The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom (14 page)

In hindsight, I can actually
see
the slow destruction of my sense of self over the years. His words, like sharp pins, covered my body from head to toe like a well-used voodoo doll. I’d thought my skin was tough and thick. But his attacks were too numerous. Slowly, his toxic criticisms had poisoned my sense of self-worth.

I could
not
allow Robert to call the shots on my life anymore! I
knew
this, but it was a lot easier said than done. His verbal pins had transformed into arrows since we’d separated. We were still disagreeing over a few important points on our separation agreement, particularly those related to money. Any time Robert and I entered discussion around it, I could literally see the anger climb up his back and ignite a fire in his eyes, burning out his ability to reason. Suddenly, we were no longer talking about the issue at hand, and all my energy went into shielding off his attacks on my character:

“You were nothing but a footloose hippie before you met me. And you’d
still
be nothing if it weren’t for me!”

“I see you’re on the dating sites, God, what a joke. You describe yourself as athletic . . . smart? You’re the most fucked-up woman I’ve ever known!”

“You think I’m not paying you enough? Well, how about if I work only half-time and take the kids the other half? Then you won’t get
anything!”

I knew Robert was hurting. I also knew he was afraid. And I
did
feel compassion for him: He was processing the death of our
marriage, too. But I didn’t know where to draw the line around his taking out his pain on me; there was no pleasure in being the victim of his verbal assaults, but there was also no pleasure in seeing him suffering and upset. Moreover, what if I was WRONG? What if I was acting selfishly, but didn’t see it?

So I’d just wrap my arms tightly around my chest, imagine myself wrapped in white light, and take it.

But
no more.
I knew it was time to
stop
taking it, to
stop
justifying my life to Robert, and focus on being true to me. Suddenly, Shane’s voice replayed in my ears: “From now on, you let no one disrespect you, even
you
. . . You’re no one’s doormat anymore. You got that?”

The “alpha” in me stirred. I got it alright. I had gotten rid of Robert, the flesh and blood man;
now
I needed to cauterize the wounds he’d left in my soul.

I WAS KEEPING A SECRET from Sergeant Shane. Nothing shocking or scandalous. But I knew he would think I was being naughty for not telling him.

Turns out, I met someone online I actually liked. Maybe even more than Shane. And I’d been sneaking out of boot camp to see him.

His name was Chad. He was the fresh-faced quarterback look-alike who emailed me the night of my sex-club adventure. For whatever reason, he didn’t write me again until a few days ago. But we’d quickly made up for lost time.

As it turned out, my intuition was spot-on: He looked like a jock because he
was
a jock. Not only was he a high school physical education teacher, he was also the school’s football coach. He had no kids of his own, but his students served as surrogates; he spent countless volunteer hours with his athletes after school and spoke passionately about the issues teenagers faced, including the confusion, adventures, and heartbreak of adolescence.

Part of his teaching curriculum also required he teach sex education to his gym students. And though we sometimes shared a giggle at their telltale awkwardness or bravado, my jaw fell open when he shared the inside scoop on some students’ escapades:

Some teenagers, he said, proudly wear bracelets that mark the number of sexual partners they’d had at weekend parties. Some also engaged in “rainbow parties,” where girls compete in a contest of sorts—performing oral sex on boys while wearing different color lipstick, thus creating a rainbow. “They announce their sexual exploits as if it somehow makes them cool,” said Chad. “If I were a parent, I’d be looking at my child’s wrist
very
carefully.”

I suddenly felt like I’d been living in a bubble for the past twenty years. Back in the eighties, I thought my friends and I were being promiscuous when we smoked a joint and got felt-up in someone’s bathroom. But engaging in sex for sport? Suddenly, I wanted to shackle my kids!

For our first date, Chad invited me to go shopping to buy his mom a birthday present. Out front of the wholesale store, we finally met face to face; there was direct eye contact and big smiles on both sides. I liked what I saw. His face was handsome yet boyish, his small brown eyes and long eyelashes shimmered with mischief, and his white-toothed smile stretched from ear to ear. Like me, he was wearing jeans and a casual shirt. But his was a red and white football jersey—and
whew
, there was no denying the broad, muscular chest it concealed.

We meandered side by side toward the jewelry department, talking and laughing like old pals. Along the way, we checked out flat-screen TVs and a few deluxe barbeques (I feigned interest). The whole date-while-shopping experience felt pleasant, but very odd, especially since I’d wheeled through this store a hundred times with my kids.

He’d already narrowed his gift search down to two items: a diamond teardrop pendant and a diamond-laced gold bracelet. “Which would you prefer?” he asked, pointing them out in the showcase.

As I bent forward to examine his selections, Chad leaned over the top of me, with his hand on my waist. I made no effort to
move away from the warm press of his body, which immediately aroused me. For an intense moment I forgot I was shopping . . .
Yoo-hoo, Delaine, make a choice!
“Definitely the bracelet.” And our bodies separated.

A couple of hotdogs and sodas later, we wrapped up our date with a big strong hug (against his big strong chest) and his declaration to call me soon. Overall, our date left me feeling pumped and ready to square off with him again. The idea of being tackled was
very
appealing.

 

LOST IN THE warm thoughts of my date with Football Coach Chad, I began walking home from the grocery store. Even though my five grocery bags were heavy, I decided to take the longer, scenic route through the park. It was a beautiful day, and besides, I needed the exercise.

Halfway into the park, I stopped and put down my bags to rest my numbing arms. It was then that I noticed someone lying down on the far side of the hill.

I froze, my heart kicking into high gear. He had a long body and short, dark hair. I clenched the handles of my grocery bags and walked slowly in his direction, feeling pulled,
pushed,
as if under a spell. Eyes straight ahead, I proceeded through the large evergreens. Fifteen feet away now, out of the trees and into the buttery afternoon sunlight . . .

It was HIM. He was lying where we used to picnic during his lunch hours. Still, I continued moving toward him, silently, not even a faint rustle from my bags. I felt like I was floating ghostlike, as if I was astral-traveling to “here,” to this moment, to this Netherland of my past. I stopped right beside him and looked down. He was sleeping.

“Hi Graham,” I said, in a voice colder than I intended.

He quickly sat up and removed his sunglasses. “Oh geez—you scared me!”

Pause.

“How
are
you?” he asked hesitantly.

“Good . . . . and you?”

“I’m okay.” He moved over on his blanket to make room for me to sit down. I ignored the gesture and stood there gripping my grocery bags. I wanted to look down on him. I felt strangely unmoved.

“How’s your business going?” he asked.

“It’s not. I’ve had too much else to deal with.” He looked away.

“How’s work for you?” I asked.

“Not good. I’m not sure what’s going on. I’ve gone from having a three-week waiting list to having hours off every day. All I know is that it’s the beginning of the month and I have eighty dollars in my bank account.”

“Wow.” I stared down at him, feeling no pity.
Sucks when karma catches up with you, eh?

I knew he was now the father of a four-month-old baby girl; my friend Sara had informed me the day she’d been born. Right now, I wasn’t about to pretend that she and her mother never happened.

“Do you get to see your daughter very much?” I asked directly.

He paused, fiddling with his glasses. When he finally spoke, he did not look at me. “Usually once a week.”

I nodded slowly. I could tell from his demeanor that the truth had not yet surfaced, that he was still doing damage control. Because you see, Melissa, his girlfriend/friend/lover or whatever she was, was
married;
not only that, she had four other kids from this marriage. And her husband, even though he’d had a vasectomy two years ago, believed the baby she’d just birthed was
his
. That’s right. Graham and Melissa had knowingly stood by and allowed her husband to fall in love with another man’s child. They resorted to sneak visits behind her husband’s back, and they had yet to formulate a long-term game plan . . . somebody, at some point, was going to be devastated.

As I looked down at Graham now, sitting in a long-sleeved polo shirt on this hillside full of intimate memories, I felt strangely calm and composed. He looked the same as he always had—but somehow . . . . somehow . . . he felt like a stranger; I knew him, yet I did not. I had pressed against that lean chest in the throes of our lovemaking. I had excavated and shared my innermost thoughts and dreams with him. I had planned to love his three children and build my entire future with HIM—this man, this stranger, sitting on a blanket, in the afternoon sunshine.

“So Graham—” I looked him straight in the eyes. “Do you have any regrets?” I felt the power behind my question hit Graham square in the chest like a well-placed punch.

He flinched, I swear, and his chiseled jaw dropped. He did not expect that question, either. At first he looked pained, and then his eyes flashed with defensiveness. “I have no regrets for bringing my daughter into this world. She is beautiful and I would never regret giving her life.” Then his tone softened. “But . . . I do regret all the people I hurt.”

I nodded my head, mouth tight.
Was that supposed to be an apology? You still have no balls, you selfish coward.

“Well, I need to get going.” I rustled my grocery bags. “Goodbye, Graham.”

“Bye, Delaine. It was great to see you.”

I started walking away. “Hey Delaine,” he called. I turned around. “Thanks for stopping. Thanks for talking to me.”

“Bye, Graham.” I turned my back to him, and with my head held high, I walked across the remaining length of the open park. I knew I was visible to him the entire way. I knew he was watching me leave, hoping I’d look back over my shoulder. But I didn’t. I didn’t even want to. And that said it all.

 

IT WAS SATURDAY night, a week since my first date with Coach Chad. Even though Chad was at a wedding reception, he’d texted me numerous times throughout the evening. And it was clear that he was becoming increasingly inebriated. But that was okay, because so was I.

After a month on the road, Robert had unexpectedly come to town and taken the kids for twenty-four hours. And I was beyond ecstatic. Oh, I love my kids more than anything, but as any busy mother will attest, me-time is a rare treasure. When I look back on the last seven years of my life, I’m baffled by where my energy came from; hell, how did my engine even turn over some days? Even when Robert was in town to help out, my workload didn’t lessen, it simply changed. His short returns home meant a mad rush to maximize the ever-important family time that most other families share on a regular basis. Plus, I had to organize fun husband-wife date nights—not just dinners out (which I preferred), but dancing, bars, live bands,
action
. “Just because you’re a mom doesn’t mean you have to act like an old lady,” he’d say, if I protested. I didn’t want to be perceived as
that
kind of wife: Mrs. I-Am-Boring-and-No-Fun, now that I’ve had kids. No—it was my duty to maintain my pre-mom vibrancy and be the same energetic woman Robert fell in love with, even though I longed to be treated like a lady and not his party girl . . . or maybe just fall asleep on the couch.

Robert took the kids too late in the day for me to make plans to go out. So instead, I caught up with a few girlfriends via phone and, as usual, chatted online. I’d been corresponding with a few young men, who were between twenty-seven and thirty, for a couple of weeks now. Just harmless flirting, with no real agenda . . . yet.

Around eight o’clock, I cracked open a bottle of white wine—which I’d never done alone (kids have no sympathy for a hung-over parent)—and poured myself a generous glass. Tonight I didn’t have to worry about getting up with the kids, and I was
filled with restless energy. After my texting repartee with Chad, I was hoping, even expecting him to call or drop by after the reception. But in the meantime, I’d happily throw a private party—for just Me, Myself and I.

As I sat at my desk, my wine buzz quickly kicking in, I discovered a trove of online music videos that I’d never had time to watch. Shakira, Rihanna, the Dixie Chicks, Madonna—
damn!
—when did they start writing songs based on
my
life? Belting out their lyrics was no longer enough: I moved my office chairs off to the side and
voila!
—instant dance floor. What started as a few hip rolls with a well-balanced wine glass in hand turned into full-blown, full-body, Mom-Going-Nuts in her SuperGirl pajama bottoms and bra (I got sweaty!). Anyone watching me would have thought “Wow, what an ass,” but as I caught my reflection in the picture frames on the wall, all I could think was
YEAH, you still got the moves girl! Pfft, if Robert and Graham could see me now!
And as I inwardly cursed my former husband and lover I suddenly wished they could see who I was becoming, who they were missing out on: a woman on the verge—not of a nervous breakdown, but of a break
through
. Metamorphosis. Because I
liked
this new, emerging Delaine, now that she was out of their shadows. I
liked
the fact that I was drunk by myself and dancing around half-naked at home on a Saturday night. I
liked
the fact that younger men wanted to jump in bed with me. I
liked
feeling sexy and desirable . . . and a little wild, and a lot horny. God, I was
so
grateful I wasn’t sitting across from Graham in a makeshift house with our six children squeezed into shared beds. Or kowtowing to Robert, as he belittled me and further killed my self-worth, not to mention my sexuality. Well, fuck them and the horses (or women) they rode in on! Life was just getting good for me . . . With my head beginning to feel spinny, I hit the hay—keeping my phone next to me, just in case Football Coach Chad called . . .