The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom (18 page)

Well, hold on . . .
hmmm.
I needed to think about this with a level head. Maybe, just maybe, I
could.
I was already heading down that road with Adonis Boy Daniel and Minotaur Brent. I just assumed they’d be spaced out.

My imagination shot off, my protests left coughing in the dust: me on a Friday night, greeting Adonis Boy at the door in a dynamite red dress; there’d be no silly hand-holding on the couch this time. Then me, on a Saturday night, being pinned hard against the wall by Minotaur Brett.
Mmmm
. . . those big shoulders, those strong legs. Wow. Talk about a weekend smorgasbord of sheer yumminess.

But would I feel like a slut afterward? Or would I be skipping down the street with a mischievous twinkle in my eye? I couldn’t figure out which was crazier: to act on such opportunities, or
not
act on them.

That darn Shane!
I growled, smiling all the same. Even though he was pushing me outside of my comfort zone, I felt compelled to do it simply to prove to him that I could.

“Are you
really
a powerful lioness, Delaine?” he seemed to taunt. “Or are you nothing but a poor little scardie’ cat? I
dare
you, Delaine.”

And the headstrong part of me snapped: “You just watch!” But I would never do it just for Shane. This had to be something
I
wanted; nothing less.

MORE THAN SIX MONTHS HAD passed since the Graham bomb went off—198 days to be exact—and the trees surrounding my house were almost empty of leaves. Another 176 days in the wilderness lay ahead of me before I’d hit the one-year mark, that pivotal first anniversary where my life was bound to look “way better,” as Hali put it. I really did feel like I’d made progress. But then again, maybe when you’ve gone a little insane, you really don’t care where you are.

In my mind’s eye, I still saw myself trudging through the wilds, feeling lost and unsure. But periodically, I caught myself having a laugh—no,
sharing
a laugh—with someone else. It was that part of me I liked to call my “Wild Woman,” an aspect of myself I’d suppressed throughout my marriage who was really doing much of the guiding in my postdivorce metamorphosis.

And not only had I gotten used to her presence, I’d grown to like her. She was energetic, fun, playful—and she egged on my more inhibited, overly cautious self. I felt like she was propelling my life forward, setting things in motion . . . though I sensed my wiser, more “mature” aspects were standing by, cringing and white-knuckled.

Now before you start thinking “multiple personality
disorder,” let me explain. I believe that women have different aspects or sides of themselves. Kind of like wearing different “hats.” And each of these “aspects” of me came with a set of her own distinct qualities—strengths and weaknesses—that together served a specific purpose. Collectively, they represented the expansiveness of my soul.

I’m sure behavioral scientists and academics have a fancy term for the layers of our personalities, but to me, they were like a series of inner-Delaines, all slightly different in character. And I liked to name mine: Wise Woman, Little Girl, Mother Soul, Warrior Woman, Wild Woman, and so on. I pictured these aspects sitting on a committee together, and as life situations arose, each one took a turn sharing her opinion about the matter at hand. For the past seven years, the head chairperson had been my Mother Soul. Her voice and opinion carried the most weight. But when the Graham bomb exploded, I think the boardroom flew into a state of chaos and mutiny. Low and behold, I believe a new leader mongered her way into the chairperson’s seat: Wild Woman.

But because I was still getting to know this side of me, I was wary of her judgment. Maybe I should be ignoring her or throwing rocks at her. Maybe she was trouble in disguise and luring me to the dreaded “Dark Side.”
Hmmm. Would that make Shane my Darth Vader?

But my instincts said she didn’t mean me any harm. In fact, it felt more like she was trying to help me, teach me. Maybe even remind me or reconnect me with a part of myself I once knew.

My sense was that she wasn’t going to hold onto her “seat” for too long though. Other committee members wanted to throttle her! Nonetheless, not only did she make good company in the “wilderness” I was currently slogging through, she seemed to know these parts; I was in
her
territory
.
And my gut said she might be the one to guide me out of here.

I SWEAR I did
not
set out to do it intentionally, despite Shane’s challenge. I swear it was more by chance than deliberate effort. But yes, only two weeks after the challenge was issued, I had sex with two different men during one weekend! To my credit, it was a long weekend, with a forty-eight-hour gap between lovers instead of twenty-four. Still, it counts in
my
rule book.

I was positively beaming as I emailed my accomplishment to Shane. Feeling feisty, I tacked onto the end: “It’s raining men. And I do, in fact, feel like a ‘QUEEN.’ Maybe you’re right—maybe I
am
a slut after all! (Meaning only a woman who loves to orgasm, of course.)”

Surprise-surprise, one of my lovers turned out to be Football Coach Chad (he was no longer a stupid jock). And the other was Minotaur Brent; let’s just say I had “pressing,” unfinished business with him.

On Friday night, the Minotaur and I picked up where we’d left off; that is, I was wrapped around his waist and pinned against the wall. This time I didn’t fight the rippling beast. Actually, that’s not true. I
did
fight him—by “resisting” him and acting nonchalant. But he easily saw through my pretense; he knew I wanted him to win. So he carefully tested my “no’s,” pushing them a little further, then a little further. “You’re a bad girl, Delaine,” he whispered in my ear. “You know you want my hard cock between your legs.
Say
it.”

To which I’d respond, “The only one in desperate need right now is you, young man.” Eventually, he had my hands held tight against my back, his obvious hardness pressed against my stomach.

My involuntary moans made my true desires transparent.

His force aroused me. It wouldn’t have used to. The Delaine I’d always known enjoyed gentle caresses, sensual touches, a look-me-deep-in-the-eyes kind of intimacy. Yet suddenly, it seemed I yearned to be taken, filled, physically overpowered if need be. Not
just by any man, of course.
But one who I deemed worthy.
My match. My equal. Not of souls. But of mind and body only. It was pure carnal desire gone ballistic, or maybe just a simple case of hormones. Whatever the case, despite what I soon discovered was a noticeably smaller-than-average penis, I G-spot orgasmed numerous times—and
squirted. Small, shmall.
I wasn’t grumbling too much about penis size. Maybe it really
was
the motion of the ocean and not the size of the ship.

However, his
reaction
to my squirting didn’t impress me.

“Did you
pee?
” he asked, startled. He even looked a little disgusted.

“
What?
No!” I said, taken aback. “I climaxed. And when I orgasm I sometimes release a clear liquid. Lots of it. I
squirt.
”

“Oh,” he replied lamely. “I thought you peed the bed.”

Duh!
“It’s something I started doing not too long ago. I take it you’ve never been with a girl who squirts?”

“Nope.” His voice was so monotone it irritated me. Perhaps I was hoping he’d be impressed? Apparently, it’s not a turn-on for every man.
Pfft
, couldn’t he at least show some interest?

Despite his ambivalence, I did not feel ashamed or embarrassed about my body—which was a big shift for me. (Hit the applause button.) In the past, I would have been ashamed if a man was put off by my body in any way. (Score one for the team!). If the Minotaur had a problem with me leaving a puddle when I orgasmed, well then, he could go back to the enchanted forest and track down a virgin princess.

Despite the uneven end to our evening, my clash with the Minotaur reinforced something powerful and new about myself: that my body’s ability to experience the intense pleasure of G-spot orgasm was
not
contingent on one or two men’s sexual prowess. My marvelous new talent was all mine to pack up, take with me, and enjoy with whomever I wanted.

Feeling inspired, I spent the next day and a half attacking a household project that I’d put off for months (alright,
years
): I painted my daughter’s bedroom. Goodbye star stencils, hello sunshine yellow! While on a roll, I also sorted through her closets and drawers, bagging up old and outgrown clothes for the Good Will. I viewed the results of my hard work with a smile: Now
this
was satisfying!

Then, out of the blue, Chad called. Yup, talk about unexpected. He apologized profusely, citing football games and practices as reasons for his disappearance. I decided to let him off the hook—not because I fully believed him but because my body wanted to see him.

I didn’t think his poor behavior warranted a sexy “Delaine-o-Gram” entrance, so I showed up wearing a stylish pink T and jeans, toting an overnight bag stuffed with my Super Girl jammies. And as we sat on his couch, feeling relaxed, our conversation flowing easily, I inwardly grinned at his feature wall painting: some NHL goalie making a save.
Such a jock
.
And obviously a bachelor!

Suddenly, he was leaning into me on the couch. His lips were on my neck, sending warmth throughout my stomach. “So . . .” he said softly, as I sat there, eyes closed. “I covered my bed with a plastic parachute.”

I burst out laughing. “What?”

He stood up and added playfully: “
And
four layers of towels—actually, I think I emptied most of my linen closet. And I’ve got scuba gear beside the bed, you know—just in case.”

I laughed harder, “Maybe move the water cooler in there too so I don’t get dehydrated.”

“Done!” he said, as he pulled me to my feet and into his chest. More seriously: “Now let’s go see how many times I can make you squirt.”

An offer I couldn’t refuse.

Suffice it to say, our time together was amazing; the same as it was our first time together only longer and more intense. We changed the sheets twice.

This time when we said goodbye, I commanded him sweetly not to wait so long to phone. Our sexual chemistry was so dynamite, I felt confident he’d follow my orders.

So not only did I experience two nights of passion with two different men, I also completed Shane’s assigned mission. I had to rate Operation Double Satisfaction a hands-down success.

The Duke and his games aside, personally I felt completely at peace with my actions; no regrets. No guilt. Moreover, I felt
proud of myself
. I stepped outside my boundaries and experienced something new that felt empowering and didn’t hurt anyone. I allowed myself to be a little wild and be a little “bad” (if only in the context of “conventional” mores), and it was incredibly fun, sexy, and satisfying. I’d had a Super Girl weekend, that’s for sure. That said, I didn’t plan to broadcast it around, even to my more open-minded friends. Just Hali, as always. Besides, I soon learned she had her own story to tell. And she actually outscored me.
The vixen!

After their heated email repartee reached the breaking point, Hali finally met up with the Mini Val Kilmer (a.k.a., “the bed-post-notcher”) on Thursday, the night before I “peed” on Minotaur Brent. Then on Saturday, she had a surprise quickie with the well-endowed Josh; and on Sunday it was with her soon-to-be ex-husband, Paul.

I was totally taken aback by the last one.

“Oh
no,
Hali—
Paul
? How did this happen?” I asked her the next morning.

“I know I know. It wasn’t planned at all, Delaine. He came to my place to drop off the kids and stuck around to help me put them to bed. Afterward, he asked if he could have a glass of wine. I was
in the mood for one too, so I said, ‘Sure, go ahead.’ Of course, we ended up finishing the bottle.

“As we talked on the couch, he started rubbing my back and running his hand through my hair. I knew where it was leading and I kept looking at the clock thinking, ‘I had sex with Josh less than twenty-four hours ago. I should at least try to stall.’
(Laugh)
But, oh well. It felt right so we went upstairs and had sex.”

“And how was it? Or more importantly, how do you feel now?”

There was a pause. “It was good,” she said. “It was familiar, you know? He was very passionate. I think it meant a lot to him and he kept telling me how beautiful I was. But for me it was more just the physical enjoyment of sex. I’m not reading into it, Delaine. It’s common for couples who break up to fall into bed a few times afterward. That’s all it was.”

I wasn’t convinced. My sense was that he was trying to maneuver his way back into her life and I feared her vulnerability. But she sounded okay with what transpired. In fact, she seemed stuck on the fact she’d had sex with three different men in four days: “I just can’t believe I had to kill time before sleeping with Paul so I could hit the twenty-four-hour mark. How bad is
that?
”

Later that night, I laid in bed grinning over our weekend’s sexual escapades. Who’d have thought that the two of us were capable of such naughtiness? Somehow, knowing my best friend had been as mischievous as me made it all the more sweet. And unlike me, Hali hadn’t needed a coach like Shane to dare her to do it. She simply “owned” it. Guess
her
Wild Woman just told her other committee members to shut up.

 

The next morning, I got mail from Shane: