My husband and I used to have an amazing sex life. Every week, two or three times a week minimum. There was passion, there was excitement; sometimes we even got a little kinky. It was great. We were lovebirds, and I liked it that way.
Then something changed. I’m not sure when or how exactly, but it seemed to happen right around the time my husband died and was buried, then resurfaced as a ghost.
After that, our sex life started to fizzle. It really bummed me out. I was so used to regular intimacy with my living husband. But once he died and started visiting me as a ghost while in limbo between this world and the next, the sex started to become more of a chore.
“Danny,” I’d say to the floating orb on the pillow next to mine, “I really love having sex with you, but now it feels like we’re on some sort of schedule that depends solely on when your apparition appears during the Witching Hour and when it disappears before morning light.”
It was too much pressure. It felt forced. Plus, his ghost penis really wasn’t doing anything for me.
So I tried to spice things up. We would role-play. I would play a ghost hunter, and he would be himself—the ghost of the man who used to be my husband. First I’d start by recording all his sexy moaning on an EVP recorder, then I’d tell him I was going to bless the house and get rid of him. It got me pretty hot. But by the time I got on top of him and played the recording back to hear snippets of his dead ghost voice, I was no longer aroused.
The worst part: He was super aroused. His dead ghost penis was hard as ever, as if he took some beyond-the-grave supplement to stay vital. But I couldn’t satisfy him. No, I could—but I didn’t want to. Sex just wasn’t the same as it used to be. Plus it was really hard to get him to stay in place for long enough to even enter me, his warbly ghost body hovering above my bed throughout the night.
“Relax,” I’d say, but he couldn’t. He just moaned ghost speak and looked at me sadly, his ghost penis wavering in the moonlight.
