The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom (28 page)

“Wow, you’re gorgeous!” he announced exuberantly over my back.

I laughed. “Hi Lornce, welcome to Canada . . .”

Grinning at the memory, I turned to my keyed-up girlfriends: “I picked him up at the airport at around six thirty. And then we jumped in my minivan and drove to a Thai restaurant for dinner.”

“Was it awkward at first?” asked Tory.

“Actually, no. It felt perfectly comfortable. Maybe it’s because I’ve been on so many first dates,” I said, with a sly grin. “But I liked his energy right off the bat.

“We enjoyed a great dinner together and spent about three hours talking. He talks and thinks
really
fast, so I had to pay close attention to keep up with him. But he’s really funny too. Mind you, I’m sure it helped that I had a couple glasses of wine.”

“And
then
?” asked Tory.

“Give us the juice!” squealed Shiloh.

I laughed. “And
then
he drove my minivan to the hotel—because I couldn’t drive. We drank some more wine and talked up in his room.
And
. . .” I knew they were dying for me to get there, so I added with relish, laughing, “. . . then we had
sex.”

They were literally on the edge of their seats.

“And how was it?” Eyes wide, vicarious.

Hmmm, how to answer.
I thought for a moment. “It was good,” I said, with reservation, “but it wasn’t fantastic.” Then thinking I may have downplayed it too much, because it really
wasn’t
bad, I quickly added, “But it was good, don’t get me wrong.”

“Did it feel strange to be with an older man after being with such yummy younger guys?” asked Tory, taking a sip of her diet coke.

“Not really,” I answered honestly. “It’s hard to explain. I wasn’t overwhelmed with desire when I
looked
at him, but I was attracted to his energy and his personality; he was fun and easy to be around. So when it came down to sex, age really didn’t seem to matter—the body parts were the same!” I said laughing.

“Did you find him more attentive than the younger guys?” asked Shiloh. “Because that’s what they always say about older men.”

I paused for a moment, remembering our foreplay. “No, I can’t say he was any more attentive . . . or unusually highly skilled, for that matter. No doubt, he was concerned with my pleasure, and he wanted me to orgasm before he did. Plus, he had surprisingly good stamina—which I made great use of.” I gave them a wink. “But overall, the sex was very vanilla and well . . . average. But he was lovely to cuddle and chat with afterwards.”

“Hm,” said Tory, leaning back. I sensed she had hoped for something juicier. I sipped my water and shrugged my shoulders.

“Oh! But I gotta tell ya,” I suddenly added, a memory bursting to come out. “When we started messing around and clothes were coming off, I had to laugh—the guy had on two pairs of long underwear.”

“
What?
” laughed Tory. “It wasn’t even that cold out!”

“Yeah, well, I guess some Americans really do believe we live in the Arctic up here.

“Anyway, the next morning we went for breakfast, had some more good conversation. Then I drove him back to the airport to catch his flight. We kept it short and sweet; we planned it that way in case we didn’t like each other. We’ll spend more time together in San Francisco.”

“You seem pretty relaxed about the whole thing,” said Tory thoughtfully.

I shrugged. “If I wasn’t talking to John, too—the dom—I’d probably get more wrapped up in it.”

“Is the ‘dom guy’ planning to come here too?” asked Shiloh.

I sighed. “No, not at this point. I’m not sure
what
we’re doing . . .”

When it came to talking about John, I didn’t even know where to start. We’d already spent over thirty-six hours talking over the phone. And he was teaching me so many new things—about D/s . . . life . . . even myself.

Certainly, we sometimes discussed dominance and submission, but it was always in a mentor/student-like way. He seemed focused on helping me understand the D/s lifestyle and my submissive side, but not actually meeting. That being said, erotic tension often permeated our conversations. And I immediately connected with his voice as soon as I picked up the phone; I looked forward to them.

One of the things I found captivating about John was that there was no separating John the Man from John the Dom. It was simply part of who he was: Strong. Calm. Intuitive. When I spoke with him, I could
feel
him listening to me; reading me. He heard not only what I was saying, but what I
wasn’t
saying. We constantly talked about me—my past, my feelings, my dreams, my sexuality. I felt like he was trying to figure out my mind, not because he had an agenda, but because he genuinely cared. I felt no pressure, no expectations. He seemed to want me to understand myself. He kept reiterating: “A dom never takes away, Delaine. He only
builds.
” And he was doing just that: I always felt uplifted after talking to him. Never cut-off or burdened or drained, like when I was married to Robert. Not only were my conversations with John liberating, they affirmed to me that my voice did count; that I was worth listening to; and that this was how couples could and should feel when they communicated. So I was filing this information away as reference for my next serious relationship. Because I didn’t deserve to be anyone’s emotional punching bag. And I now understood that if a man took out his boxing gloves, I could simply choose to walk away.

I looked at Tory and Shiloh across the table. I exhaled loudly. “A part of me worries that you guys think this D/s stuff is really wacked and so am I for being interested in it.”

“No!” Tory said quickly. “I don’t think you’re wacked at all. I just don’t know much about D/s beyond what you’ve told me.”

“I’m not interested in any of the freaky sadomasochistic stuff,” I reassured. “I envision it more like the movie
9 1/2 Weeks
. . .

The girls were quiet, all ears, patiently waiting for more.

“Have you ever imagined what it would be like to have your husband pin your arms against the wall, calmly tell you you’re going to do whatever he wants, and then proceed to have his way with you in whatever way he chose? Or can you imagine being out to dinner with him, and as you sit next to him drinking wine, he suddenly
leans over and whispers in your ear a detailed sample of how he’s going to enjoy you later? Wouldn’t that totally turn you on and leave you anticipating what was to come?”

“Absolutely!” said Tory. “Those scenarios are totally arousing. I think most women secretly wish that would happen. But I know if
my
husband did it, I would burst out laughing. Seriously! He would be so awkward; it would be wayyyy outside his comfort zone.”

I laughed. “OK . . . but a part of you can imagine that being ‘submissive’ in this respect would be a turn-on?”

“For sure,” Tory replied, and Shiloh nodded her head vehemently.

“John told me that from a neuropsychological perspective, it makes sense for women to have a submissive side.

“Imagine the two main parts of the human brain,” I said, using my hands to demonstrate. “Down here you have the lower brain and up here is the upper brain. John said the lower brain is our ‘old’ brain—we’ve had it since the beginning of time and throughout evolution. It’s where our instinctive, primitive thinking lies, like the fight or flight response, or the biological urge to have sex and reproduce.

“To understand how our lower brain functions, you simply need look to other less-evolved primates. Like gorillas, for example. One of the behaviors you’ll observe amongst female gorillas is their jockeying to win the ‘alpha males’ in the pack. The females prefer to associate with the stronger, more dominant gorillas. They
want
to submit to an alpha, knowing that he improves their chances of survival. It’s about safety, protection, and well, having his babies.

“Today,” I said, with a deep breath, “this same lower brain activity is still active in the
human
female brain. The difference with our species is that we also have this evolved
upper part
of our brains.” I referred to my air drawing with my hand again. “The upper brain is where we store our values and beliefs and
morals, which have been compiled through social conditioning
;
for example: our family, our work environment, our community, etcetera. As women of Western culture, our social conditioning teaches us the
exact opposite
thinking to our primitive brain: that we are men’s equals, that submission in any form is a ‘bad’ thing, and that we can be as strong and dominant as men are—which is true in most respects.
But
,” I added, pausing, “What sometimes happens is that the two parts of a woman’s brain are at war. She knows she is an independent, self-sufficient person, capable of forging and managing her own life. Yet secretly or subconsciously, she may dream or fantasize about submitting to a man sexually or otherwise, all the while berating herself for doing so because she judges her thoughts as weak, clingy, or abnormal.”

Tory and Shiloh were staring at me wide-eyed. I asked, “Did what I just said make any sense?”

“Yes,” said Tory.

“I think so,” smiled Shiloh. “It’s fascinating!”

A moment of silence. Then Tory blurted, “Why do I suddenly feel like I don’t know squat about sex? I’m thirty-eight years old for God’s sake, I thought I knew so much!”

I smiled and nodded my head. “Believe me, my friend, I know that feeling all too well . . .”

 

I HUNG UP the phone with John the Dom and looked at the clock: 12:25 AM. A New Year was officially underway. And there I sat—alone, the kids upstairs in bed, watching the silent hand go around.

I wasn’t sad. I actually felt very content; but alert too, as if I was waiting for something to happen. Like the wall was about to open up and suck me into a New Year.

But nothing changed. The room remained still. My cat stretched.

I laid back on my couch and stared at the ceiling.
I wonder if
Hali and the rest of the girls are having fun.
Almost all of my closest girlfriends were attending the same house party. I’d declined. I just wasn’t in the mood; I felt like being quiet and spending the evening with my kids. Besides, I knew this party was mainly being attended by couples—including Hali and her new
boyfriend
.

Yup. Hali had a new man: Bobby. Three weeks now, and she was over the moon. He’d tracked her down on Facebook, of all places; they’d attended the same high school. And they were totally smitten with each other.

“He seems to be everything I want in a partner,” Hali gushed, when she told me. “He’s communicative and generous and family focused and so ‘everything’ that Paul wasn’t . . .”

I was genuinely happy for Hali, but I found it ironic that I was less interested in “serious” now than I was eight months ago when I first started dating. God, I was so panicked to find a replacement partner back then! I’m not embarrassed by it—I was scared to death, hurting like hell, and thought “serious” was what I needed. But the universe gave me what I
really
needed: a multitude of unusual dating and sexual experiences that helped me further understand my body and my Self. It was an objective I never would have considered, if asked back then.

Still, some part of me ached to find love right away. But the wiser, postdivorce Delaine I was becoming cradled it to rest, soothing that longing like a child who didn’t know any better. For given the depth of my wounds, given the healing and self-discovery I’d yet to master, I intuitively knew I was at risk of falling in love for the sake of the blissful feeling, not because it was real, true, or what was best for me. No—I didn’t need a hero, a second party with broad shoulders to step in and save me. I needed to stay focused on making myself stronger and more limber from the inside out, and trust that the universe would bring me who and what I needed, when I
really
needed it.

I
did
feel a tweak of sadness that Hali and I weren’t “partners in crime” anymore. A part of me also felt kind of dropped—like a casual high school boyfriend—because suddenly all her time and energy were diverted to him, to them. But I knew she wasn’t neglecting me intentionally or maliciously; she just desperately wanted and needed a stable, loving family life. If I were an abandoned woman with a six-month-old baby, I’d probably do the same. It was simply time for Hali and me to branch off on our own forks in the river. I knew she was ready. And deep in my bones, I sensed I was too.

So, while my girlfriends reveled in their partnerships tonight, old and new, I had reveled in my own—with my children. Earlier in the evening, the kids and I had bundled up in snowsuits and gone tobogganing in the dark, on a hillside aglow in bright flood lights. Their rosy-cheeked smiles and cries of “Let’s go AGAIN!” had splashed in technicolor against the crisp, night air. And as I’d barreled down the hill, my arms and legs wrapped snuggly around their little bodies, I found myself hooting and laughing like I was a kid again.

Once home, after getting jammied up, we warmed up with hot chocolate and mini-marshmallows. Then came balloons and noisemakers, and we held a mock midnight countdown, all of us howling like a pack of happy wolves. And in finale, instead of reading them a story before I tucked them into bed, we’d held our first “sharing circle.” We all sat down on the living room floor and took turns talking about what we were grateful for. My kids, given their tender ages, actually surprised me with the depth of their contributions: “I’m thankful for my brother and sister and great grandma and great grandpa and two grandmas and two grandmas and (insert full list of all relatives) . . . and all the love in this home,” said my seven-year-old son most seriously.

My daughter laid her head on my lap to think about it, then
said: “I’m thankful for all the pretty flowers in our garden because they give Jax (our cat) a nice place to lie down.”