The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom (5 page)

Days turned to weeks, and the mail kept flowing in. I now had a new hobby, one that stroked my ego and temporarily pulled me out of my ennui. It was positive reinforcement on steroids, and like an addict, I checked my email throughout the day. At eight ’o clock, when lights were out, kids in bed, I’d lock myself in my office for the rest of the evening—reading, searching, replying . . . At this point, I’d even begun flirting with a few: “Dear Stuart, you flatter me, but I could say the same about you. You look as hot as you are smart . . .” Communicating by email felt so safe and nonthreatening, I found that in this suspended reality, I could set all my pain and loneliness aside and be candid and flirty, daring or thoughtful, without rebuke or self-consciousness. It was empowering.

It became so all-consuming that come morning, as soon as my kids were fed, I’d race downstairs in my slippers and log on again. I even checked my mail in the middle of the night. God, how I hated the night hours. If and when sleep finally found me, I’d often wake up worrying—no,
panicking
—about my life, ruminating over my past, my body cold with stress. It seemed I could divert myself during the day, but whenever I tried to sleep, my subconscious mind went into overdrive, desperately seeking answers, frantic to help me chart a True North again.

So instead of lying in bed, deluged by melancholy and playing the same mental tapes over and over again, I would put on my housecoat, go to my computer, and log on.

 

FINALLY, I AGREED to meet a man from the dating site. His name was Cal, and he apparently worked in executive management. At thirty-seven, he was also separated with two kids. Through our
fifty
email exchanges, where I’d bombarded him with questions, I’d deduced that he was a family man, a man with strong values, the kind of man a woman in my position should date. It also didn’t
hurt that he was pretty good looking, too: clean shaven with sandy brown hair and intense hazel eyes.

I sat in the coffee shop with my eyes glued to the front entrance. I was a bundle of nerves. This was a huge step for me—my first real date in over a decade—and my first foray out with a man since Graham. My stomach wouldn’t let me forget it. It helped that I felt confident about how I looked: My dark jeans and fuchsia wrap-shirt accentuated my slim figure; and my hair, which I wore loose and wavy down my back, had been freshly highlighted. My freckled skin looked healthy and clear, with minimal makeup, and I’d applied a fresh coat of lipgloss in the car.
Good to go . . .

As I sat there clenching and unclenching my tea mug, I worried,
Oh, what if he’s unattractive?
His profile said he was six-foot-three and 240 pounds. I’d never been out with a man that big before. Robert and Graham were both over six feet tall but on the slender side—that’s what I was used to, so that’s what I preferred. But Cal said he was a former defenseman in the pro hockey league. Surely he must be muscular.
God I hope he isn’t fat,
I thought, and then I quickly chastised myself.
Do I really even want to do this . . . ?

Fifteen minutes later, he still hadn’t shown. I began to panic.
Am I to be stood up on my first date?
I thought.
Well that’s just great . . .

Elbows deep in my purse, I was scrambling to find his phone number when a giant-sized man in an elegant grey suit lumbered into the cafe. He walked right up to me and offered me his big hand and a smile. “Hi, Delaine,” he said.
Deep voice
.
Nice.
“I’m Cal. I’m so sorry I’m late. I had to park about ten blocks down the street. I’m just going to run to the bathroom, okay?”

“No problem,” I said, sneaking a long peek at him as he walked away. I shifted my purse onto the vacant chair beside me and smiled. Thumbs up to him being attractive, polished, and very masculine. My nervousness turned into excitement.

Two minutes later, he crouched into the wooden chair across
from me.
Groan
, belched the chair, responding to his weight. I suppressed a laugh and pretended not to notice.

“So,” he said casually, a warm smile on his face. “This is the first time you’ve met someone from the site, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Are you nervous?”

“A little.” I’d unknowingly grabbed the tea bag package and was tearing it into little pieces.

“Don’t worry. I promise I don’t bite.” He leaned back in his chair, hands interlocked behind his head, when all of a sudden, the little wooden legs let out a God-awful,
CREAK!
This time, we both laughed.

Our conversation flowed easily from there—work, friends, our kids, dating. But still, I kept reminding myself to speak confidently.
He doesn’t know about your past, nor does he need to. Just think of this as a job interview.

Our meeting lasted only forty-five minutes; he had to get back to his office. But it was enough. I liked his smile, I liked his energy, and I could tell he liked mine; I swear his pupils were dilated. I felt the physical connection too: such enormous shoulders, such wide playful lips, such massive knuckles . . .

I
knew
I would see this man again.

 

A FEW NIGHTS later, I nervously primped for our second date. My body tingled with anticipation, but my brain was wrought with worry. I didn’t know what the rules for dating and having sex were anymore. Should I avoid falling into bed with him at all costs, even at my age? What if I couldn’t emotionally handle having sex again? What if the sex was awful, even worse than it was with Robert, and I found myself going through the motions with a stranger I cared nothing about? And most disturbing yet annoying of all: What if he didn’t like my body? I’d struggled
my entire teenage and adult life not to buy into society’s negative messages around age and beauty. But the truth was that I held the shoppers Optimum card. Even with Graham, who openly admired my body, I was still self-conscious. Three pregnancies and childbirths had left battle scars as souvenirs: my breasts were lower, my stomach flabbier, a C-section scar highlighted my pubic bone.
When does the body image war ever end?
I wondered, irritated
.
These scars should be badges of honor, not markings of shame.

For this date, we planned to meet at a popular upscale bar and restaurant. And I planned to trade in my tea cup for a wine glass. Due to my back-to-back pregnancies, I had a very low tolerance for alcohol; my friends called me the One-Glass Wonder. But tonight I
wanted
to loosen up.

As we sat amongst the busy crowd of men and women, many still wearing suits from work, it struck me how this whole “adult world” had ticked along during my ten-year retreat to the suburban universe. It felt exhilarating to be a part of it again, and the mood helped me relax into conversation with Cal.

But somewhere midway through my second glass of wine and his third beer, our sexual attraction started hindering the conversation. We’d hold each other’s gaze, our sentences going unfinished, as we silently wandered up and down each other’s body. Finally, he took the initiative and sat down beside me. He covered my thigh with his hand and I grabbed it, squeezed it, inviting him to feel and know me more. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t even talk; every nerve-ending in my body was on fire.

“Let’s get out of here,” he murmured, his voice husky. I nodded.

We walked briskly to his condo three blocks away. I feigned interest in his décor, which was a mix of modern chic and masculine simplicity, while he turned on some jazzy background music and dimmed the lights. Suddenly he was looming over me. He pinned me against the wall, kissing me hard. My body blossomed
under the taste and power of his lips and the feel of his huge strong body against mine. He could snap me in half if he wanted to, but he knew his own strength. It was intensely arousing. He spun me around, pressing my face and body into the wall, his large hands eagerly moving all over me. The strength and ownership in his touch left me unable to think, unable to doubt what I was doing—oh the pleasure, the hunger, the rawness of my need. He picked me up and carried me to the kitchen. Somewhere along the way, he removed his clothes
and
mine. He lifted me on to the counter, my legs pressed round his hips, and for the first time in eight months I allowed a man to have me, and me him. The moment he entered me, I felt nothing but desire—and entitlement.
I
wanted this. My body wanted this . . . We were heat and passion, and then he carried me to the couch and we explored each other in numerous positions. He carried me to his bedroom, but not before we lingered in the hall. He pressed his lips against my ears, his breath hot, and talked dirty to me, his words and his deep voice flooding me with arousal. “You’re so fucking wet, I could cum right now,” he said, groaning into my ear. “But I’m not. Oh no, I’m going to . . . ” He lead, I followed, willingly, ardently, my body on fire.

I was straddling him on his queen-size bed when he finished. He shuddered and moaned, and I knew he’d orgasmed hard. I lay forward onto his chest, which was slick with sweat, both of us breathing hard. My arms and legs trembled, even though I hadn’t climaxed. But I was okay with that. The tornado of what just transpired felt like one giant climax. Besides, it wasn’t fair to expect him to understand my body during our first encounter. His hands gently caressed my back, and a calm, comfortable silence enveloped us. I nuzzled my head into the crevice between his shoulder and neck and closed my eyes.

And that’s when the tears came. Surprising and unexpected.
I fought to stop them. I knew my body was feeling and wanting to tell me something, but c’mon—
NOW?

“Hey,” Cal gently asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah . . . I’m just a bit emotional, that’s all. It’s been a long time.”

He hugged me tenderly. “
Shhh
. . . it’s okay.” I carefully rolled off of him and snuggled into his chest. He continued touching me gently—my arms, my back—and my silent tears trickled down my face in the darkness.

It felt so good to be touched again, to be held in the strong, comforting arms of a man. I had waited and waited so long for Graham. I had longed and ached for his touch and embrace with every part of my body and soul. And now, lying naked in this stranger’s arms, a wave of emotions swelled to life inside of me. I felt vulnerable and raw;
alive.
Having sex again had pushed vital life energy throughout my entire body, which had felt dead for so long. Sex had made me go inside this tomb and
feel
. And as I lay there with Cal, the concentrated energy in my heart began pressing against my throat: I was either going to sob uncontrollably or talk. The gates were opening and I couldn’t stop them.

So I told him. I told him in less than a minute about Robert and Graham’s betrayals. My affair with Graham was something I’d sworn I’d never tell another man, if not for the humiliation but for the shame of it. But here it was anyway. I even told him about the baby. I confessed that I was still in love with Graham and my heart was broken. At that point, I got up, dressed, and left.

I walked back to the bar knowing I had just made a complete fool out of myself. Talk about ruining a date! But I didn’t care. All I could think about was Graham. I got in my car and drove to his house. I was crying and smoked three cigarettes along the way. Tonight was the night I was going to show Graham my pain. He
deserved to see the aftermath of his choices. He deserved to witness this pile of rubble called Delaine.

I walked to his door and rang his doorbell. It was 1:00 AM. He didn’t answer, so I rang it again. And again. But the lights were out and his truck wasn’t parked in the driveway. I knew he wasn’t home, but I continued to stand there anyway, crying, pacing, and peering in through the windows like a stalker. I knew I was being saved the total humiliation of what I was doing. I knew I was acting like a crazy woman. But I didn’t care. I was tired of being the bigger person! To just forgive his selfish, stupid, cruel behavior.
I’m not a fucking angel! I’m a flesh and blood, passionate, caring, FEELING woman. And I’m sick of putting everyone else’s feelings before mine, I’m entitled to some hysterics, and Goddamnit, I say it’s going to happen right now!

I slumped down on his porch with my arms covering my head. I rocked back and forth, as my rage and anguish settled in for the kill.

Ten minutes later, I got back in my car and quickly drove away, followed by one cogent thought.

“YOU DID
WHAT
?” MY BEST friend Hali exclaimed over the phone. “Why the hell did you go to Graham’s house?”

It was the next morning and I felt plain terrible. But I didn’t want to get into it, since it wasn’t an appropriate time: Hali was due to give birth to her second child in a few weeks, and me and our closest girlfriends were throwing her a baby shower in a few hours.

“I don’t know . . . I guess having sex with Cal triggered stuff,” I offered wearily.

“And . . . How was it?” she asked.

“How was what?”

“
Sex with Cal!
”

Erotic snapshots flashed through my mind. I couldn’t fight off a grin. “It was fun. Really fun, actually. But I’m sure he thinks I’m a psycho. I cried after we had sex
and
I told him about Graham and the baby. He probably can’t run far enough away from me.”

“Oh Delaine!” I knew she was shaking her head. “Well, at least you finally had sex again. You’ve now gotten the ‘first time’ over with and that’s a big deal. I’m sure it’ll help you move on faster.”

“Let’s hope so,” I said. “Anyway, moving on to your baby shower, I’ll be arriving at your place an hour early. I’ve a few games and things to set up.”

“Awesome, I’ll see you soon.”

For the next hour, I focused on the final preparations for Hali’s shower. More than anything I wanted today’s celebration to be
extra
special for Hali, not only because she deserved it, but because she
needed
it.