Read The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom Online

Authors: Delaine Moore

Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Personal Memoirs, #Family & Relationships, #Divorce & Separation, #Parenting, #Single Parent, #Health & Fitness, #Sexuality

The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom (22 page)

BOOK: The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom
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But now, Patrick-with-the-smoky-eyes was not just coming to town, he was coming to a “hotel near me.” It was time to realize my fantasy.
I wrote him an email outlining the seduction scene I wanted, deliberately saying nothing about sex. “You’ll recognize me when you see me,” I wrote. “But you must act like you don’t know me. We are
complete strangers
. Your job will be to pick me up—and it won’t be easy to win over a lady like me. You better be mentally ready to rise to the occasion and earn me . . . or you’ll return to your hotel room alone.”
He responded that he fully understood the scene and would perform his role expertly.
As I beautified for the evening and slipped on my lingerie and red wrap-dress, I inwardly groomed my starlet persona that I’d selected for my fantasy. She would shine in the lead role tonight and leave poor Patrick wondering, “Who
was
that incredible woman who shook my world?” Or at least that was my hope.
Driving to the hotel, I felt sexy, alive. This called for some Rihanna, a little “Good Girl Gone Bad.” (Ha! It could be my new theme song!)
As I cranked the volume and sped down the highway, I sang along and meant every word of it.
I am SO the Good Girl Gone Bad
, I thought, laughing to myself. Wait, no-no-no-no-no. I’m worse! I am the Good
Stay-at-Home Mom
Gone Bad. Yup, that’s right. We stay-at-home moms can get more than a little naughty too. But unlike our younger, child-free sisters, we are
extra
wise,
extra
strong, and we take whatever “extras” we want. You self-proclaimed “MILF”
hunters have it all wrong—
we
aren’t the prey,
you
are. You are but a
Service Male
—a SMILF!
And by the way, this SMILF huntress expects at least one orgasm before you have one.
. . . And
, if I squirt and you have to change the sheets, I’ll expect you to do so without complaint.
. . . And
and
—one last thing here since I’m on a roll: No. Small. Penises. Allowed.
 
WHILE PULLING INTO the hotel parking lot, I noticed a 7-11 in a strip mall close by. Pit stop: I needed cigarettes.
As I walked through the neon-lit store in my winter jacket, my strappy high heels clacking across the floor, heads turned in my direction. Inwardly I smiled:
That’s a thumbs-up on the stunning factor, Houston!
Outwardly I beamed, my movements deliberate and unselfconscious.
Exiting the store, I noticed three men smoking and talking beside a parked car. I watched them literally halt their conversation midsentence to turn and stare at me.
Now in the past, such a reaction would have made me feel awkward and flustered. I’d have looked away as if I hadn’t noticed them, or done something as idiotic as drop my car keys.
But not tonight. Instead, my vanity was empowering.
I stopped and faced them directly. “Hi guys, how are you?”
This time,
they
were the ones who became flustered and looked away embarrassed. “Good,” one man managed to call out. They obviously weren’t expecting the lady-object to speak.
I grinned and got back in my car. The alpha had emerged from the pack. And low and behold, it wasn’t any of them, it was me.
Shane would be proud!
I felt suddenly so strong, independent, and in control. It was a pretty fabulous feeling.
Back in the hotel parking lot, I kept the engine running to
do a final mirror check: nose clear, no makeup smudges, fresh lipstick applied to moist lips. I was ready. I looked over at the hotel entranceway, wondering if Patrick was already inside.
Suddenly, the insanity of what I was doing hit me. Have I lost my mind? Why am
I
doing this—and not Hali? Why am
I
the one who pushes things to the next degree? First there was Yummy Stranger, and now I’m planning to live out a fantasy with a total stranger?
Who cares!
I screamed to myself.
You’re here now so get a move on. Walk the walk! Too many people talk the talk and never take action. Live it, do it, and analyze it tomorrow.
I shut the car door and briskly walked into the hotel lobby. I easily followed signage to the bar and entered without pause.
I was greeted by the sound of classic rock music, the clink of cocktail glasses, and the hum of male conversation. Most of the stools were occupied—men in jeans and checkered work shirts or T’s, who turned from their drinks to appraise me.
Damn, I’m way too overdressed for this place!
I thought panicked. I hadn’t realized it was a popular hotel for oil rig workers.
But I straightened my shoulders and sidled up to the bar.
Screw it! Own your power,
I thought, as I ordered a glass of white wine. I deliberately kept my eyes facing front while the bartender poured.
I wonder if Patrick is watching me.
My spine tingled.
Play it cool
, I coached myself.
Remember, you’re just some lovely diva who happened by this bar tonight. Act the role!
Wine glass in hand, I strolled toward the back of the bar where it was quieter. He’d have to come find me over here; plan his approach, so-to-speak. While standing, I took my jacket off—slowly—imagining him watching me over a highball glass.
Damn, this is fun!
I thought, giddy with my newfound confidence. I couldn’t believe I was actually finally doing this.
I sat poised and ladylike, casually drinking my white wine as if it was normal for a woman dressed like me to be in a place
like this all alone. I could feel someone staring at me . . . I looked across a few tables and into the eyes of a bald-headed man with a big paunch. He looked like the archetype of a Mafia boss and so did his crew.
Give me a break,
I thought. His stare was so brazen, it was actually rude. He licked his upper lip. I stared right back, not smiling.
Who’s gonna give?
I wondered. I felt feline and tough, sexy and powerful.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.
Finally, he half stood and waved. “Hi,” he said, and then gave me a big dopey smile.
“Hi,” I said back, with a nod of my head. I made no move to get up. He sat down and looked away. I sipped my wine.
Score another for Alpha Delaine!
I fished through my purse to find my cell phone. Both Hali and Tory knew what I was up to. I had given them as many details as I could for my own protection. But I thought I should touch base with them, just to let them know all was well so far.
I’d almost finished dialing Hali’s number when a man plopped down in the chair across from me. I looked up at him and thought,
Who are you?
“Sorry I’m late!” the man before me said jovially. “I’m Patrick.”
Slowly, I put down my glass and folded my arms in front of me.
What the . . . ?
This guy looked nothing like the guy online. He looked like a plump Islander from Hawaii, not a chiseled hunk.
Outwardly, I remained cool as my brain clamored to assess the situation.
I told him he was to pretend he didn’t know me. And he came over and introduced himself as if this were a regular date. He broke my rule!
“You don’t look like your photo,” I stated in a matter-of-fact tone.
“I don’t?” He shifted in his seat.
I lifted my glass and took another sip. “No. You
don’t
.” I continued to stare. He squirmed around some more, his round, soft cheeks smiling.
But his eyes were full of fear. I knew then, without a doubt, that this man could never mentally rise to my challenge.
After ten seconds of silence, he asked, “Do you want me to leave?”
Four-second pause.
“Yes.”
And with that, he jumped off his chair and disappeared around the corner like he was doing the 100-meter dash.
I sat there stunned. My fantasy had gone directly from the starting gates to the finish line in under thirty seconds; a new world record, I’m sure.
Ten minutes later, I was driving home,
fuming,
a freshly lit cigarette scissored between my fingers. What a waste of time and energy! I’d been “had.” He wasn’t even who he said he was!
But despite my fuming, I suddenly giggled. The situation was just so
absurd.
And hilarious. Me in full fantasy mode, decked out, serious as could be about playing my “role”—and who cruises in but the antithesis of my “fantasy” hunk. Talk about crash and burn: that was fantasy
pulverization.
Oh well,
I thought with a grin.
Five gold stars to me for walking the talk. But I think it’s time to reshelve this fantasy—too much of a wild card for the online dating world!
And I swore I heard my guardian angels laugh, “Ya
think
?”
CHAPTER 17
A CHAMELEON IN SEARCH OF HOME
OVER THE PAST FEW WEEKS, both of my relationships with my service males—Adonis-Boy Daniel and Minotaur Brent—freefell to the ground at astonishing speeds. But there was no earth-shattering crash, no alarming 911 response. It was more like the sound of a shoulder shrug.
Perhaps if I’d maintained our relationships as dominant/submissive, as per Shane’s instructions, the erotic mystique and “power” play may have lengthened their life spans. But when it came right down to it, I ended up just being me
,
which meant talking and getting to know them in a normal, friendly way outside the bedroom. As a result, our ten-year age difference flapped and crackled in my face like a wind-whipped red flag.
I tried to reserve judgment on them, to accept and appreciate them for exactly who they were. And I
did
see some good qualities in each of them, like Adonis Boy’s flare for interior decorating, and Minotaur’s fondness of cats. But our looking glasses were just too different; they’d never been married, neither had kids, and they were just getting started in their careers. In short, life was all about them.
“The key to making marriages work,” Adonis Boy said to me on our third and final evening together, “is to not live together beforehand.”
Great
, I thought with a smile.
He’s opening an interesting conversation.
“And . . . ?” I asked, waiting. “What else?”
“That’s it,” he said with a wave of his hand. “If you live together
before
the wedding, you’ve already bought pots and pans together and decorated your house. So after you sign the papers, nothing really changes.
But
, if you wait, you spend a good three years going out and shopping for pots and pans and stuff for your home. It’s something new you can enjoy together.”
Seriously?!
“But Daniel,” I laughed, his naivety worse than I even imagined. “Down the road, life is going to throw you both many challenges—kids, work . . . and so many others. Whether you shopped for dishes before or after the wedding won’t make a darn difference!”

No.
You’re
wrong
.” Mouth pursed, he shook his blond head from side-to-side. “Couples just need to wait to move in together. It gives them the glue to stay together in the future.”
Oh. My. God. He
was
serious. I had to turn my face away as he then
pontificated
to me about marriage and divorce. His ignorance and righteousness were too much—with each slow blink of my eyes, his golden Adonis aura was fading.
A few days later, I saw Minotaur Brent for the third and final time, too. He’d had a long, stressful day at work. I knew he was grumpy (he was a moody type), so I let him spew for a while as we sat on the couch. Then, true to Delaine form, I offered up words of support and empathy: “I know what you’re saying, Brent. My stress level often goes into the red zone, too. But it’ll pass. Try to let it go till tomorrow.”
He laughed, “What stress do
you
know? You’re just a stay-at-home mom.”
Raw nerve exposed. My eyes shifted from side-to-side.
Relax, Delaine. He’s not Robert. He’s just young and ignorant. He doesn’t mean anything by it.
“You have no idea . . . ” I said to the wall, willing myself not to lay into him.
But fifteen minutes later, I still hadn’t recovered. He was no longer a Minotaur but an arrogant, ignorant donkey’s ass. Suffice to say, I didn’t see him again.
What killed me now, in retrospect, was how poorly I’d reacted to their egotism. Inwardly, I was appalled and screaming, but outwardly, I avoided conflict. Moreover, I saw how, in a few other conversations we shared, I not only “dumbed myself down” to appeal to their level, but I also brushed off insensitive comments to “keep the peace.”
So much for Dominant Tough Girl.
Why couldn’t I muster my alpha side? I knew she was there. Was the chameleon-like Delaine who sat across from these boys more concerned with winning their approval than being true to her convictions and who she was? Or had my marriage trained me to brush off rudeness, chauvinism, even callousness to avoid conflict and disharmony? Maybe I was simply hardwired to want to please others at the expense of my authentic self. But I had to wonder, who the heck
was
the authentic Delaine anyway? I knew she was in there somewhere. Perhaps the first step to becoming more real was becoming aware of when I
wasn’t
.
I always thought my “chameleon” inclination was a good thing—that it made me adaptable, more expansive, and better able to connect and
blend
with different types of people. But upon closer examination, I also recognized its shadow side: the loss of my own true colors. I’d been wearing camouflage for so long, I couldn’t even remember what the vibrant shades of myself looked like. Because this chameleon-like tendency undermined my true self when I dealt with domineering personalities. Like Robert. I became compliant and acquiescent. In fact, with Robert, I’d have bent myself into a pretzel if it meant keeping him happy or keeping the peace.
Oh, you need to stay out all night and get drunk with your friends? Sure, Robert darling, go ahead. I’ll drive home alone and pay the baby sitter. I’ll get up in the middle of the night with the kids.
BOOK: The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom
4.49Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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