I’m Frighteningly Horny for My Girlfriend’s Ghost

Fucking Ghosts!

My girlfriend visits every October. She died a couple years ago. I want to break up with her but the sex is too good. She possesses my Magic Wand to make it vibrate faster, louder, harder. I come, screaming into a pillow as the overworked motor burns my clenched hands. She creams my tits with ectoplasm, which tastes like olive oil but is a more spiritual experience. I know olive oil—like, really good olive oil—is a spiritual experience, but this is different. Once, I made a salad dressing with her ectoplasm and I had to call out sick from work because I couldn’t stop masturbating. My clit was sore for a week.

My girlfriend exists without me, but also cannot exist without me. Ghosts haunt because they have someone to haunt. Ghosts fuck because they need a body to fuck.

In the park near my house, I stare at a frozen pizza that someone left on the ground. The soggy crust melts, disintegrating from the fall rains. The cheese and pepperoni vanish. The pizza takes a week to fully disappear. Is this a physical manifestation of grief? If this is grief then why am I so horny all the time?

I don’t tell my friends about fucking my girlfriend’s ghost. We’re at a bar when I feel a cold draft feather my neck, reach into my shirt and tweak my nipple. It’s her, I know it, so I excuse myself to the bar bathroom. I lather my pussy with spit and masturbate. I miss her, I want her, yes, I feel her on me, in me, possessing me to rub and rub faster, more furiously than I ever have in my pitiful, mortal life, and when I imagine eating a steak seared in her ectoplasm, oh god, yes, I scream and come.

“Everything okay?” my friends say when I return. They look worried.

“Oh, just polishing the silver!” I say, winking. My laughter scares them.

I go to a support group for queer women who have lost their partners. It’s held in an unheated Taekwondo studio and the only place I can’t conjure her. I feel hungover. 

When it’s my turn, I say, “I feel like I black out in October. Like I’m possessed. When I’m not here, all I can think about is . . . fucking her.”

A cup slips out of one woman’s hand and coffee spills across the floor, steaming as we soak it up with paper towels. At the end of the meeting, children are thwacking wood boards with their foreheads in the parking lot. A goth dyke from the support group comes up to me, sits on the rear bumper of my car, and says that I have a good aura. Very robust. There’s a stud in her tongue and she has a dahlia tattooed on her neck. Her presence makes me feel frozen, uncomfortable, terrified by her, I’m not sure.

“I think about sex with my dead girlfriend too,” she says and then whispers, “All the time.”

She invites me to her apartment and we use a Ouija board to communicate with our girlfriends. We circle ourselves with red candles and sit inside a pentagram chalked on the wood floor. Our hands never touch, but we follow the planchette as it spells out F-R-E-E-M-E.

“What’s Freeme?” I say.

“I think they’re saying ‘free me.’”

“Oh,” I say.

She looks concerned and says, “If you knew your girlfriend wanted to be free, would you let her?”

I say I don’t know, but that’s a lie.

“How’d she die?” she says. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Tragically,” I say.

She holds my hand. It’s warm. It’s been so long since someone has held my hand like this.

My girlfriend’s name was Samantha, by the way. On the day after Halloween, at her grave, I leave a bouquet of dahlias—her favorite flowers. I cry for the first time since she died and count the days until next October.