When B took his own life in our backyard, our intimate relationship had been dormant for two full years. After forgiving multiple infidelities—some confirmed, others suspected—and serving as his caregiver during the final seven months of his life, my love and attraction had faded. Yet for nearly a year after his death, I found myself weeping uncontrollably almost every time I experienced an orgasm.
The Unexpected Grief Response
About a week after B's suicide, I experienced my first "grief crygasm" during another sleepless 2:00 a.m. episode. To my surprise, immediately after climaxing, I rolled onto my side and began sobbing. The tears lasted only minutes before exhaustion pulled me into sleep, my orange cat pressed against my belly as I escaped into dreams free from chaos. The pattern repeated the next morning, revealing a painful truth: I wasn't crying because I missed B, but because I felt B was missing these moments of pleasure, these days, this life.
Navigating Complex Emotions
While French culture has long referred to orgasms as "la petite mort" or "the little death," these post-orgasmic outbursts confused me. Former lovers knew me for bursting into laughter after climax, not tears. My intimate life with B had always embraced dark fantasies and taboo emotions—lust, jealousy, anger, regret—but sadness hadn't been part of our repertoire. I felt annoyed that B continued affecting me from beyond, creeping into my subconscious after causing so much pain while alive.
Yet my tender heart prevailed. I made space for sadness that B would never again experience sexual pleasure in the body I once knew and loved. Despite anger, exhaustion, and resentment, I still dreamed of him healthy and fulfilled, even when those dreams conflicted with my own wellbeing.
Discovering Deception and Desperation
The night of B's death, I wandered our house clutching his phone when a text arrived from an unknown number: "Are you there? I'm worried about you." I called immediately, connecting with Alison, a woman B had met online while presenting himself as single, employed, and falling for her. Over an hour, we shared our parallel realities—she learning B had been in a five-year relationship with me, disabled from a traumatic brain injury; me discovering yet another layer of deception.
The next morning, Alison alerted me to B's active dating profiles. Hesitant but curious, I found his ads on Doublelist, Craigslist's replacement, where he posted across multiple categories using a photo from before his accident. This lie felt different—desperate, filled with longing for a reality no longer available. Instead of anger, it broke my heart imagining him struggling with his new identity.
Returning to Intimacy
Touch-starved, heartbroken, and traumatized from finding B dying in our backyard shed, I returned to Doublelist a month later. My ad echoed B's approach, acknowledging my emotional rawness and need for "serious sexual and sensual attention." Responses flooded my inbox, and exactly four weeks after B's death, I awaited a stranger's reply.
He arrived hours later, carrying cheap liqueur and grinning broadly. After a sloppy kiss in my living room, I warned him: "I am probably going to cry, so just ignore me and keep doing your thing." He chuckled, "Yes, ma'am," as I led him to my bedroom.
Our encounter became a frenzy of physicality that reminded me I remained a sexual, desirable being capable of intense pleasure. True to prediction, I cried during and after, while he held me afterward, assuring, "You're OK, girl." He left discovering bears had broken into his truck, eating pizza and mushrooms—a surreal end to an emotionally charged night.
The Healing Journey Continues
This encounter didn't cure my crying. Though my therapist assured me this grief manifestation was normal, I worried about permanently associating sexual release with sadness. The pattern continued with other internet connections—most ignored my tears, one licked them off claiming his love would save me, another seemed genuinely surprised when I rejected salvation narratives.
When Charles appeared eight months after B's death, he simply said "OK" when I warned about potential tears. Our first intense interaction didn't trigger crying, but in following months, tears returned during particularly intimate moments. I still struggled with B dying feeling disconnected and unloved, and with accepting his physical body could no longer experience pleasure.
Finding Resolution
Charles never faltered—present with my sadness without digging or ignoring. As my therapist predicted, toward the end of my first bereavement year, the crying stopped. As a trauma surgeon constantly surrounded by death, I discuss grief regularly with colleagues, patients, and families, yet never heard anyone describe similar post-orgasmic crying episodes.
As a hospice doctor, I remind patients and families that grief manifests in messy ways for days, months, years, even decades after loss. Whether you experience "crymaxxing," cannot cry at all, or have another confusing grief response, there's no right way to "do death." Those who claim otherwise simply haven't slept in your sheets.
Moving Forward
Nearly five years after B's suicide, Charles and I are engaged. B still lingers in my thoughts and heart—I sometimes cry while driving, showering, or staring into woods on sunny days. But my "little deaths" now accompany only laughter once more, completing a healing journey through grief's unexpected intersections with intimacy.
Red Hoffman is a trauma surgeon, hospice doctor, writer, and speaker currently working on a book about surviving violent loss. If you or someone you know needs mental health support, call or text 988 or visit 988lifeline.org. Additional resources available at dontcallthepolice.com. Internationally, visit the International Association for Suicide Prevention.
