“And you know what, Hali? There’s no doubt in my mind that we’re right in the thick of ours.”
IT WAS THE FIRST TIME Robert had ever taken the children on a weekend instead of midweek. Better still, it was a long weekend. Elated with my newfound freedom, I spent the latter part of Friday night glued to my computer, trawling the online dating site; this
to be the weekend where I’d find a meaningful relationship.
By 2:00 AM, I had no real prospects; a few potentials though: a cute electrician from a neighboring city, a divorced dad with three kids. Normal guys, average looking, but missing something all the same.
I thought optimistically, as I climbed into bed.
Early Saturday morning I quickly signed in at my desk and sorted through my inbox. A few men had responded to my inquiries, but still, nobody looked promising. My body gushed with sensual agitation. I yearned to feel a man’s hands on me. Not just yearned,
Every nerve ending was alive with need, and the clock was ticking down the weekend.
Dammit, Delaine, look harder!
But I was struggling with competing desires. I dropped my face into my hands. I couldn’t just go have sex with any “body.” The physicality of sex alone wasn’t enough for me—I knew too well from marriage that body parts “getting satisfied” could feel empty, even gross. Sure, that hadn’t happened with Cal, but maybe I just
got lucky. No. I couldn’t risk it. Above all, I needed connection. Respect. Because of my relationship with Graham, I knew what it felt like to make love. If I couldn’t look into a man’s eyes or talk with him for hours afterward, at least as a close friend, why bother? I’d be selling myself short; I’d be moving backwards.
But my body was screaming for sex. It was affecting my mood. I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I was uptight, irritable, and only a marathon of fevered, animalistic sex would pacify me.
At that moment, the sexual energy that Graham had unleashed in me felt like both a blessing and a curse. I was thrilled to know I wasn’t sexually dead, like I had been during my marriage. But all that concentrated energy seemed to be pooling and leaking into my brain; it was taking on a life force of its own, and I didn’t know what to do with it.
My thoughts jumped impatiently to Hali and her new lover, Josh. Soon after their accidental meeting in the bar, she’d taken him to bed—despite the fact that she wasn’t very attracted to him, despite the fact that he wasn’t relationship potential. But Hali quickly recognized his other merits: he stroked her ego and made her feel good about her body. Moreover, he was well endowed
regularly supplied her with sensational orgasms.
I was happy for her. Taking another lover after thirteen years of marriage was a huge deal. But I was also envious. Here she was, barely two months postpartum, having only dated for a couple of weeks, and already “getting some.” No, not “some”—she was getting
. Cal and I had sex only three times, I hadn’t orgasmed at all, and he had a penis the size of a thumb. Why was this taking so long for me? Why did I have so many rules and expectations—of me
the men I dated?
I so rarely get time off to myself, I’m sure as heck not going to waste it,
I thought determinedly, as I picked up the phone and called my longtime friend Patty.
Patty was my older totally striking single girlfriend. I didn’t know her exact age, but I’d wager somewhere in her midfifties, even though she looked ten years younger. Petite, exotic looking, with ample breasts, she made men, young and old, do triple takes when she walked into a room.
“Hey, Delaine!” she said warmly. “How
“Not good, Patty. I need your help.”
I explained my situation to her, no candy coating required. “I feel like I’m going crazy, Patty; sex is all I can think about. But I have all these
, these stupid, ridiculous rules in my head about what I should and shouldn’t do. But . . . today I’m feeling wild and irresponsible. I keep telling myself I need a
and it has to be with a man over thirty-five. But
it. Today I’m lifting the restrictions.”
“You want me to find you a young man,” she said matter-of-factly. “Yes!” I said, relieved that she got it. I felt emboldened. “I want a hot young man to come to my house, preferably one with a large penis, and have him screw the heck out of me. It’ll be a onetime thing only.”
WHAT? Have you lost your mind?
She laughed, but knowingly. “I know a guy who’d be
for you.” Give me a few minutes and I’ll phone you back.”
Half an hour later I was frantically pulling garments from my lingerie drawer—a hot twenty-seven-year-old was on his way over! What to wear? What do I feel sexy in? How does a woman even
I decided on a black, lacy bra and matching panties—simple, sophisticated, sexy. My breasts looked perky and full; tummy, relatively flat from not eating and smoking too many cigarettes last night
. I look good. I am a sexy woman. And unless he takes a close look at my skin, he’ll never know I have three kids. Hmm . . . hold on a second, if I end up on top he’s going to see saggy Momma Belly.
I quickly reached up and closed my window blinds to the max.
Wearing black stilettos and a short satin housecoat, I clip-clopped over to the bathroom mirror. Lips looked full, freckled skin clear and smudge-free, no boogers hanging out, dirty-blond hair curly and luxuriously long. I didn’t look like I was twenty-five—my crow’s feet made that impossible.
But I’m a damn good thirty-seven
, I said to myself. And I’m
to do this. Everyone in the world might call me a tramp right now, but I don’t care! They’re mistaken: I am a Woman Entitled.
But what about the kids’ rooms?
I clattered down my bungalow hallway and shut their bedroom doors, not before admonishing myself for their messiness.
Don’t think about that now!
Right now, I am not Delaine the Mom, I am Delaine the Vixen, the Seduction Goddess, a woman who demands and receives what she wants.
Back up the hall, I stood by the front door. I told him exactly what I wanted: that he was to just walk in; that he wasn’t to talk to me. I would be ready and waiting for him. No other details were required.
Oh, but I couldn’t stand THERE, it looked too contrived, and I felt like an idiot! I moved back a few steps, slightly around the corner.
What if he thinks I look fat? What if he thinks I look old? I’ll KNOW it—I’ll see it on his face.
Oh get a grip on yourself!
I screamed in my head.
You look hot, this entire scenario is hot, so step up, and for God’s sake, shut up!
I leaned against the wall, hearing only the sultry music of Fiona Apple coming from my bedroom and my heart hammering in my ears. The squeak of the doorknob turned; a tall, hunky, dark-haired man in blue jeans and T-shirt entered, looked around, and saw me: two strangers meeting for the first time. He quickly slipped off his shoes and took me in with his eyes. He walked toward me, a moment frozen in time. All that mattered was
Suddenly, his lips were on my ear: “You are
hot,” he whispered, his breath tickling my skin. Desire shot through me—ferocious, yearning. I placed my arms around his neck and felt his big hands slide under my housecoat across my naked back. I opened my body to him . . . and kissed him passionately.
Down the hall he carried me, my legs wrapped around his hips, our lips never parting. As we stood at the foot of my bed, I looked up into his unfamiliar face and thought,
Oh, he has a crooked nose.
But as he pulled off his shirt, my eyes beheld such yumminess that all conscious thinking was decimated by lust.
I have to admit, Yummy Stranger’s sexual skills were pretty novice. I had to take control and show him what to do, especially to achieve the orgasm I desperately wanted. He knew where to find my clit with his fingers, but the motion, the pressure he applied, was way off. I reached down and began guiding his hand with my own, whispering and directing him with my words and moans. Moreover, not to dwell on this point—or this part of a man’s anatomy—but his penis was on the small size, too.
penis size and shape matter? Ask ten different women and you might get ten different answers, including: “What a shallow thing to ask.”
honest answer is, “Maybe . . . still under investigation!” I’d never realized before how different men are in terms of size and aesthetics. I’d experienced numerous partners before getting married, but back then, I was so preoccupied with the emotional side of sex, that I didn’t dare analyze the merits or shortcomings of my partner’s tackle. All I knew was that today, had Yummy Stranger been well- and beautifully-endowed, I would have been
Morally right or wrong, I think I had a new appreciation developing.
Once Yummy Stranger and I finished and we lay in my joyfully disheveled bed, catching our breaths, I felt rather awkward. I’d just gotten naked with someone I knew nothing about.
Good manners prompted me to start making casual conversation,
but then I stopped. Truly, why bother? Instead, I laughed and said, “Thanks, that was fun. Hope you enjoy the rest of your day.” He quickly took his cue to get up, get dressed, and get out. I didn’t even walk him to the door.
Did I just treat him disrespectfully? Was that rude? Mean? Degrading?
I decided. I had been honest from the get-go about what I wanted. We had fulfilled our deal and then it was over. Like I tell my kids at a playdate, “Every playdate has a beginning and an end. When the end comes, put on your jacket, say thank you, and go home.” My afternoon rendezvous was an “adult playdate”—I expected no tantrums or upset feelings, thanks very much.
Still, I marveled at how I felt no need to cuddle or get to know him. He was just a scrumptious, young body. I felt and wanted no mental or emotional connection with him. I didn’t want to talk to him and explain why I had invited him over. I didn’t want to justify or explain
to him. Why should I? He would never know or understand me. He was simply the character in my fantasy. Yes, this was a fantasy.
I thought with relish, smiling
, he was lucky to have been a part of it.
How many young men only dream of spending an impromptu afternoon of uninhibited sex with a sexy, older woman?
I rolled over on my side and closed my eyes. My pillow felt so comfy . . . I was glad to be cuddling with it and not him. Postorgasm fatigue descended on me.
THE NEXT DAY, I felt downright giddy about my illicit afternoon. Maybe
great. Was my behavior slutty? Was it but one more sign that my life, my character, was spiraling hellward fast? Did I need to be slapped, thrashed, or verbally dragged back across the border to Good Girl Land?
These were questions for the girlfriends. But
girlfriends. Only the most nonjudgmental and liberated. But Hali, my first
choice, was busy with her kids. Who else might be free for a weekend powwow lunch?
As I mentally scanned through my “mom friends”—the ones I saw regularly in my community—my mind drifted to a recent gathering we’d shared at a local pub. That night, all the ladies had expressed both concern and curiosity over my transition to single life. I didn’t tell them very much. I did tell them about Cal, the hockey defenseman, minus all the (small penis) details, of course. And I told them about the wacky world of online dating and how I’d met “a few” men off there for coffee. My mom friends listened
attentively. And whenever I stopped talking, someone would quickly insert another dating question. When the questions finally stopped, an intense dead air loomed above the table.
“I just don’t know what else to talk about,” my friend Diane finally exhaled. “Our lives just sound so boring.”
I realized that night that I was experiencing something beyond these ladies’ reference frame. They were all still married and focused on their careers and families. The entire time I spoke at our table, a voice kept whispering in my ear,
Be careful what you say. They care about you, but they don’t understand, and they are JUDGING you.
Ultimately, I believed the scope of people’s empathy and support did, in large part, stem from their own personal experiences. And let’s face it, experience—a casual, afternoon romp with a yummy young stranger—wasn’t one many women my age would relate to. Especially my married mom friends. They’d probably downright disapprove. Yet I totally understood why: My current escapades simply did not blend with their family-oriented looking glass on life; they contradicted it. Insulted it. Maybe even tested it. I just knew I had to be careful who I told about my experiences. One wrong set of ears, and I’d be headline news on the school playground.
Luckily, my close and longtime non-mom friends, Tory and her sister, Shiloh, were free for an impromptu tête-à-tête. I blurted out my entire story, no censorship required, before the waitress even served our drinks.
“I think your rendezvous sounds empowering,” Tory said, matter-of-factly.
“Honestly? You don’t think I should feel guilty?”
“Delaine, you had sex on
terms,” she said firmly. “You’re a grown woman and you’re entitled to some fun. Your story actually reminds me of the wild things I did when I was dating years ago.”
I watched as Tory dropped her chin and giggled, blue eyes peering up through her bob-cut blond hair. She continued: “I remember once, when I was twenty, I went to pick up my boyfriend at the train station wearing nothing but a trench coat and high heels. It was so exciting to walk around at the train station knowing I was naked underneath, knowing I would blow his mind. But then his train was two hours late.
it was minus-thirty outside. I darn near froze my butt off!”