Trust the Catholics to celebrate something as morbid as execution and immortality on a day that should be reserved for stuffing our faces with chocolate bunnies and Cadbury Creme's. Although my faith in fixed religion went up in smoke a long, long time ago, it didn't stop the story of JC's untimely death from being relevant to my own set of trials and tribulations. Love, betrayal, pain and deceit; the homoerotic subtext of twelve men breaking bread around an illustrious dinner table. I'll probably burn at the gates of hell for making such blasphemous inferences but if there is one thing I gathered from my sixteen years of Catholic existence (and dating), it's that we all have a cross to bear, especially when it comes to love and relationships.
Breaking up with someone you truly love is like fresh hell on earth and can easily be compared to JC's excruciating crucifixion. Hung up, exposed, emotionally wounded and scarred by all the pain and suffering. Tiresome and troubling until all you're left with is a tomb of solitary confinement, half packed boxes of memories and false hopes of resurrecting something that died a long time ago. While some break-ups cross straight over into the realm of rebound, there are others that feel drawn out and worn, like some prolonged act of contrition. The incessant quest for closure can be desperate and devastating, right up to the point where break-up sex seems to be the only form of salvation.
The final supper can be a real feast of sexual and emotional intimacy, driven by a passion so wild that not even God himself could tame it. The transfer of all those raw emotions from one body to the next can be outer-worldly not to mention hot, but at what point does it become damaging? Should all relationships have one final romp before calling it a day and if so, what were the motivations? Are we really doing it for closure, a final goodbye to end the relationship on a good note or are we doing it because we secretly want our exes back safely in our arms where they belong?
One night without Aiden might as well have been forty. It was the first time I slept in a bed alone in almost four years and the first time I felt separation anxiety. No good bye kisses or hugs of console, just an angry accusation based on insecurity and intuition. Were we seriously over this time or was this just another phase that could be fixed with break-up sex? It felt over but there was still an air of uncertainty. The hunger pains for his touch grow steadily with every hour, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether we’d ever share one final supper together? One thing was for sure, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be a Good Friday.
According to the messiah of sexpertology, break-up sex should only happen when both parties consent to the mutual outcome of their separation. It’s been often compared to the night before a big diet; one mammoth binge session before the starvation begins. Was I ready to wean myself off Aiden for good or did his absence only fuel a brighter fire of lust and desire? Would it confuse the situation and my supposed decision or would it bring our relationship closer to resurrection? Would it remedy all the problems we had before or was it a temporary fix to something that seemed destined to be?
Trust. Appreciation. Respect. Once those elements are missing in a relationship, you might as well nail yourself to a cross. The road to salvation isn’t always a successful one and sometimes we just need to accept our decisions, trust that fucker called intuition and get on with it. While break-up sex can be a great source of uninhibited pleasure, it can also bring out a whole new set of wounds, wounds that might take even longer to heal. Time can only tell what will happen between Aiden and I but in the meantime, thank fuck for chocolate.
When it comes to the crucifixion of long-term relationships, what are the consequences of one final supper?