I craved no-strings attached hook ups after my husband died – I needed sex
WHEN Nicky Wake was widowed three years ago, she missed her husband desperately – but the 51-year-old also craved intimacy and sex, a phenomenon known as “widow’s fire”.
Today the mum of one, from Bury, Gtr Manchester, tells Alex Lloyd why grieving women should be free to seek solace in no-strings relationships, without judgment from others.
"MY nerves were jangling as I checked my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
I’d had my hair done, got a new outfit and taken extra time on my make-up.
My first date that evening had been filled with wine and laughter — and now I was ready to take the next step.
It had been 20 years since I’d slept with a new man and my emotions were a complicated mix of desire, fear and guilt.
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I’d never felt so conflicted.
I’d always been 100 per cent faithful to my husband Andy.
He was my absolute soulmate — but he now was gone and never coming back.
There was a daily physical ache for him, and so I’d found someone to ease the pain.
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I didn’t want a relationship. I wasn’t ready for that.
Instead, I needed no-strings sex.
Just two consenting adults who were happy to have some casual fun.
You might think my story is unusual.
Widows are “supposed” to be too busy, in black, weeping for their late spouse, to even think about another man.
But when you lose your husband at a young age, like I did, you still have wants and needs.
In fact, you crave that connection even more. It’s known as widow’s fire, an intense desire for sex.
Losing a partner young means you lose so many things, and your libido can kick in to fill the void.
Sex takes your mind away from the pain, allows you to feel alive and gives you a surge of feelgood chemicals and hormones.
The truth was, I’d lost my husband three years before he died.
In July 2017, Andy suffered a heart attack that left him with severe brain damage from which he would never recover.
His condition meant he needed 24-hour care and had to move into a home.
Then, in April 2020, he succumbed to Covid, aged just 57.
His death broke my heart — it hit me like a train — but I’d been living with dreadful, anticipated grief for a long time.
When lockdown restrictions were lifted a few months after his death, I was more than ready to start dipping my toe into the dating world, to get some closeness and affection.
But things had changed since I met Andy on Dating Direct in 2002, the early days of online love.
We’d married two years later and had our son, Finn, in 2007.
He’d quit his job as a police press officer to help me get my events business off the ground.
True partners in life, parenting — and the bedroom.
Back then, you didn’t dare tell people you were using a dating website. Now everyone has an app and a profile.
I tried Tinder and Bumble — it was like the Wild West.
The last time I was single there were no X-rated pics and there was no ghosting.
Today, this was hard work, almost like another job. You had to put hours in and I didn’t have that spare time.
Being a widow on a dating site is also something of a passion- killer.
There’s no awful ex to laugh about. Your last love hasn’t left you, you didn’t outgrow each other.
Should you mention being a widow on your profile? If you don’t, how do you then slip it into conversation?
I’d become an active member of the charity Widowed And Young and, when I was with other women in the same boat, conversations inevitably turned to sex and dating.
We were all 50 or younger — and life doesn’t stop at that age.
We weren’t old enough to hide away wearing black or live our days without physical affection.
But we were also hampered by our widowhood, judged by others if we “moved on” too soon or tried to meet our needs.
Not to mention that many of us were mums and now the sole care-givers for our children.
It wasn’t conducive to romantic dinners or a one-night stand.
In the end, I met a lovely guy online, on Tinder, and we arranged to have a date in Liverpool.
It was understood things would likely get physical.
I’m fairly comfortable in my own skin and with my sexuality, but inevitably there were nerves.
On the train there, I gave myself a pep talk.
Yes, my heart was still with my husband but he was never coming back.
I wasn’t moving on — I was moving forward.
That night, after dinner, we went to my room and did the deed.
It was very strange but fun, and I woke with a huge sense of relief and satisfaction.
In the end, we ended up seeing each other casually for a couple of years, on and off.
I also dated some other men who were never going to be more than a bit of fun.
We all knew where we stood — no one was going to get hurt.
And they were absolutely delicious distractions from my grief.
I needed sex but was not ready to replace Andy. He was the John to my Yoko.
What I also learned was that dating widowed men was far easier than seeing divorcees.
There was an emotional shorthand that was so comfortable.
I didn’t need to explain why I had pictures of another man in my house — and why they would be staying there.
This led to me starting my own dating app, Chapter Two, last year — a safe space for widows and widowers to look for love, companionship or whatever they desired.
And last month I started a second service, called Widow’s Fire, for no-strings hook-ups when you are not ready for your next chapter but need physical closeness.
Women who have lost their partner need to be able to explore their desires without judgment and without guilt, with another consenting adult who understands.
For widowed women especially, it can be quite taboo to be seen to be dating, whereas widowed men are judged less harshly.
There are the feelings of family and close friends to be taken into account too, and you have to be discreet.
I was lucky to have loved ones who wanted the best for me, but I’ve heard horror stories of widows falling out with their in-laws.
I remember spotting another school dad on one mainstream app I started using, and having to get off it sharpish, as I didn’t want people to know I was dating.
If I’d been going through a divorce, getting back on the market would be encouraged, not disapproved of.
Three years on from losing Andy, I still don’t think I’ll ever meet anyone as perfect for me but I’m willing to try. And I know I have his blessing.
On our last holiday together, in April 2017, we went to Australia to see the widow of his close schoolfriend, after he died of a brain tumour.
She had started dating someone and we were really happy for her.
It led to us having a conversation that I am eternally grateful for, because Andy told me how he’d want me to look for a new partner if anything ever happened to him.
I thought it was a hypothetical conversation and that we’d have another 20, 30, 40 years together. But it wasn’t to be.
I think Andy would be proud of me for talking about this and starting my dating services.
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If I can bring joy to other widows and help them navigate their way out of the darkness, I’ll feel something good has come of our situation.
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