The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom (20 page)

In addition to Hali, our friend Tara, who was in town visiting, was also joining me. She, too, was struggling with an abusive philanderer of a husband and had moved to the West Coast a year ago to be closer to her extended family
and
make a final decision about her comatose marriage. Now pushing forty, she’d been married to him (a former professional athlete) since she was twenty-four. She’d poured her heart into their relationship and two children, despite his affair, despite his anger issues and physical abuse, despite his feeble communication skills, and
even
despite his complete sexual disinterest in her.

For years, I’d listened to Tara grapple aloud about her unfulfilling sex life. Whether she dressed up in lace, warmed him up with a relaxing massage, or backed away from him entirely, he never initiated sex and rarely played along. She analyzed their sex life over and over again: Was her wanting it more than once a month too much? Shouldn’t she just accept the fact that his libido was lower than hers? Shouldn’t she focus on feeling grateful for other, more positive aspects of their marriage? Because that’s what she’d tried to do: count her blessings and love him for the other ways he gave to her and the kids. But inevitably, she ended up feeling like she was
convincing
herself she was happy. Wasn’t that the same thing as “settling”? One thing was blatantly clear: His consistent disinterest in her was hurting her. Struggle as she did to accept it, his indifference translated into “You aren’t desirable—as a partner
or
a woman.”

Tonight, as we indulged in a few greasy appetizers and a liter of wine, Tara brought us up to speed on her West Coast life. And the more I listened to her talk, the more my stomach knotted with empathy. I saw my old self as I looked at her, this long-haired, stylishly dressed woman with
sad blue eyes
. She was clinging onto the scraps of kindness and physical affection he sporadically threw her, telling herself it was enough to subsist on. Her family was her
dream, and she was resolute about enduring whatever life had to throw at them. As she put it, her marriage “hadn’t become bad
enough
to leave.” Hali and I listened with compassion, love, and support, knowing that only she could make any final decision.

As the conversation switched to mine and Hali’s lives, the mood suddenly became much lighter.
And
mischievous. Because remember, up to this point, Hali and I had kept our goings-on mainly between us—we knew our crazy dating/sex stories could be easily misjudged by others. But Tara was a most trusted and welcome exception.

In the midst of our laughter over some intimate detail or another, Hali’s cell phone suddenly bleeped. She held it open over the table and shook her head. “I just got a text message from Josh. He wrote, ‘Can I come over for coffee?’ But look how he spelled coffee—” She held out her phone and we leaned in to read it: “cofie.”

“Who the hell doesn’t know how to spell coffee?” she exclaimed. “Honestly, he is the worst speller ever. Yesterday he sent me a text and wrote good morning. Not ‘morning,’ as normal, smart people spell it, but as in someone just died: m-o-u-r-ning.”

We burst out laughing, drawing curious—dare I say even envious—looks from the table beside us.

“Now which guy is this?” Tara asked. “Back up here, because I get your men confused.”

“Josh is the young guy with the really big penis,” Hali stated matter-of-factly. “I met him by accident when I was supposed to meet another guy on a date.”

“Oh yes,” said Tara nodding, as if we were discussing an education issue around our kids. “And what’s he like? Besides his big penis, I mean.”

“Well . . .” began Hali, leaning back in her chair and looking at me. I was already holding in giggles. “He’s
not
very smart, as his text messages clearly show. He has
no
money, and he can’t hold
down a job. Actually, he just got fired from his construction job on the weekend for telling his boss to fuck off. Ummm, what else . . . We fight all the time. And he’s
not
good-looking at all.”

“He’s not?” Tara was bewildered. “I was thinking he must be really hot to compensate! What does he look like?”

“Well . . . ” Hali began again, a huge grin on her face. I bit my lip. “He’s not very tall. Maybe five-foot-seven. His face is okay, I guess. He has skinny arms . . . a big belly . . . okay teeth, I guess.”

Tara’s eyes were enormous. “So
why
are you seeing this guy? I must not be getting something.” She looked at me, then back at Hali.

“Honestly Tara,
it’s because he has an enormous cock.
” I couldn’t hold in my giggles anymore. Though I already knew Hali’s story, listening to my gorgeous,
usually
classy girlfriend tell it made it all the more hilarious.

Hali continued, attempting to look serious. “There is absolutely no other reason, Tara. We have phenomenal sex and he makes me orgasm like crazy. Plus—” Hali paused. “I guess I shouldn’t say it’s the
only
reason. He also makes me feel great about my body. He has so many imperfections that I’m not as self-conscious about my baby weight.”

“Hali,” replied Tara, leaning in. “You really need to wake up and realize that you and your beautiful curves are pretty much every man’s dream come true. And God—” She gestured at Hali’s ripe chest. “Look at those fucking boobs!” We laughed.

“But back to his big penis,” Tara continued. “As I see it, a girl has her needs and they should be taken care of; it’s great he can satisfy you in that way. So tell me, have you introduced him to any of your friends?”

“No way!” Hali declared vehemently. “Not even Delaine has met him.” Tara looked at me and I shook my head.

“But we do go out for lunch and shopping sometimes,”
explained Hali. “The problem is that he doesn’t have a car. So I always have to go pick him up and drop him off.”

By now, I was straining hard to keep my composure. I mean, “Auntie Hali” picking up and dropping off her dependant, delinquent lover? They were a walking oxymoron, and I never, in a hundred years, would have imagined her dating (or having the patience) for a goofball like this! I was laughing so hard, I had to wipe away tears.

“Tell her what happened the one time you went out to the Red Robin restaurant,” I finally managed to squeak out.

“Oh yeah,” said Hali, nodding. “
And
he curses a lot and has no manners. We went out for lunch one day—” She glanced at me and added: “A lunch
I
had to pay for, by the way. We’re sitting there in this family restaurant, there are young kids at tables all around us, when suddenly he says something and drops the “C” word three times in one sentence! He said it
loud,
too. I was totally shocked; I wanted to crawl under the table. I have no doubt that people heard him.”

“Hopefully they couldn’t understand him,” I offered between laughs.

“No, they
would
have heard him. He might be hard to understand, but certain words come out of his mouth crystal clear, like the ‘C’ word.”

Tara was confused. “Does he have a speech impediment, too?”

“No no,” said Hali laughing. “He’s got an accent. He’s from Newfoundland. And his accent is
really
thick.” Hali looked at me again and pushed out, between giggles, “I can’t even understand what he says most of the time.
We can hardly even COMMUNICATE!
” And with that, Hali roared with laughter too. She added, “
Why
am I with this guy? Oh my, I really must be
desperate.
” That was it; all three of us were in tears now.

Two minutes later, just as we started to compose ourselves,
a deep lively voice boomed over the microphone: “Good evening, everyone! How are y’all doing tonight?” The crowd cheered. I smiled; I’d almost forgotten why I was here.

“Is that
him?”
Tara whispered, her eyes glued to the long-legged man on stage wearing blue jeans and a Budweiser T-shirt.

“Yeah,” I whispered back.

“He’s hot
.
”

And very funny, too, as it turned out. I’m not sure if it was entirely his talent or my giddy mood from Josh stories that made me laugh so much. But by the end of the evening, my jaw muscles and cheeks were aching.

As the club began to clear out, Hali, Tara, and I lingered at our table to finish our last sips of wine. “Go over and talk to him,” urged Tara.

“Nah,” I responded. “He knows I’m here. He’ll come over when he’s ready.”

“And here he comes
now,
” said Hali, on high alert. All three of us got to our feet as he approached the table. Hali and Tara started putting on their coats.

“Hey ladies,” he said casually, while staring at me from head to toe. “You heading home already?”

“
We
are,” said Hali, gesturing to Tara. “But
she’s
free.” She poked me in the side.

“Would you like to grab a drink next door?”

“Sure,” I said. I turned and hugged my girlfriends.

“Have fun,” whispered Tara with a giggle. “But play carefully.”

Goes without saying,
I thought, giving her a big squeeze.

Goodbyes done, Brian and I stood facing each other: a tall, bright-eyed comedian, and an equally bright-eyed babe wearing garters, each of us thinking the same thing. Let’s get
this
show on the road.

 

GRAVITY WAS FAST in motion and there was no stopping it. Halfway through my steaming cup of tea, I actually wished Brian’s mouth would stop moving. Where did the funny, confident man from my first date go? The one I just saw on stage? I sat there shell-shocked as
this
guy lamented about his ex-wife and past girlfriend, both of whom thought he was a dead-beat dad and loser: “They never understood my need to chase my dream, you know? Sure, life as a comedian is tough and the pay sucks, but it’s what I wanted to do. As soon as I got rid of them, I sold my car, bought a Harley, and started going on tour.”

Now, I’m all for dream chasers, so I perked up and threw him an easy shot at deliverance: “Being on tour must be exciting; traveling to new cities, meeting new people, standing in the spotlight . . .”

“No. It’s not glamorous at all. I’m only doing small venues in hick towns across the prairies. And I’ll tell you, it gets really damn cold this time of year on my Harley.”

In my mind’s eye, I caricatured him cruising down the highway with a scowl on his face, a black cloud floating above him, pelting him with rain. Behind him, his female demons chased him, screaming.

He continued: “Most of the time I don’t have money for hotels, so I try to crash at another comedian’s house. Even when I’m here in town, I can only afford a dingy basement apartment in some lady’s house. Actually, I have a comedian friend crashing there tonight on the couch.”

I nodded my head slowly in response.
So to top things off, you live like a student in a basement. Hmmm. Well then . . .

“I have to use the ladies room.” I excused myself and walked down the hallway purposefully: I had to get away from him.

I leaned over the bathroom sink and shook my head. What the hell was going on here? He wasn’t an alpha male, he was an alpha whiner! I really just wanted to leave.
Ohhh, but I couldn’t. That would be so mean.

Well, since sex was out of the question, I might as well get back to my “assignment.” Maybe if I steered conversation down a sexier, less gloomy path, he’d revert back to his former, chipper personality . . . ?

I catwalked back to the table with fresh lip gloss and a fresh attitude. That glimmer was now in my eyes. I deliberately positioned my chair so he could see my body and I oh-so-demurely lifted my skirt a tad, to show off a bit of thigh. “So, do you like my fishnet stockings?” I asked.
C’mon buddy, let’s see what you’re made of.

He reached over and pinched a piece of netting. “Yeah. I haven’t seen tights like those since the eighties.” Cute answer, but his eyes glinted with insecurity.

“Actually,” I began. “These aren’t even tights—they’re
stockings.
I have them attached up here to my garter belt.” I lifted my skirt ever-so-slightly so he could catch a glimpse of a clasp.

And that’s when Comedian Man went to J-E-L-L-O. I folded my arms and leaned forward on the table looking him straight in the eyes—unyielding, bold,
powerful
. His eyes dilated. He twitched. He sweated. Without even trying, I stared him down.
My God
, I thought,
this date is the biggest joke of the night!
I couldn’t get out of there quick enough.

Very soon after, I was back home in my bedroom taking off my sexy clothes—
alone
, of course. Five minutes later, I was clean-faced and sporting my Super Girl jammies. I kicked my lingerie drawer closed with a
thud.

Down in my office in front of my computer, I brewed over the night’s events. Alpha Whiner’s black cloud had followed
me
home. I hastily typed a short message to Shane: “I’m not even sure this guy had any vertebrae. I won without even trying. Get out the rejection stamp. I don’t want to see this file in my face again.”

 

The next morning, I walked to my computer knowing that Shane’s reply would be there.

Dik-dik?
I didn’t know what they were, but with a name like
that
. . .

I clicked on the link. “A small antelope that lives in the African brush . . . named for the sound it makes when alarmed . . . they stand approx 35 cm at the shoulder and weigh about 5 kg . . .” To the right of the page was a photo of an animal that looked like a cross between a midget antelope and a scrawny Bambi.