The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom (30 page)

The security doors slid open and I walked through, looking around . . .

Right away I saw him. He was standing by himself, leaning casually against the wall, wearing Levis and a plain white T-shirt.

My heart sank.

Yeah.

It’s not that John was ugly or creepy looking. For he wasn’t. And he did resemble his pictures; there was no denying they were the same man. But on first impression, he didn’t match what I’d blown him up to be, which no doubt was massively unrealistic: a Harrison Ford look-alike (or at least a close cousin), oozing the same sexy, controlled calm as Mickey Rourke in
9 1/2 Weeks.
The John approaching me did not exude sexy in his bootcut jeans and untucked T-shirt, and his blond hair looked unkempt and thinner than in his photos. He basically looked very average—like any other forty-something man, not the Super Dom of my imagination. He was shorter than I expected, too. I guess five foot ten is taller in Delaine’s Fantasyland.

With these judgments wreaking havoc on my expectations, I smiled big as he walked up to greet me.

“Hi Delaine,” he said, smiling warmly, his eyes bright with anticipation. “How was your flight?”

“It was good,
really
good!” I said overzealously, trying to mask my disappointment.

I didn’t reach out to hug him
or
shake his hand.

“Come . . .” he said, eying me funny for one long second. “Let’s get your bags.”

Time passed in a hazy blur as we waited for and retrieved my luggage. I was polite and made pleasant small talk with him, but underneath, an internal war was raging. A part of me felt panicked
and wanted to bolt; but of course, that wasn’t a viable (or kind) option given the circumstances. I felt angry with myself: I should have known better, given my history with the online dating world, that photos and phone calls can be misleading. But most of all, I was disappointed and confused: Sex aside, did I even want to be in this man’s company all weekend long?

I needed to compose myself. “John, could you please excuse me a sec while I freshen up in the ladies room?”

“Of course. Take your time,” he replied. “I have to check on our car rental anyway; it’s being delivered to the hotel later. So once you’re done, meet me outside,” he said, pointing to where cabs were queued up in line.

Inside the bathroom, I squeezed myself and luggage into a stall and stood there clenching my fists,
FUUUUUUUUUUCK! What the fuck am I going to do?

Don’t you think you’re overreacting?
a sensible part of me reasoned.
So he’s not what you expected physically, so your initial meeting didn’t play out how you imagined. This is a man you shared hours of conversation with—erotic conversation, too. And he’s a really decent, caring man . . . remember? You haven’t even given him a chance!

I sighed and shook my head. It was true. I was being brutally judgmental. And melodramatic. And mean. The very least I could do was respect him enough to relax and enjoy our time together as friends.

Ten minutes later, I exited the bathroom and met John outside.

“Ready?” he asked, calmly, brow raised. I knew he didn’t just mean to catch a cab.

“I am,” I said firmly, this time with a genuine smile.

Who knows?
I thought as I opened the door and slid in.
Maybe my attraction for him will grow.

 

LUCKILY, THE ISSUE of “same room” or “separate rooms” was easily postponed. John’s company was holding a postconference wrap up in the meeting room upstairs, with hors d’oeuvres and cocktails. “I really should make an appearance,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Are you in the mood to socialize?”

“Sure!” I replied, enthusiastically.

“Good.” He smiled slightly. “How about if we check your luggage at the front desk for now?”

“Great idea.” I replied, knowing he’d deliberately bought me some “time.”

For the next hour, John introduced me around a packed room abuzz with predominantly male conversation. His engineering colleagues, maybe thirty in total, were also wearing casual clothes—some in jeans, some even in shorts. “We decided to ban suits for the last day,” he said lightly when I’d whispered it felt more like a barbecue than a business meeting, “It’s been a long week and everyone’s ready to cut loose.”

Without even trying, I found myself easily enjoying myself. The fact that I was Canadian spawned lots of questions and jokes; small talk flowed easily. John behaved like a total gentleman—making sure I was never alone, yet not smothering me and giving me space to socialize. Nor did he ever touch me. Not even so much as to guide me by the elbow. I watched John periodically out of the corner of my eye as he mingled. I couldn’t help but notice how enrapt his colleagues were when he spoke; that he drew them in; that he carried an air of respect and power. Even in a group of men that looked like they could be hanging out at the beach, he was clearly the alpha in this room. Not that he was boisterous or domineering—rather, he spoke little but meant what he said. And he listened a lot. I liked that. I liked watching him listen. How his face remained calm. How his eyes took people in. How no one else here knew they were talking to a dom. Watching him, I could now
imagine what he’d looked like all the many nights we’d spoken over the phone; I could attach a real life visual to his voice. And I found myself wondering about and imagining “other” things about this man—sexual things . . . unexplored things.

John the Dom of my imagination was yielding to John the Dom the real man.

 

UP IN OUR hotel room, I finished getting ready for dinner and sat on the end of the bed, waiting, while John finished preparing in the privacy of the bathroom. I had changed into a knee-length, royal blue dress and high-heeled sandals, and I felt pretty—though a bit self-conscious about my Canadian glow. As I stretched my right leg out to assess its whiteness and examine my painted toes, my depth perception shifted: Just behind my big toe lay the still-sealed toy box.

John came into the room dressed and clean-shaven, the light smell of cologne moving with him. My stomach fluttered immediately: He was wearing a sophisticated yet casual black suit jacket, clearly tailored, and pressed khakis. His body looked strong and fit under his clothes. I suddenly found him very attractive.

“You look beautiful,” he said, giving me a smile of genuine appraisal.

I smiled back, a little coy. “Thank you, John. You look very fine yourself.”

“Are you ready to go?” he asked, as he grabbed his wallet and car keys off the dresser; our Cadillac El Dorado had been delivered to the hotel as arranged.

I remained sitting. “Almost . . .” I said softly.

He turned and looked at me, evenly—not surprised, not inquisitive, just expectant, patient.

“I’d like to see what’s in the toy box.”

Without replying, he walked to the box and began slicing his
keys through the packing tape with strong even strokes. This man did
not
bumble. I sat perched on the edge of the bed, watching, listening, anticipating . . .

“First,” he stated evenly, “we have bondage cuffs.” He placed them beside me on the bed. I picked them up gently, hesitantly, feeling the heaviness and smoothness of the leather-covered steel. My body tensed with both fear and excitement.

“More bondage straps,” I heard him say. An assortment of leather and metal was laid on the bed.

Deep breath.
Keep cool, Delaine.

“And this—” he said, as he began unwrapping a longer black object with a leather handle, “is a flogger.” He watched my eyes as he handed it to me. “It’s soft, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I half-whispered. I touched the strands of thick leather spilling from the handle.
So
this
is what a real flogger looks like.

“And this—” he continued, “is a crop.” He held up a thin, two-foot-long riding crop. “You know how this is used, right?” He gripped the handle and began walking around the room, flicking it.
Snap
. I flinched as he snapped at the air.
Snap- Snap- Snap
. Louder: SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!

Suddenly, a scene from
9 1/2 Weeks
flashed before me: Mickey Rourke and Kim Basinger were in a dimly lit store; he was testing various riding crops and snapping them in the air. She sat there watching him, smiling.
That movie really was about D/s!
I thought.
They just never showed him using it on her.

Shivers of excitement raced up my spine. John snapped his crop one final time . . . then handed it to me. The handle was warm from his grip.

He proceeded to pull out seven more toys, all of which were packaged dildos and vibrators. They were literally of every shape, size, and color. Some were so realistic, they looked like molds of real penises—veins and all; others were smooth and phallic, curved, or
with ridges; one had a base with so many buttons, it looked like a control panel. Others were small handheld vibrating “bullets,” no bigger than my thumb. But they all shared one thing in common: These weren’t bachelorette party favors—they all meant business.

He passed each one to me without comment, as if he were handing me groceries to put away.

“And that’s everything I packed in my toy box,” he said, matter-of-factly.

I looked around the toy-covered bedspread and slowly nodded my head. They were but inanimate objects—harmless, unthreatening, even kind of cute. But in the hands of John, they would become tools for my pleasure. How would he use them, how many would he try, which did I fear/desire for him to use most? As I sat alone with my thoughts, John suddenly reached toward me. My body immediately stiffened;
brace yourself, he’s going to kiss you!

But no . . . he was reaching for the toys. A faint smile played on his lips as he began returning them to the box.

“Are you okay with what you saw?” he asked quietly as he glanced at me and repacked.

I sat up taller and cleared my throat. “Yes. I think so.”

“Nothing in here astonished you or disgusted you?”

“No. Not really.”

Long pause. The last item disappeared into the box. “Shall we go for dinner then?” he asked, standing right in front of me.

“Yes, that would be nice,” I said, laughing lightly. I moved to reach my hand out to him, assuming he would escort me . . .

But he’d already turned his back to me and was walking to the door.

 

I LEANED AGAINST the railing of the hotel balcony having a cigarette. Night had fallen on Orange County and soft city lights shimmered in the distance. Below, palm trees swayed in the wind, the
sound of their collective rustling suddenly broken by a loud splash in the pool six floors down.

A man had dived in and was now swimming its length using clean, practiced strokes.
Good for you,
I thought.
You swim, I’ll smoke
. I grinned and relaxed into the warm air.
This is so much better than the minus-twenty temperatures back home.

Home . . .
it felt so far away. I closed my eyes and imagined being in my children’s rooms. Right now my babies would be fast asleep. I could see their sweet little bodies all snuggled up, their faces soft and angelic.
Mommy loves you,
I whispered to each of them, stroking their silky hair with my hand.
Mommy will be home in one more sleep, don’t worry.

I opened my eyes and forced myself back to the present. I dragged on my cigarette, trying to ground myself in my body; a body that was in a foreign city, in an unfamiliar room, with a virtual online stranger.

You shouldn’t be here!
A voice suddenly screamed inside my brain.
Your REAL life is a thousand miles away. Your REAL place is with your kids, your friends, your family. Go-home go-home go-home!

But I shook it off. I would be back in those shoes within forty-eight hours. I had come here to step out of the ordinary, to become
more
of Delaine.

I looked over my shoulder into our hotel suite. John was standing ten feet away with his back to me, going through his briefcase. I watched his khaki pants crease as he shifted onto his other foot. His blond head was down, studying a document under the dim light of the desk lamp. He looked so focused, so completely unaware of my presence, so . . .
in control
.

I gazed back out into the night air, my shoulders tense beside my ears. For some reason that “self-control” of his irked me. Irked me and aroused me and pissed me off all at the same time. During our candlelit steak dinner tonight, I’d deliberately kept the
conversation platonic: work, kids, fitness, health. I was waiting: waiting for him to bring up the toy box; to veer the conversation into the sexual realm; to “launch his seduction.”

But he didn’t. Not a word. And as hours passed and the server removed the final plates from our table, I found myself growing impatient; frustrated. I began baiting him harder, pulling out all my “womanly charms” to test that control. I made sure he had full viewing pleasure when I leaned back in my chair and slowly crossed and uncrossed my legs. I leaned over the table seductively, I used my eyes, I made suggestive comments and threw doors wide open in conversation.

But he didn’t budge—not a flinch. He never even moved to touch me. Not that I didn’t see desire in his eyes—it was there, steady and intense, through the flickering shadows of the candlelight. But it never decided his actions; it remained under the thumb of his control. I swore I saw flickers of amusement, too.
You can play all the cards you want, Delaine,
I felt him say to me.
I am your Dom.
You
will come to
me
.

Now, as I watched John from the balcony as he rifled through his briefcase in the light of the desk lamp, I
knew
. . .

I knew it was time.

I closed the sliding doors behind me and reached up and dragged the heavy curtains shut. I walked across the room, feeling ready, emboldened . . . past the table of toys to where John was standing with his back to me.