The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom (25 page)

Half an hour later, my girlfriends had scattered into the crowd and I was standing by myself, feeling removed. The crowd seemed so young, the men like university students. I hungered for a classier
experience. And frankly, there were no chairs and my feet were pissed off to be in heels instead of comfy mom flats.

Suddenly, my girlfriend Shannon appeared beside me. “Delaine,” she said, excitedly, grabbing my free hand. “You need to come with me; I can get us into a private party on the patio upstairs!” I eagerly followed her up three flights of stairs, past two huge bouncers, and through red-cordoned rope. If anyone could maneuver her way into a private VIP function it would be her. Shannon, whom I’d become fast friends with when we first met twelve years ago at a fitness club where we both taught aerobics, always stood out wherever she went. Tall and blonde, with a smile that could turn dictators into diplomats, she attracted men and attention like a magnet. With her added attributes of height, style, and a voluptuous figure, not to mention a kind, engaging personality, she could charm anyone, including Pure’s 250-pound bouncers.

Now
this
was where I wanted to be. Partying on the other side of the velvet ropes meant elbowroom, comfy black leather couches, and free decanters of wine and highballs that were never left empty. Soon we were being courted—not by young drunk boys, but by a crowd of sharp-dressed men over thirty-five. They quickly informed us they were part of an exclusive entrepreneurial association for millionaires.
That explains the pricey suits and tuxes,
I thought. But were they telling us the truth?
Pfft. Who cares!
I liked their story, so I bought it with a container of salt.

I slid onto a couch overlooking the roof, the bright lights of Vegas sparkling around me in the warm night air. A man across from me quickly refilled my wine glass. As I thanked him, a dark-haired stranger wearing an elegant suit and pink silk tie sat down on the cushion beside me. He reached out his large, manicured hand and smiled warmly. “Good evening,” he said. “Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Anton.” I met his dark eyes, and I felt instant attraction. I thought,
Helloooooo, Anton!

The next few hours were a blur. I spent most of it sitting and talking to Anton, with frequent bathroom breaks to sneak smokes and consume copious amounts of Tic Tacs. Shannon had smuggled the rest of the girls across the red line and they, too, quickly lost themselves in the free-flowing alcohol and predominantly male VIP gathering.

By night’s end (maybe 4:00 AM?), a few of us girls were still up on the rooftop, but we had migrated into what appeared to be a Mongolian tent. Inside its privacy, on a u-shaped couch full of cushions, I watched, smiling, as my friends talked and flirted with a handful of new male friends. Faces aglow, we were at our sultry best—relishing not just our femininity, but the sweet novelty of the moment; I wanted to capture it in a snow globe and keep it on a shelf. Beside me, Anton had loosened his pink silk tie (damn that was one nice tie!) and relaxed into the couch with his legs stretched out and crossed. Through my drunken lens, he looked like an Arabian prince. I was more than aware of his arm around me and our legs touching. I caught Tory’s eye and she gave me a look that said,
Girl
,
you’d be a fool not to take advantage of that luscious man beside you.
I looked at Anton, and his dark eyes held me, filled with seductive calm and intention. I had no doubt that his full Mediterranean lips and strong hands would consume me entirely. This was no service boy. I didn’t need any of Tory’s encouraging. I’d already made up my mind . . .

A limo ride back to his hotel, the push and pull of stops and corners, as his full lips pressed on mine the entire way there. Experienced, hungry, sensual. My memories of that night are like snapshots spilled across a table: A lavish hotel suite, the biggest I’ve ever been in. Him draping his pink silk tie over the back of a chair. Him walking towards me, white shirt unbuttoned and flowing, like a God walking the shores of the sea. Strong arms lifting me onto the dresser and my body flowering under his hands and wet lips.
Being lifted again . . . and carried to the bed. The sound of a package opening (protection!). His warm gaze on my face as he took me in his arms yet again.

My memory of the sex we shared is limited to the missionary position: his powerful back flexing on top of me, his moans in my ear, my mounting pleasure. I remember having an orgasm, and that it was delicious and lusty, but I don’t remember how long the sex lasted or if
he
even had an orgasm.

Truth be told, I pretty much passed out.

Yeah. Totally and completely.

But soon after, I woke up wondering where I was. I looked over at Anton, still fast asleep beside me.
Still unbelievably handsome!
Dim snippets from the night began replaying in my brain. And I still felt drunk; my head was fuzzier than my son’s favorite lovey.

Daylight was just starting to stream in through the French doors.
Look at that view of the city!
I thought, enchanted. Then:
Hmmm, I wonder what happened to all my girlfriends . . .

Quietly,
s-l-o-w-l-y
, so as not to wake him, I slid out of bed, picked up my strewn clothes, and redressed. At first I worried about walking out in the bright early morning in a sultry evening dress, and then I remembered it was Vegas! I’d blend right in . . .

I’m not sure what compelled me, but I’d decided to leave without a trace. I’d slip out of his bedroom, out into the massive crowds of Vegas, and disappear from his life. I knew it was both nervy and rude. But it felt right. And exciting. We’d had our night of passion, and that’s what we were after. Nothing more. It had been glitzy, romantic, and incredibly racy and fun. But
I
wanted to decide how this story would end; it was like an updated version of my Hotel Fantasy. I knew we’d never be ongoing lovers. Simply “disappearing” seemed the perfect ending to a magical night.

So I softly closed the door behind me. And vanished.

 

LIKE ANY GROUP of women that “experiences” Vegas with gusto, we girls flew home with our own stories of silliness and drunken mischief. Like when we deliberately cat-walked down the casino’s red carpets using Hali’s famous “grocery store stripper walk.” Or when a few of us drank vodka with Red Bull for the first time and laid claim to any piece of open carpet as our dance floor. Or when we crammed three of us at a time into the changing room of Frederick’s of Hollywood, trying on rhinestone-covered lingerie.

But in my eyes—and heart, as I looked around at my girlfriends on our plane ride home—I knew we’d experienced something “extra” special, even
profound
on our trip. And I wasn’t alone in that “feeling”: Tory said she felt “changed,” Selena said she felt her husband “was going to sense I’m different and I won’t know how to explain it.” And Patty said she felt more “powerful . . . grounded,” attributing it entirely to our group’s energy. But even if we couldn’t put our fingers exactly on it, it was real and it was powerful. I felt beautiful, I felt alive, and felt like I was not just a part of a whole but more whole. In allowing myself to rise up and free my Fabulous Self, I’d become fabulously free.

 

BUT THAT FREE-SPIRITED high didn’t last long. Within seventy-two hours of being home from Vegas, I emotionally crashed. I wasn’t a total wreck, but my “Fabulous Self” had to squeeze back into the contained bottle of “Same-old Daily Self.”

What further zapped the winds from my sails was my next phone conversation with Shane. We’d started out on the right track, sharing laughs over my Vegas stories, including my drunken encounter with Anton. But then, as our conversation switched to me flying to New York and I expressed my intention of bringing my own hotel money “just in case,” he became rather quiet. I sensed he was even . . . annoyed?

“Delaine, you do know why you’re coming here, right?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” I replied. “First and foremost to spend time with you. I’m really looking forward to talking to you and picking that crazy mind of yours!”

Silence on the other end. He was waiting.

“And
maybe
we’ll have sex,” I added, with a nervous laugh.

“Delaine, you
do
understand that I am a Dominant, and you’ll be here to submit to me.”

“Yes, Shane. I know you’re the ‘Super Alpha Male.’ But I also know you aren’t into freaky stuff and you won’t hurt me.
If
it even comes down to us having sex.”

“No, I would never hurt you. But you need to understand that certain things will be required of you should we connect. For example, on your third night here, if we haven’t already, I will want anal sex.”

Now, I’m no prissy, and I’ve nothing against folks who enjoy anal sex, but during our months of correspondence, Shane had openly shared his penis size with me. And it was
very
large. He claimed it was nine inches long and six inches in circumference. At the time I was thrilled: He’d be Super Alphalicious to crawl on top of.

But anal sex?
Are you kidding me?!
The thought downright scared me.

“Anal sex is important to me,” he continued. “I need to know you can take it. Not ‘kind of’ take it, with a grimace on your face or you needing me to stop because it hurts. But take it like a
real
woman.”

Long pause, even a bristle. I knew he was baiting me.

“I just can’t give you that kind of guarantee, Shane. I can’t even guarantee we’ll have
regular
sex. I’m not experienced with anal sex and I don’t even know if I’ll like it. I really don’t know how I feel about the whole thing. But I definitely have my doubts.”

Our conversation thus came to an abrupt and unexpected halt.

I hung up the phone in shock. This phone call was to have finalized our plans, not throw a monkey wrench into them.

I shook my head in disbelief. After all these months of talking and emailing, we had ended it because of a stalemate over anal sex?

I awoke the next morning feeling deflated. I checked my inbox, hoping he had written. But of course, he hadn’t. The bottom line was that he had clear expectations around what he wanted, and I had equally clear boundaries of my own. Our meeting was off.

I was surprised by how our disagreement affected me. I’d grown attached to Shane these past months, and while I knew we lived three thousand miles apart, I felt his presence in my life almost daily: his raw sexual power, his mentoring and friendship, his shocking sense of humor. I knew I’d miss him.

Even though our “relationship” was a little on the bizarre side, there was no denying I’d grown tremendously from it. He exposed me to a new way of perceiving and thinking, of viewing sexuality and the world at large. I learned to take risks, to step into my sexuality, and assert myself more in mind and body. I learned to stop apologizing for breathing, and to stop caring so much about what everyone else thought. In essence, he helped me give
myself
permission to explore new aspects of who I was. Without him, I doubt that would have happened, at least not as quickly or to such a degree. In fact, had he not been
exactly
who he was—an intelligent, zany, sexual dominant from a different country—I doubt he would have impacted my life so much. The universe has an uncanny way of giving us exactly what we need, when we need it, even if we don’t know it at the time.

Certainly, I didn’t always agree with Shane’s ideas—like “devouring little dik-dik men.” Nor was I ever fully sold on his concept and labeling of “alpha” and “beta” men. But he lured me into uncharted moral domain that ultimately helped me think for
myself and ascertain what was right and true to me. My core beliefs were a bit expanded, and a lot reinforced: Although I discovered the merits of experiencing nonlove sex with different men, I didn’t believe it was okay for someone to carry a dark agenda, like humiliating men for the sake of power. I believe one’s intentions counted for a lot. And whether a sexual liaison transpired under the canopy of dominance and submission or traditional give-and-take pleasure, I believed that an attitude of harmlessness and respect should
always
prevail.

Still, I was disappointed. The sudden twist in events felt like a sick joke. We were so close to meeting and all the components had been in place: freedom to travel, mental connection, sexual intrigue, a lovely large penis . . .

How was I to know he’d want to stick it in my bum?

WITH SHANE OUT OF THE picture, my man pool had officially dried up. Not even a prospect on the horizon. I looked straight into the void before me and asked myself:
Are you ready to stop this manic dating and get back to your old life? FINALLY?

But I knew I wasn’t, and sure enough, my inner Wild Woman stirred, restless, and offered up an emphatic
NO.

Shane had left me unfulfilled—literally and figuratively. I had no clue how to reorient myself toward that land we’d been sailing to. How
does
one find a D/s relationship? And was I really seeking it, or was I merely curious? I forced myself to surf around the more “vanilla” dating site I was member to—where I’d met Chad, Brent, Adonis Boy, and countless other castaways—but I was bored. Same faces, same old sea. I was itching for something different, something
more . . .

My trip to Vegas and the short-lived promise of a trip to New York had raised the bar a notch. I didn’t just want romance and sex, I wanted travel. I wanted adventure. I wanted to pack my bags and fly off to meet an enticing new man in an exciting new city. I wanted to park Delaine the Ex-Wife and Mom at the airport and walk through the boarding gates with a carte blanche identity. I
wanted to be free to express myself without the same self-imposed restrictions I faced at home.

What about the kids?
I suddenly thought, feeling guilty and selfish.
How can I even think about leaving them? What if something terrible happens while I’m away?