The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom (11 page)

Goatee Man walked over to a bar and poured our wine into glasses for us. “Allow me to show you around,” he offered graciously. “And feel free to ask any questions you may have as we go along.” Hali and I quickly sipped our wine.

As Goatee Man went over the club’s rules, I stood close to Hali, only half listening. I was dying of self-consciousness.
Were people sizing me up as new meat?

“. . . and toward the end of the night, you’ll see that a lot of people leave this area and go upstairs,” I heard him say.

There’s an upstairs?
Hali and I followed him back toward the entrance and up a set of stairs. No one else was up there. Away from the scrutiny of others, I calmed down somewhat. Goatee Man led us to an area on the right that held the same furnishings as any comfortable living room: couches, side tables, coffee table, artwork
on the wall; there was even a TV in the corner, which was on. But it wasn’t a sitcom playing, it was porn. And the paintings were erotic as well. Goatee Man continued, in a very matter-of-fact tone: “You’ll find on the side tables anything you might need—condoms, towels, wet naps . . .”

“You mean people will actually come up here to have
sex
?” I blurted.

“Yes.” He guided us to another room; this one had jail bars as a door. “If you want some privacy, feel free to come in here.” I peeked inside. Two fully made-up queen-size beds lay side by side against chocolate-colored walls. Between them hung a painting of an open vagina. I noted that the wine-red bed pillow matched the labia in the artwork.
Whoa. They don’t miss anything
.

“And over here—” he led us across a bridge illuminated by tiny white floor lights, “. . . again, we have couches set up with all the amenities you might need. This room is often used for group activities. And way over there—” he pointed to the far corner, “. . . we have a Saint Andrew’s cross and other scene paraphernalia. That section is popular on Saturday nights, which is our Fantasy Night for dominants and submissives. But all members are welcome to use it any night they wish,” he added, smiling politely.

We made our way back to the top of the stairs. Goatee Man wrapped up: “You don’t have to participate in anything up here. You can simply watch if you like. Some of our members are exhibitionists and love an audience,” he added, smiling. “While others are into voyeurism. But, if someone asks you
not
to watch, you are expected to respect her wishes. I can’t say strongly enough, no means no here. Women’s choice comes first and must be obeyed at all times. You will see us walking around, monitoring the goings-on of the night to ensure that all our members are safe and happy.”

I was taken aback but also reassured by his businesslike manner, as if he was showing us around a resort hotel. Hali and I made
our way back downstairs and found a table near the back of the room by the dance floor. I was starting to feel a little buzz from the wine and was finally relaxing. I scanned the room quickly, then again, more slowly. Everyone was busy doing his or her own thing: socializing, laughing, sometimes in small groups, some just in pairs. I noticed that most of the men were fully dressed in business-casual attire. But a number of women were wearing more daring outfits, and they came in various shapes and sizes.

I stared inconspicuously at two older women at a table close by. One appeared to be around fifty and wore a skimpy, black bedroom dress like the one I bought at Miss Chiff’s Closet (the one full of holes). Her companion was a beautiful heavy-set woman, who also revealed skin and curves with no apparent concern. They both seemed so relaxed and comfortable—here
and
in their bodies. I observed their husbands, who both looked like businessmen: One bald, one bulging at the belt, they were absorbed in conversation.

At the back of the room, Hali and I quietly shared our observations. We noted that the youngest group of people in the room was in our age bracket. They were socializing as if at a pub. Two other couples in their forties were dancing and chatting on the dance floor; one woman looked like Sally Homemaker in her grey and pink-checkered vest.

A couple of men and women approached us for casual conversation. But we both quickly expressed that it was our first time here. I think we scared them off.

“Oh my God,” I heard Hali murmur.

“What?”

“Don’t look now, but you know those older women a few tables over? I think they just switched husbands.” I casually looked over and . . . yup, yes-sir, no-doubt-about-it-folks—a switchover had transpired. Not only were the husbands openly touching the other’s wife, one woman was rubbing the other woman, too.

I didn’t want to stare but I couldn’t help it. Obviously they weren’t uncomfortable exhibiting, so why should I be shy about watching?

My body and brain were noticeably warm and fuzzy from the wine. The music was getting louder. And the songs being played were current, sexy; perfect for dancing and grinding. Sally Homemaker paraded back onto the dance floor with her husband and another man in tow, and it wasn’t long before she was being grilled, fried, and sandwiched.

“Look,” whispered Hali. “They’re going upstairs.” The two older couples had disappeared as a group up the stairs. Hali couldn’t resist adding commentary: “Going upstairs for some action, folks.”

I reached for my wine glass to help me chase down what I was witnessing. But dammit, it was empty! I wished I’d brought more.

Meanwhile, over at the pub-like gathering of younger adults, one of the women had taken off her jacket, showing off her assets. Her tall, slim frame was covered only by a lacy G-string and black leather chaps. The cutest man over there (Hali and I had agreed) was now squeezing and necking a luscious-looking black woman with a long mane of hair.

Suddenly, movement above me caught my eye. I looked up and realized that I could clearly view the upper floor. And directly facing me was the Saint Andrew’s cross. Black Minidress Woman was being tied onto it by her bald husband. The other woman was across from her, but I couldn’t see her. I
could,
however, see the top of her husband’s head; I think he was strapping her into something, too.

Once Minidress Woman was bound to the cross, her husband lifted her skirt, exposing her spread-eagled nakedness for all to see. He stood in front of her, kissing her, his hand visibly playing elsewhere. She smiled and talked. Sometimes she tilted
her head back against the cross, obviously enjoying the pleasure she received. I pulled my eyes away, wishing even harder that I’d brought more wine.

I looked up again. A man was still in front of her but . . . hold on, people. It was now the other woman’s husband. They were switching back and forth!

“Wow, Hali,” I exhaled heavily. “This is turning me on.”

“Yeah, it’s super sexually charged,” replied Hali, who’d been observing the upstairs’ events too. “I’m glad I had sex three times last night,” she said with a sly grin.

“You
did?
But I thought you went to the stripping class!”

“And afterward, Josh came over.”

“Well I’ve had sex maybe six times in a flippin’ year and this is really getting to me!”

“Do you want to go upstairs and watch?” Hali half-teased half-dared.

“God
no! No
way!
I don’t want to participate in anything. Watching from here is more than enough.”

But soon, the electricity in the room began to frustrate me. “Hali, I’ve probably had the least amount of sex out of every person in this entire room and I’m sitting here watching everybody
else
get some,” I said, exasperated. “I’m ready to go when you are.”

It wasn’t yet midnight as Hali drove me back to my car. But I felt like I’d just spent days in the Twilight Zone. “Wow,” I exhaled. “That was something else.”

“Yeah. It was
intense.
The entire place breathed with sex.”

“So, are you glad you went?”

“For sure,” she said. “It was great to experience it. But I wouldn’t buy a membership,” she added, emphatic. “I doubt I’ll ever go back, though who knows with me these days. What about you?”

I thought for a minute, eyebrows knit. My feelings weren’t totally black and white. “Well, it definitely pushed me out of my
comfort zone. Right now I really want to have sex, so it obviously worked for me on some level! The problem is, I’ve got zilcho in the playmate department and I don’t think I could have simply hooked up with a stranger there tonight—and in front of all those people—so I’m not sure what that means.”

“Would you go back again?”

I thought again for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. A part of me is a bit curious about their Fantasy Night, the whole dominant/ submissive thing. But I doubt I’ll follow up. When it comes right down to it, I think it was neat to experience it, but it’s not me.”

“See? I think that’s what’s so cool about this, Delaine: We’re growing, changing, trying new things; yet when it comes right down to it, whether we’d decided to go upstairs or not, we’re capable of making choices that work for us. Other people would probably judge us just because we set foot in a sex club. But
we
know we can step outside our box and still be true to ourselves.”

Hali pulled up beside my parked minivan, and we continued talking. The night didn’t just test our comfort zone, it galvanized thought. We were both bursting to share our personal insight about our sexuality. “The fact that people knew, beyond a doubt, that I was there because I was sexually curious made me really uncomfortable,” I admitted. “When I go to a bar, I can sit in the corner, play coy, and pretend like I’m not there to pick up. But at this place, as soon as we walked through the doors, I couldn’t hide: I was willingly entering a sex club, so I was openly admitting that I was there because of the sex. That was an uncomfortable feeling for me to sit in.”

“But I can see how that’s empowering too,” said Hali. “You’re forced to acknowledge and sit tall in your own sexuality. I think as women we’re taught to deny and suppress our sexuality from the time we’re teenagers. We’re taught that good girls don’t say or act a certain way. But the bottom line is, as grown women we are entitled to use and enjoy our bodies however we please. We are
sexual beings and no one should be allowed to make those decisions for us. Our bodies belong to
us
.”

“I totally agree, but I don’t know about the swinging thing.” I raked my hand through my hair. “Watching those couples switch partners brought up mixed feelings for me.”

“I know it wouldn’t work for me,” Hali said emphatically.

“But since both of us were cheated on and millions of others are cheating as we speak, doesn’t it make you question if people are meant to be monogamous?” I pushed. “Or if maybe we overassign meaning to sex? If the people we saw tonight truly believe that sex can be but a pleasurable act and not feel the possessiveness and jealousy the rest of us do, maybe their chances of staying together are greater than ours. Because they wouldn’t need to lie and deceive each other, like our husbands did to us. And wasn’t it the deception that really killed our marriages?”

“So, are you saying that if Robert had approached you while you were pregnant and said, ‘Look, I know you’re not feeling horny these days but I am. So do you mind if I fuck someone else while you throw up?’—THAT would have made it easier?”

I laughed. “No! Though a part of me would’ve been relieved to have him stop bugging me for sex. Seriously though, I think it’s impossible for us to imagine what it ‘could’ be like, Hali, when our current rigid beliefs around sex have been force-fed to us since we were young. They’re so deeply ingrained in us that we can’t even begin to shift out our lenses. Hell, we don’t even know that we may want to
change
our lenses or that we’re even wearing them.” I paused, as that thought sat with me.

Hali suddenly pulled out her cell phone. “Josh just texted me!” she announced merrily. “I’m going to tell him to meet me.”

“Well, you’re certainly dressed for him,” I said wryly, as I reached for the door. “Thanks for the most
memorable
evening, Miss Hali.”

 

EVEN THOUGH IT was one in the morning, I went straight to my computer and logged onto the dating site. I didn’t even bother to change or take off my high-heeled boots. As I sorted through my inbox, I clicked directly on the senders’ profiles instead of opening their emails to see if they were good-looking. And the verdicts were:
No. No. Yuck, no. Oh look, it’s Don.

Don was one of the twelve men I met in person a couple of months ago. I actually found him very attractive; he was like a short Val Kilmer, but he had “player” written all over him; a bed-post notcher mixed in with a bit of gooey slime. Since our date, he’d continued to pursue me via email, sexual and flirtatious messages that always made me smile. This one read:

Yeah Don. I would actually enjoy you tonight
, I thought with a sigh
.
But no. He was just too gooey.

Back to my inbox. Where was I? Oh, there. Next profile:
No . . . no . . . eww, creepy . . . hmmmm, maybe.
This guy was pretty cute; same age as me, too. Kind of looked like a high school quarterback: short thick hair, huge white smile . . . Wow. In his second photo, he was driving a quad with his shirt off—
very
nice chest. And in this last photo he was hugging a dog, a golden retriever.

I opened his message:

Well, dear Chad,
I mock replied in my head.
I just got back from a sex club and I’m sitting here in a corset and stockings.
Chuckling, I fired him a platonic reply.