The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom (12 page)

I clicked on my own profile and examined my photos. They showed me in a range of attire: blue jeans, camouflage pants, a pretty dress, and an elegant pantsuit. Maybe I should spice up my collection a bit, I thought. It wouldn’t hurt to throw in a sexier shot.

I turned on my webcam and fiddled with it till I figured out how to snap a picture. My photo shoot began.

Fifteen minutes later, I was viewing my self-taken photos with a huge smirk on my face. With no audience, I’d played up to the camera in a variety of poses: Good Girl casually lounging in a corset, Wild-Haired Vixen leaning over showing cleavage, Naughty Girl pulling her hair with a telltale smile. I laughed out loud as I perused them. Some were truly hilarious, and I looked like a total ass. But a couple of them were pretty good. I decided to add them to my profile gallery, even if just for the night.

Soon after, I was cozied up in bed, clean-faced and wearing my Super Girl pajamas. I wondered if I’d regret uploading those photos in the morning. But why should I hide the fact that I’m a sexual, desirable woman?

I thought back to what I witnessed at the sex club, particularly the older woman who was last seen strapped to the St. Andrew’s cross. She hadn’t the youthfulness or ideal body our society worships, yet she wore her skin with astounding confidence. She’d walked across the room like she owned the place. And she had commanded her sexual wants and desires with no apology. Maybe she understood something most people never have the guts to even daydream about.

I wondered what kind of work she did during the day . . .
I bet she works in an office
, I thought. I imagined that when she talked to colleagues, her voice was clear, her laugh unstifled. She
was good at her job—intelligent, self assured, and capable. It just made sense to me that her confident sexuality would ripple into all areas of her life, like what The Duke had said. These were qualities I aspired to own and radiate, too. But
without
having to join a sex club.

IT WAS THE BEGINNING OF a new school year, a time of firsts, new schedules, and fresh photos for the album. I shared my daughter’s nervousness at attending her first day of preschool. As I packed her snack, I watched her out of the corner of my eye—her fingers twisting through her long dark hair, her bowl of Shreddies practically untouched. I tried to reassure her with my own stories from preschool: “And you’re going to
color
and
paint
and
make crafts.
And oh, you’re going to meet so many new friends!” Her doe eyes weren’t convinced. Her fingers kept winding . . . coiling.
Please make this a wonderful day for my baby,
I silently prayed.

And when my eldest boys, now entering kindergarten and second grade, entered the kitchen fully dressed in their uniforms, I actually took a step back—they looked so grown up. “You’re both so handsome!” I exclaimed as I leaned in to straighten ties and smooth collars. Besides their matching uniforms, my boys looked nothing alike—one extra tall with shaved blond hair, the other red- and curly-haired, with a smile that reeked of monkey business. Side by side they stood tall, little chests puffed out with pride. My little men . . . going out into the world.

I joined the other moms in the schoolyard and watched, in a daze, as my children waved and disappeared through the
backdoors.
Time moves forward,
whispered the large oak trees surrounding the school.

Even though today was an important and somewhat emotional day, the degree of my attention felt forced—my ability to fully
feel
was forced. There was a time when such a day would have fulfilled me in every possible way; my kids’ big day would have been
my
big day, too. But instead, it made me aware of that still-broken part of me: I start to feel an emotion—
any
kind of emotion—and then
smack
. I hit a wall of numbness. Or was it restlessness?

I tried not to beat myself up for my feelings. But my mother guilt kept hounding me. Because even though my kids were thriving and I’d shielded them from my divorce, even though I was back to devoting 95 percent of my time to them, my heart wasn’t fully into my mommy job anymore. And it killed me—I’d always taken that job
very
seriously. Maybe even too seriously. Perhaps to the point where it, and my role as wife, defined who I was. Maybe that was where my identity crisis originated; maybe I’d begun losing who I was long before the men I loved ripped out my heart.

I’d always wondered if my leaving the work force was a smart choice. Not for the sake of my kids, but for ME. Because as much as I loved being a mom, as much as I recognized how it challenged me to grow as a woman and human being, I was always aware that it came with sizable price tags: my autonomy and financial independence. Oh, but sometimes I longed to engage in stimulating adult conversation, or collaborate on an exciting, important project of some kind! Better still to have had my hand shaken, respect earned, for a job well done. Sometimes, when I was overtired and besieged by the kids’ tantrums and whining and crying, I not only thought, “God, I SUCK at being a mom” but “Did I
really
go to university for six years to do THIS?”

But I’d always shook such thoughts off, reminding myself that any job, be it at home or otherwise, would entail periods of feeling
overwhelmed and dissatisfied. No—I promised myself I would
never
view my homemaker’s role as a “sacrifice.” To do so would negate the blessings and joys of what it offered me. Staying at home had been a
choice
, as are most things in life. And in turn I’d chosen to smile, accept it, and
embrace
it; no regrets.

When you cut right down to the core of what moms do, part-time or full-time, it’s one thing: GIVE. You give of your soul, you give of your heart, you give of your breasts, your hands, your patience, your time, your love . . . And no matter how much you give, the job requires more, today, tomorrow, and every day after that. And that’s what I’d done: give, love, and take care of everyone else, all day, all night, around the clock. Even when I was empty, exhausted, overwhelmed,
done,
I would dig deeper, shave off more of myself, and find “it,” whatever “it” was that they needed, so that they would smile, calm down, hug me, get dressed, fall asleep,
stay
asleep. Giving and giving, always on alert, always anticipating their calls, cries, wants, fights, falls, pains. In my quest to be the ultimate supplier of love, patience, and energy, in the end, I had no reserves left for myself. I’d given
me
away. I hadn’t known where to draw lines—or even to draw lines to begin with. I hadn’t known to differentiate the wants and needs of them from
me.
Nor had I separated those of
Robert
from me. He blurred into the frenzied memory of my homemaker’s life as a vision of one more hand reaching out, wanting something,
demanding
something. And I’d turn to him and smile . . . lie back and spread my legs . . . merging my self into his need, too.

Regardless of when or how I’d lost myself, I was angry that I was making my crisis all about me and what
I
was going through; three children’s lives were also at stake. As a parent, you can’t just suddenly go on sabbatical when life hits you between the eyes. Kids need their mom every day, ready or not. They
should
be able to rely on their mom. But what do you do when you
know
that, but
you can’t “will” your bashed-up heart to participate? How do you suddenly balance meeting all their many needs against the urgent demands of your own?

Fear descended upon me:
What if I feel this way forever? What if my kids are perceiving the change in my interest level and it causes some psychological breakdown later on in life?
I imagined my eldest son lying on some psychiatrist’s couch, saying, “Well doc, I’d have to say that the turning point in my life was when my
mom
. . .”

I just wished I could accelerate my learning; hurry up and understand myself so I could get the hell out of this place. I understood that I wasn’t supposed to be with Robert or Graham. I understood that there was a different plan for me. So when was the universe going to chuck me a fucking bone? (
Anybody up there listening?)
There again, maybe I deserved this. Maybe I was dealing with bad karma and this was my punishment for having had an affair.
(Spit)

Anger. Self-pity. Despair. Then more anger, more self-pity, more hopelessness. The merry-go-round of emotions went round and round, mesmerizing me, seducing me into these dark aspects of myself—and I surrendered. Underneath it all, I desperately wanted someone to grab hold of my hand tightly and lead me in the right direction. Instead, all I had was me—broken, lost me, who right now believed that her recent choices were not only questionable, but maybe even unethical. If I was working on my business, which I’d hardly touched, or going back to school, maybe I’d have had more faith in my decision-making abilities; my
character
. Instead, I was dating up a storm, fantasizing about some dominant in New York City, and exploring sex clubs.

Still, it somehow felt right. A voice in my head kept telling me that this time of exploration was not only due me, it was necessary.
You have been through hell,
it whispered softly.
Now is your time to heal and grow.

But
was
I growing? Or was I wasting precious time seeking thrills and acting out?

I couldn’t even blame my feelings or behavior on Graham anymore. I’d hardly even thought of him over the past month. But I felt like a big black scab was holding my heart together—one wrong move and I’d find myself back at the entrance of the wilderness. I’d definitely made progress through the wilds: In my mind’s eye, I no longer saw me stumbling along aimlessly with the burden of my grief on my back. The terrain before me was less rocky, and I was definitely walking taller. But my body felt restless . . . edgy.

Wherever this path was headed, I hadn’t the resolve to change what I was doing. I was just following the path of least resistance, hoping for the best—or at least that it wouldn’t get me into too much trouble. I knew I had about three years to get my career and financial future in order; that’s what the latest draft of my separation agreement said, anyway. So instead of panicking over my timeline, I reminded myself that a lot could happen in three years. I
would
get my life organized again. I may not have charted a firm course yet, but with every small choice, every small task I completed every day, I was moving forward. I could beg and stomp my feet and cry as much as I wanted, but the bottom line was that I couldn’t rush my evolution; the universe would send me a sign when I was ready.

 

MY FASCINATION WITH The Duke was building—but so were my paranoia and fear around him. What if he’d made his Internet millions in the pornography business? Or maybe the Internet gig was a cover; maybe in real life he was a drug lord or operated a chain of strip joints. Worse still, maybe he was a pimp! Immediately, I sent him an email expressing my suspicions: What, did he think me just some naïve stay-at-home mom?
I’ll show him who’s “alpha”!
I thought determinedly.

But Shane was thoroughly amused, replying that I had a “twisted and wild imagination.” Later that day, he then phoned to reassure me that his business dealings were aboveboard and honorable.

“Then why won’t you tell me who you are?” I demanded. “And why won’t you send me a photo of your face?”

“My
name
is Shane,” he replied. “My
identity
is a whole other issue. Since you and I aren’t taking any steps to meet at this point, I don’t think it’s necessary to disclose. Why do you need a photo anyway? To find out if you’re attracted to me?
You already are
.”

I didn’t want to admit it . . . but he was right. His mind had me hooked. I knew he was withholding his personal information to get a rise out of me
and
to establish his “dominant” status. If I wanted to keep talking to him—and I did—then I’d have to let it go.

No, I wasn’t considering him as boyfriend material, though the role of kinky, out-of-town lover had crossed my mind. If anything, Shane was becoming like a “freaky life” coach, one whose mission was to train me to master myself through my sexuality.

His views and outlook on the world both repulsed and intrigued me. Power/sex/life—I’d never perceived the world through that triangle before. And though I didn’t always agree with his opinions, I liked that he made me
think
; he made me
question.
Because looking around at my shambled life, I couldn’t help but wonder, what didn’t I “get”? Was I too naïve about love and relationships? Was I too heart-centered? Was I taught to believe in something(s) that doesn’t even exist? After all, I’d followed all of society’s well-mapped-out “rules”: I got married, had kids, loved, trusted, sacrificed, worked hard, and wholeheartedly believed in both Robert and Graham. How might I prevent disaster from happening again? I was looking for answers, missing chunks of knowledge, clues into the male psyche that perhaps I’d previously overlooked or had never been
exposed to. And I liked being able to share and explore new thinking with a
man
—a highly intelligent, experienced, older man—who also lived safely far away from me
.

The bottom line was that, like it or not, a new door of my life was kicked open last summer. And it had led me to the chamber of my sexuality. I felt certain there were other doorways leading out of here, to other places; this wasn’t my final destination. But before I could proceed onward, there was something hidden in here I had to find.

 

I AWOKE WITH a start, my bedroom dark and silent.
Geez, what time is it?
I looked over at my clock: 4:03 AM. The “birthing hours,” an older spiritual teacher of mine had called these final hours before dawn. She’d said it was the perfect time to meditate; ripe earth energies were organizing themselves for the day ahead, and if one aligned herself, she could consciously create her day.