The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom (24 page)

Together, Hali and I wracked our brains trying to figure out our situations: hers with Computer-Techie Payton, mine with Football Coach Chad. We dug deeper:
What weren’t we understanding?
We wondered aloud if the old-school rules still strongly applied when it came to dating and sex. Should we wait for a man to call us after our first liaison, even if all we wanted was sex and a little company? Maybe this friends with benefits concept was a myth or, at best, a rarity? We were discouraged, to say the least.

“Maybe guys just can’t handle it when they know a woman primarily wants sex from them,” Hali offered. “I think they like the idea superficially, but it ends up challenging their masculinity, you know?”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “But I also wonder if you and I intimidate men, Hali. I mean, we’re not only attractive, intelligent, and
classy—excuse me, but we
are
—” I added, chuckling, “we’re also confident enough to express our needs and call the shots sexually. I’m not sure guys know what to do with us or make of us. Maybe they’d be more comfortable if we were as naïve and needy as we were when we were younger.”

“Maybe,” said Hali. “That, or they think we’re slutty or desperate. It would be easier for them to fall back on judging us instead of facing their own glaring insecurities.”

I sighed. “You know, I really thought the rules had changed and women were so much more empowered these days,” I said. “But I think the old double standard is still in effect.”

“Totally,” Hali agreed.

I paused for a moment. “Maybe deep down men simply need to be the ‘hunters,’” I continued. “And when they become the hunted, their manhood is rattled. All I know for sure is that at my age, I think I should be entitled to express my sexual wants. And instead, I’m sitting here feeling like a teenager, wondering, ‘What is he thinking? Why hasn’t he called?’ It makes me think there’s something wrong with me and I really resent that.”

“It’s rejection, right?” she said. “And rejection sucks no matter what. But we can’t take it out on ourselves. I chose to be daring with Payton because that’s what I wanted, and it felt right at the time. Maybe another man would have reacted differently. Whatever.” Hali paused. “The bottom line is that we don’t know where these guys are coming from, so we shouldn’t take it personally.” She was right.

Suddenly my call waiting bleeped. I looked at the number, “Hali, Tory’s on the other line. She’s trying to book tickets for a show in Vegas next week so I better go.”

“Man, I sure wish I was going with you all,” Hali said longingly. Then: “
Pfft
—at least in Vegas you’ll know exactly what the rules are: There are none!”

I smiled as I clicked through to Tory.
I was counting on it
.

THE NEXT DAY Hali phoned me again, this time much more upbeat. “I picked up a book at Chapters last night called
He’s Just Not That into You.
It gives all sorts of clues into the male psyche. Listen to this:

“Wake-up call Number 41: ‘Men don’t forget how much they like you. So put down the phone.’”

Hali laughed. I heard her flipping pages through the book. She continued: “Number 59: ‘If he’s not calling you, it’s because you are not on his mind.’”

Hmmmm,
I thought to myself.
It makes sense. But is it really that simple?

As if hearing my question, Hali then read: “‘Number 10: Men are not complicated, although we’d like you to think we are.’ That’s true, eh? They really
are
simple creatures. We’re
way
deeper and more complex than them. Smarter, too,” she laughed.

“Hold on, here’s another one: ‘If the guy you’re dating doesn’t seem to be completely into you, or you feel the need to start ‘figuring him out,’ please consider the glorious thought that he might just not be that into you. And then free yourself to go find someone that
is
.”

I listened attentively. Though amusing, these points were very poignant.

“Oh, and I love this one, Delaine. ‘Number 116: Cheaters are people who have a lot of stuff to work out, and they’re working it out on
your
time and with
your
heart.’ Man, that’s so true, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely,” I replied wryly, thinking of both Graham and Robert. Suddenly, I looked at the time: “Hali, I have to bring the kids to swimming lessons. I’ll call you back tonight.”

A half-hour later, I sat among parents in the swimming pool bleachers, thinking about the insights from Hali’s book. Essentially, they clearly spelled out what I already knew: When a man is interested in you, not even a herd of elephants will stop him from pursuing you. I know this is true because I’m the same way when
I’m into someone.
Time to stop making excuses for any man; and call it for what it is,
I thought. “That he’s just not into me.”

When I looked back on my history with men, including before marriage, one thing was blatantly clear: I’d wasted a hell of a lot of time and energy trying to figure men out: What were they thinking? How could I help them, understand them, fix them? It had been my personal quest to make them healthy, whole, and happy. Heck, when I was married, I’d made Robert’s happiness my
responsibility
. Somewhere along the way, I’d decided that my wife job included not only being his best friend, but also his twenty-four-hour therapist, his spiritual counselor, and of course, his perpetually available pussy. Soul, mind, body—whatever his needs were—even the ones he wasn’t aware of, my job was to be the supreme caretaker.

And all the while, my fingers were anxiously crossed behind my back, hoping, wishing,
begging
for him to see what a wonderful woman I was. I was a disaster waiting to happen; a doormat being weaved. Because as soon as Robert—or any other man I dated—brushed me off or disrespected me, guess what I did? I immediately blamed myself
,
of course, as if somehow
I
was the one lacking something: compassion, intuition, guts, desirability, sexiness, spiritual insight . . . I took it personally, straight to the heart, as if I was at fault for not measuring up. Never did it cross my mind that maybe we just didn’t fit, that the problem was theirs alone, that I was amazing as I was, or that maybe, just maybe, I damn well deserved
better
.

But I was finally realizing that now. I also realized that now was the perfect time for me to stop being such a shape shifter and be more solid in who I was. Any man who dated me was one heck of a lucky guy, and if he couldn’t be bothered to woo me, respect me, and for God’s sake,
call
me when he said he would, then he could take the express route to Jerk-Off Land. I’d settled for less for way too long. That road would end here.

APPARENTLY, SHANE ENROLLED ANOTHER “student’” in his online alpha-training classroom: a twenty-seven year old master’s student at UCLA named Lynn. According to Shane, not only was she a “much better listener” than me, her success outside the classroom had earned her major gold stars: Not only did she have one guy scrubbing her toilet and doing her laundry, she’d manipulated some rich trust-fund boy into paying her to be his “faux-girlfriend” at public events.

I admit I was somewhat fascinated with my classmate’s arrangements—in a
wow, I can’t-believe-people-actually-did-that
kind of way. But they simply didn’t jive with me: my morals, my principles, or my stay-at-home mom lifestyle. My home—my
kids’
home—would never be that kind of playground. Thus, I sent him an email to put my foot down and close the conversation:

His reply arrived just before I signed off for bed.

Underneath Shane’s email was a photo of him, from the waist up.
Hmmm
. I sat back in my chair and stared at his picture: “
Finally
,” I said aloud. “Hello there, Shane.”

He certainly didn’t look like anyone I’d pick out in a bar. He’d lost most of his grayish-brown hair (Dr. Phil-style), he had a trimmed moustache, and he even had a belly. But somehow that neither surprised nor bothered me.

I leaned forward in my chair and stared into the dark eyes looking out from the screen. “Who
are
you?” I whispered aloud. I examined his eyes closely, looking for clues, insights into the man behind them. I closed my eyes for a moment, imagining his hefty,
six-foot-three frame towering over me. I felt him grab me by the back of my hair and how I would look up at him (my eyes flew open) into
those
dark eyes.

Excitement rippled through my body. What wicked things might he have me do? What power would he unleash over me and unto me? The answers lay hidden behind those eyes. I could feel his dominance, the intensity of his size and energy, his voice in my ear as his hands claimed me as his own. I would submit to his every wish and desire.

Yes
. I sat up tall in my chair. There was no doubt in my mind. I
was
attracted to this man.

Then:
Holy shit. He wants me to go meet him in New York!

 

WHAT A SIGHT we were: seven sexy, late-thirty-something women going to Sin City. United States’ Customs was a ghost town as we passed through it, strutting, laughing, pulling our carryons side by side and row by row. We were so abuzz with excitement, we were like a tiny swarm of honeybees as we made our way to the already packed gate. And like every other person destined for Las Vegas, we’d paid special attention to how we looked—as if the moment we stepped off the plane, we’d step immediately into party central. I couldn’t believe I had once thought our age bracket was old; we made it look so good! I looked around at the glowing faces of my girlfriends and I knew, I just
knew
, this would be an unforgettable trip. Because we weren’t just fresh-faced innocents with few responsibilities walking that tarmac to an adult playground, we were women with families, careers, love and loss, and even wisdom. We were responsible. Abandon didn’t come easy, but that’s what we were hoping to do for this small pocket of days.
Live with abandon
.

So who were we? Tory, my former roommate was here, as well as Patty, my stunning, “older” girlfriend who had kindly “connected me” with Yummy Stranger during my time of “need.” Also
joining us was our close friend Selena, a married mom who somehow always breathed of style and sophistication, even when her kids were first born and she was covered in spit up. And a handful of others who were just as dear and important to me. We’d come to know each other over a decade ago through dinners and birthday celebrations (ours, not our kids), and somehow, almost magically, strong and special friendships had formed, both individually, and collectively. We’d seen each other through major milestones: some of us had become mothers, some had excelled along career paths, a few had seen a marriage or relationship come apart. We’d drifted apart periodically, sometimes for a year at a time, but somehow we’d always returned to one another, to our group, where there was a sense of freedom and love that was as grand and unique as our summed personalities.

Prior to leaving on our trip, Tory had expressed that she was a little nervous about all of us vacationing together. After all, we’d never done this before—nowadays, longer trips had only transpired with husbands, partners, and/or kids. What if we got on each other’s nerves? What if, because we were older, we’d become more anal and less tolerant in ways we didn’t realize? Would our personalities clash when we were mashed together in the same hotel room? My mind flashed to girl vacations from my early twenties; there had definitely been times of friction. But surely, we had grown up.

By eleven o’clock the night we arrived, we’d finished beautifying en masse in our suites and were ready to hit the town. First up on the agenda was a club called Pure, where tables were reputed to cost upward of eight-hundred dollars a night. Tory, the minx, had scored us free entrance tickets. And as we stood in line at the VIP entrance, gambling machines bleeping and singing around us, I took in the vibrant action around me. It
was
like landing on another planet. Half-dressed showgirls with epic breasts and glittery attire
sauntered through the casino halls, grabbing everyone’s attention, including my own. I couldn’t help but feel a little plain in comparison. But I was happy with how I looked: my brown and gold dress hung elegantly just past my knees and showed off my slim figure and tear-drop bustline. My hair was down and full of soft, loose curls. I felt sexy, but classy, which aligned with the kind of man I hoped to meet that night: a handsome, successful, refined
man—
no boys allowed on this trip!

Pure was packed, wall to wall, back to front. As we inched our way through the downstairs bar, bodies bumped and grinded and rubbed, both on the dance floor and off. Alcohol was flowing, flesh was bare for an eyeful, and a mood of “anything goes” infused the air.

I stood to the side of the bar, trying not to grimace as I sipped my white wine (at eighteen dollars a glass, it was going down, like it or not) and took in the room in an out-of-body way. I felt like Alice in Wonderland; like I’d just fallen into an adult playground in some parallel universe. Sure, millions of people visit Vegas every year—I was no different—but it felt no less exotic and surreal to me than if I really was the first suburban stay-at-home mother to ever land here. I couldn’t believe it was Sunday night. A
Sunday!
Bath night for the kids, Sunday dinner, getting lunches and backpacks ready for a new week of school, slip into my Super Girl jammies, and hit the hay. If this was Vegas on a Sunday night,
whoa
. What would Friday look like?
The world didn’t suddenly stop having fun, Delaine, just because you chose to stay home and have babies,
a voice teased inside my head. I could definitely see how one’s sense of time and morality could quickly disappear in a place like this—hedonism was not governed by a clock!