was so turned on.”

“Islands” started to play next. Joey tossed me a silky negligee, which was opaque on the bottom and see-through on the top. It was my favorite one so far. 

“Sara loved that one. She wore it regularly to bed. Just for me.” I could see his face grow pained, so I moved back toward him and straddled him, gyrating him, kissing him, touching him, remaining silent except to say, “Mmm.” He broke away from me and picked up a lace black-and-white bodysuit, one that had legs, but entirely exposed the breasts. “Now that one,” he demanded. 

I had to wriggle this one up my thighs a bit, interrupting “Heart Skipped a Beat” to say, “I’ve never actually worn one of these before.” 

“That’s okay,” replied Joey, laughing. “She didn’t like it very much. She wore it like, once, when we spent a weekend in Napa Valley.” Even now, I caught myself still fighting off the envy. Samuel and I didn’t take many vacations together at all. We couldn’t afford it. But of course, Samuel was healthy and hale, and when I went home, I would go home to him. 

The next thing Joey handed to me to try on was a set of black lace briefs and a matching plunge bra, complete with a garter, for which there was no hose. I stretched out my body against the wall, showing off for him. “She wore these a lot under her clothes,” he said. “I loved it.” I didn’t wear fancy lingerie under my clothes very often, myself, but I loved to imagine that I was the sort of girl who did. Sara did. 

I stepped out of the underwear and he tossed me a sporty chemise this time, made of cotton, and navy rather than black. It was long, and a bit more modest than the rest. This one felt so comfortable, hugging my curves. It had touched every inch of Sara’s body first. Joey said, “She wore that in the morning when she made pancakes and tea on Saturdays. It was like the only thing she knew how to cook.” 

The next set of lingerie was a silken black bralette and a bikini-style pair of black underwear, both with white lace around the edges. They seemed familiar. “She wore this set when… well, you know. With us.” Once, and only once, I’d engaged in a menage trois with Sara and Joey. I had tried to put it out of my mind throughout the evening, but now I was thinking about it once again as I wore her lingerie. 

I thought about her freckles up-close, and the way she kissed better than he did. I remembered the feel of her tongue on the inside of my thighs. We never really had a connection outside of that night, but I remember feeling that in the bedroom, she was so much freer than she was in her daily life -- full of reverence, solitude, maybe even a little bit uptight. 

I wanted to take this pair off as soon as possible, and I did so. Joey handed me a silky black camisole and a matching silk thong to go with it, saying, “She wore that when we moved here. She bought it when she… when she got accepted into school… yeah.”

He grew dark, and I remembered the pictures I’d taken the night we had our threesome, centering on me and Sara kissing. The photos had been blurry and drunken, just like the encounter had been, and I thought the ethical thing to do was to delete intimate photos you had of people if you weren't dating them any more. So I had. I wondered if Joey still had the pictures, but I didn’t want to ask. I touched his cheek, and when he looked up, I bit my lip. “One more set?” I asked, trying to direct his focus away from his hell, even if it was just for a moment. 

“Yes, uh… haha. He presented me with the final set: a see-through harnessed lace black balconette bra and a matching pair of lace black crotchless peek-a-boo high-waisted panties. I’d never worn anything crotchless before, either. 

Joey looked at me up and down this time, examining my body like never before. “She wore that… when we conceived for the first time. I’ll never forget it. The night was perfect.” I watched his face carefully after such a confession, afraid that he would be on the verge of a breakdown. 

But he was grinning, nearly maniacal, and he stood up and grabbed me, pushing me against the wall, kissing me deeply and then leading me back to the bed. Normally, our sexual encounters involved heavy amounts of foreplay. He loved oral. He loved the tease. But this time it was very different. He simply produced a condom and thrust himself inside of me, furiously pumping away, sweating, yelling. He was feral and I liked it. Our previous encounters had not been anything like this. The only thing he said, right before he orgasmed, was this: “Your bodies are so similar!” By that time, the last song on xx, “Stars,” was just fading into the stillness. The album, and the evening, was complete. 

After he was done, I looked around: the lingerie I had just worn lay in piles around the room now. I smiled at him and kissed him. I had enjoyed it after all -- I always had. “That was fun,” I said. He lay on his back and looked up at the ceiling. “God!” he declared, panting gently. “That’s the first time I’ve had sex… in six months! I wish I could do this all the time!” 

I looked up at the ceiling suddenly in regret. I was certain, now, that this had been a terrible idea. I wished I was at home in bed with Samuel. What time was it now? Only 10PM… but did he want me to stay? The only time I’d stayed at their house overnight was when we’d had our threesome. I had slept in the bed with Sara, touching her back gently, unable to achieve the amount of intimacy we’d had during the tryst. Joey slept in the guest room. 

“Well...” said Joey. “The baby is getting back pretty early tomorrow. Do you want to take all the lingerie? Do you need anything?” A wave of relief rushed over me, but still I asked, “Are you going to be okay?” 

He nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m used to sleeping alone these days.” 

I stood up, dressing myself in my plain cotton underwear again, pulling my dress on over me, thinking to myself how much I hated sleeping alone.

“So uh, what should I carry the lingerie home in?” He stood up, dressing himself as well, and produced one of those huge black garbage bags from under the chair in the corner, right where the rest of her clothes were. “Here ya go,” he said. I thought he would collect it all for me, but he just sat back down on the bed as I picked up the now-slightly-dirtied lingerie from the floor. When I looked back up, he was crying silently. 

I sat down beside him, put my arm around him, and lied: “It’ll be okay.” He nodded solemnly. “Hey, want me to stay?” I offered. He shook his head. “No. I have to leave. I can’t live in this house with all her memories, without her, you know?” 

My head cocked to the side. “You’re leaving?” I asked. “Yeah,” he said. “My job is going to let me take a position at one of their branches up north, closer to where my parents live. I think it’ll be good for me. But don’t worry, I’ll probably come visit all the time. We have so many friends and family around here… I mean, I do.” The “we” had come so naturally and quickly that I had actually missed him saying it, at first. 

I felt relieved at this too, afraid that this one encounter would lead to him trying to get back into a regular romantic or physical relationship, which I still didn’t want. Even if he was lonely with a dead wife. But the sting of this comment eventually pierced me too, as I sat there wondering how often I’d visit Samuel’s relatives if I lost him. But then I couldn’t imagine losing Samuel at all. 

I still kissed him goodbye, embraced him warmly, and told him, again, if he ever needed anything else, that we were here for him, and that I was sorry for his loss. I had my purse in one hand and a garbage bag of his dead wife’s most intimate items of clothing in the other hand. 

The drive home was dark and silent. I didn’t even listen to music. There weren’t that many other cars on the interstate. I wondered if Joey was going to be okay, like really okay. Probably he’d force himself to be. He always had his shit together. When you have a baby to take care of in the midst of trauma, you have to. It just wasn’t fair. None of this was fair at all. 

I pulled off at the exit closest to my house, and stopped at a gas station on the way. After I filled up my gas tank under the shine of the overly bright fluorescent lights, I got the garbage bag from the passenger’s side. I walked to the giant dumpster, unlocked behind a wooden fence, and tossed the dead black lingerie into it.

Eating With The Author: Peruvian Chicken

Ingredients

3 - 5 lb. whole chicken, spatchcocked
2 tbs. avocado or vegetable oil
2 tbs. tomato paste

1 tbs. chili powder
Juice of 2 limes
4 large garlic cloves, minced
2 tsp. kosher salt

2 tsp. dried oregano

1 tsp. ground cumin
1 tsp. black pepper

1 bunch cilantro

Instructions

1. Mix together all ingredients except for the chicken & cilantro.

2. Pat chicken completely dry, then rub marinade all over the chicken -- let sit in the refrigerator up to 24 hours to increase flavor, or at least one hour.

3. When ready to cook, preheat the oven to 450 degrees.

4. Stuff the cilantro into the chicken cavity.

5. Cook for 20 minutes, then baste the chicken in its own juices with a baster.

6. Cook for 10 more minutes, then baste the chicken again in its own juices with a baster.

7. Cook for 10 more minutes, then baste the chicken again in its own juices with a baster.

8. Cook for 5-10 more minutes total -- or under the breast reaches an internal temperature of 160 degrees.

9. Let chicken stand for 10-20 minutes so that the juices don't run out.

10. Carve and enjoy -- goes well with a cilantro-lime sauce and fried potatoes.

NOTE FROM THE EDITOR: We understand that some people reading this may have lived through the kinds of situations presented within this fictional story. If you have lost someone, a spouse, a loved one to cancer or some other circumstance and need help dealing with grief or depression, then Soaring Spirits International offers ways to connect with grief councilors, support groups & a lot of other resources. We here at Olney Magazine believe in the help that these kinds of services provide and want to make sure people from these communities are supported and respected.