The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom (15 page)

Sure enough, the sound of a text mail interrupted my hazy sleep. I squinted at the bright cell phone screen, trying to focus on the little black letters that jumped out at me: “U awake? Comin ovr? 1632 Blackbird Dr.”

I glanced at my clock: 1:45 AM. I quickly texted back: “Give me 30 mins.”

A couple minutes later, my phone bleeped again: “Come on in. Door open.”

So this was probably not the smartest decision. A rendezvous at a man’s house in the middle of the night meant only one thing. And a first time I’m-drunk-and-horny encounter could very well set the stage for it being a last encounter. Men need to work for it, don’t they? Wine you, dine you, respect you? But I wasn’t interested in deciphering anyone else’s “rules”—I liked him, I was sick of due diligence, and I wanted to have sex.

Forty minutes later, after freshening up, brushing my teeth ten times, and Mapquesting directions to his house, I pulled up in front of his bungalow. All the neighbors’ houses were dark and quiet, as was Chad’s, except for a dim light coming from a back room. I stepped into the chilly night wearing my winter jacket and my Super Girl jammies underneath. I’d packed some clothes for the morning.

I walked right in, as per his instructions. In the dark foyer, a wet nose pressed against my hand. It was his golden retriever, Buddy.
Hey there.
Pat, pat
. Where’s your master?
His tail banged against the wall.

I took off my jacket and laid it on the couch. I stood there, expecting Chad to walk into the room or at least call out to me. But only Buddy seemed to know I was there.

“Chad?” I called out softly. No answer.

“Chad?” I called again, walking through to the kitchen where a dim light glowed. Still no answer. With my hands tracing the wall, I began shuffling down a long dark corridor.

Finally, I came to a room at the end of the hall with its door ajar. My eyes were adjusting to the dark, and I could make out the shape of a bed in the corner. I listened for a second and heard heavy, slow breathing. He was passed out! I stood there trying to decide what to do. Was this a sign to leave?

Oh screw it!
I thought, as I walked over to the bed, pulled back the covers, and slid in beside him. He was naked.

“What the—” he chuckled gruffly. He pulled me tightly into a spoon and I snuggled in close. “Am I dreaming or did a beautiful woman just jump into bed with me in the middle of the night?” His hands firmly traced down the side of my body.

“No, you’re not dreaming,” I laughed. “Problem is, you’re passed out.”

“Yeah, guess I dozed off a bit.” He lifted the covers off me. “What are you wearing?”

“My Super Girl pajamas.”

“Ah, yes. The infamous Super Girl PJs. Sooooo sexy. But—” He pulled me underneath him—strong arms, thick muscular body. “I think they need to come
off
.” He kissed me. And for the next hour, this girl felt pretty darn super.

 

IN THE REALM of lovemaking, there are “bad lovers” and “good lovers,” and then there are “knock-your-socks-off, knee-wobbling lovers.” As good luck would have it—and I’m talking major windfall here—Chad fell into the latter category. Not only was he sensual and generous, his skill set was beyond excellent—so much so that my body did something it’s never done before . . .

Now, up to this point, I thought I knew my body very well. I’d lived in it for thirty-seven years, bore three little humans from it, pushed it to its physical limits. And while I’d never, say, participated in a rainbow blowjob competition, I’d certainly had my fair share of sexual experiences, so I thought I knew what would make me
orgasm, how I liked to be touched, and
how my body would respond to such touch
. . . I considered myself a pretty knowledgeable and experienced lover. But
whoa
, was I wrong! Chad had me doing things I’d never done before
and
my body shocked me by reacting in a brand new way. Not only did I G-spot orgasm for the first time, I did something else: I squirted (queue me cringing a little after admitting this).

Now clearly, the term itself is enough to make anyone squirm. Something about the idea of shooting warm liquid out of your lady parts during orgasm can seem, well,
un
ladylike. In fact, it may be a subject that’s too personal, even off-putting, for some women to handle—like discussing the nuances of getting a Brazilian wax (how
do
you keep your inner labia from getting scorched by hot wax, anyway?). Squeamishness aside, I was absolutely stunned when my body did this. And not once, but several times.

Squirting was something I knew very little about it. I mean, I’d
heard
of it. But I’d thought it sounded
freaky.

This was one for my girlfriends; I definitely needed their input. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that about a quarter of them had experienced what I thought was a rare phenomenon.
Women aren’t supposed to ejaculate,
I thought. But apparently, we are. And further, each woman experienced it differently: some with deep penetration, some with oral stimulation. But it wasn’t consistent, they said; there wasn’t a
formula
for it. Sometimes it happened, more often it didn’t. But they all agreed on one thing: When it did happen, it felt great.

During my first orgasm (there were many), Chad was sitting upright on his knees and I was on my back with my hips up high. Nothing unusual about this position. But then he started with the “Chad Maneuver,” a technique that broke the dam.

He took hold of his penis (average size) and slipped it in about two inches. Then, with just the right pressure, he started vigorously
rubbing himself up and down inside me. At first, I thought,
What the heck is he DOING?
But after a few seconds, it started to feel incredible. I couldn’t help but moan and surrender to the sensation. Suddenly, I started to orgasm, and while in the throes I heard, “Oh yeah baby, you’re squirting!” I felt a huge release and wetness sprayed all over him
and
me. A part of me wanted to
say
something at that point, but I was too shocked and weak to do more than just lie there smiling.

Our session was far from over. Chad then thrust deep inside me for a minute or so and then started with his maneuver again (two inches in, vigorous rubbing). The feeling came back so quick and intense, that I sprayed again . . . and again . . . and
again.

Afterward, the bed was too wet to lay on—the sheets
and
the mattress. I apologized profusely for my mess as we covered the mattress with towels and remade the bed. He teased, “Why didn’t you tell me you were a squirter?”

“Because I’ve never been one before!” I said, laughing.

“Really?”

“Yes, I swear that has never happened to me before!”

“Well, cool. Now you know you can.” He was smiling and seemed comfortable with what had transpired. I, on the other hand, was embarrassed, as if I had just bled all over his sheets from my period. As we climbed back into our newly made bed and snuggled up close, I had questions:

“Have you been with other women who squirted?”

“Yes. Maybe five.”
Thank God. So he doesn’t think I’m abnormal.

“So . . . it’s pretty common then?”

“Well no, not really.”

“Hmmm . . . ”
Guess I’m still part of the borderline “freaky” group.

“So you mean that in all those years you were married, you never squirted?” he asked.

“No,
never!
In fact, I remember my ex-husband telling me once that he’d seen it on a porno and he wished that I
could.”
Chad chuckled. I continued: “That ‘maneuver’ you did on me was sensational. No one’s ever done that to me before.”

“Well it obviously worked on you.” He was being modest, but I could tell he was pleased.

“I think you should give classes on it and teach the rest of the male population how to do it,” I blurted.

“It doesn’t seem like all that big a secret. It just makes sense to me. Once a woman’s all warmed up, the G-spot is located just a couple of inches inside. I can position myself at the right angle to stimulate it. It often helps if I also put pressure on the outside of her pubic bone with my hand.”

“You were touching the front of my pubic bone?” (
Too busy feeling sensations elsewhere.)

“Yeah,” he laughed. “Almost the entire time.”

“Hmmm. So did that ‘maneuver’ feel good for you, too?”

“Yeah, it was GREAT. I had to stop myself from orgasming the first time you squirted.”

I sighed blissfully and snuggled in closer.

Then he added: “We’ll have to try it again in the morning and find out if it was just a fluke.”

And we did. With sunlight streaming in through the windows, he made me orgasm and squirt half a dozen more times. One time, he even did it with his
fingers.

“Holy Toledo, Chad!” I said as we changed the sheets again. “Now you’re
really
impressing me. What the heck were you doing in there?”

He just laughed.

“Um . . . I’m serious.” I stopped mid sheet-change and put my hands on my hips. “I want to know how you did that with your fingers.”

“It’s pretty straight forward, really. You know how the G-spot is supposed to be activated with the ‘come here’ motion—” He bent his index and middle fingers to demonstrate. I nodded. “I find it works better when you do ‘come here’ combined randomly with a ‘go up.’ And it has to be done pretty hard, not gently.” He demonstrated the combination of movements in front of his face—fingers were a flyin’:
Up- up-up, curl-curl, up, curl-curl, up . . .
“Just tell guys to imagine they’re playing a trumpet.” We laughed.

Over the next hour, we showered, had breakfast, and leisurely talked and hung out. I didn’t want to overstay my welcome, so I volunteered to leave on my own. He hugged and kissed me goodbye, and as I floated to my car in the brisk autumn air, he waved to me in the doorway.

As I made my way home, basking in the glow of amazing uninhibited sex, I couldn’t help but wonder,
Why the heck did my squirting happen now?
Why not with Graham? After all, we’d
made love.
But instead of letting loose with the man I believed to be the love of my life, it happened with a guy I hardly knew! That made no sense to me. Was it a function of my pent-up sexual frustration? Or my age and that I was done having children? Or was I becoming more in tune with my body? But that didn’t make any sense either—I’d been treating my body horribly, not eating, smoking cigarettes, not sleeping.
God, I felt like such a newbie!

Suddenly, a new thought zoomed in for landing:
Maybe the “why” doesn’t matter.
What if I wasn’t supposed to understand why it happened. Maybe my body was simply ready
.
Maybe I was simply meant to
enjoy the experience
. No “because,” just
period
.

All I knew for sure was that I was thrilled by this unexpected “gift”—kind of like looking down and discovering a treasure box sitting on my lap—or in my case, between my legs. I was flooded with sudden gratitude: If I’d stayed married to Robert, I’d never
have experienced anything like this; my sexual self would’ve remained in lockdown. When Graham came along, reigniting my sexual energy and bringing me to new heights of lovemaking, I’d thought my sexual evolution had reached the final pinnacle; that every other experience would be downhill from there; that I’d be struggling to recreate what I once had . . . and lost. Instead, not only did I feel more personally liberated, I’d discovered a whole new aspect of my sexuality that I never knew existed. And it was empowering! Because it was
my
body that experienced it. And it suggested that there was more to me, more to sex, more to my
life
than I’d ever realized. I felt
hopeful
. . . Maybe all the emptiness that sorrow had gutted into my bones this past year would one day spill over with happiness.

Because why shouldn’t a profound sexual experience be any less contemplated as a life catalyst than “making love”? Isn’t making love but an ideal that we use to validate sex, as if the pleasure our bodies experience is not, in itself, worthy on its own? We cloak the act of sex in the chastity of love to play down the carnal, as if carnal is wrong. But why? Certainly, religion, social conditioning, gender stereotyping, culture, etc., play a role here (control, anyone?), but I wanted to blast aside those filters and honor the rawness of the experience for what it was: a
pure
expression of my Sexual Self, which was an intimate aspect of who I was as a woman—yet someone I’d consistently mistrusted in the past. What if this was actually an honest and wise aspect of myself that I’d been ignoring? Maybe “she” could direct me down new avenues of joy and pleasure. Maybe she was a powerful conduit of creativity—even epiphanies—that could be applied to other areas of my life.

The only thing I knew for sure was that I wanted to investigate her further . . .

“SO HAVE YOU HEARD FROM Chad?” Hali asked me over the phone. It was Thursday, four days since Chad and I had spent our first (soaking wet) night together.

“No, but I’m not surprised. He said his weeknights are crazy-busy right now with the football team. It’s all good.”

“Fair enough. You’re good for a little while anyway, eh?” she teased.

“Yes!” I enthused. I was
still
smiling. “What about you? Any fireworks on your date last night with the lawyer?”

“Nah. He was nice and everything, but he looked so
old
. That photo he posted on the site is way too flattering. He’s only forty-three but he’s an
old
forty-three.”

“Oh, Hali!” I laughed at her bluntness, but I also felt guilty; I had been harshly judging men online by their physical appearance, too. And I worried this made me shallow. After all, everyone has flaws, everyone gets older, and it wasn’t like I was a supermodel.