Confused, I asked Hali what her and her husband, Paul’s, sex life was like. They’d been married ten years at the time, so the honeymoon phase was certainly over. I figured her reality would be pretty representative of mine.
When I asked her, at first she laughed. We were sitting in my bright cluttered kitchen, our toddlers running rampant through the house. As always, she looked fresh and eye-catchingly pretty, her naturally blonde pixie cut flattering her delicate features and blue eyes. But underneath her ultrafeminine exterior lay a kind but no-bullshit woman, one who had an opinion and was more than ready to offer it up. When we’d first met ten years earlier, neither one of us much liked the other: She thought me a rather free-spirited “hippie,” and I found her uncomfortably frank, which, at the time, made her seem harsh around the edges. But we openly laughed about that now. I think our differences helped cement our friendship because we saw something in each other that we needed in ourselves.
“No, I’m serious, Hali,” I said, laughing too.
“Okay, okay, D,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Let’s see, I’d say it’s predictable, but okay. Nothing to write home about. I get into it once I get going.” She paused, tilted her head. “Actually, whenever I have a great orgasm I think, ‘why don’t we do this more often?’ But my problem is getting to the point where I want to get going: I’m tired, I feel fat, he has bad breathe, whatever. Suddenly, I’ll realize we haven’t had sex in a month.”
“But what about when he approaches you and you’re not in the mood? Do you feel guilty if you say no?” I picked at a bowl of grapes, which the kids had already attacked. The few stragglers were overripe. I popped them in my mouth absentmindedly as I listened to Hali’s answer.
“Not really. I mean, if he needs it that bad he can go do his thing in the bathroom,” she said dryly.
I laughed so hard, I nearly shot grape skin out my nose.
“But is that fair?” I pressed further. “I mean, aren’t we supposed to make the extra effort out of respect to our husbands? Chances are we’re not always going to be in the mood at the same time.”
“I see what you mean,” she replied, taking a moment to think. “Actually . . . yeah, I sometimes do have sex more for him than me. But like I said, once we get going, I usually get into it.”
I FOUND SOLACE in knowing other people’s sex lives weren’t perfect either. Marriage will always present us with one challenge or another, I thought, with resignation. I just needed to hang tough, focus on my blessings, and stay true to the course.
And that’s when I made a dangerous choice: To keep the peace between Robert and me, I would simply give in. Yield. Detach. Pretend . . .
Oh, he’s looking at your face—smile! Make your eyes look alive.
Offer him a blowjob, then at least you can plan your day or week in the interim.
Stare at that little crack again in the ceiling. Imagine floating up there . . .
And so on.
Once I started pretending, my sex drive never came back. Even though we went on to have two more children, and even though I believed I loved Robert, I simply tolerated having sex with him.
After his affair, as we worked with a counselor, I silently, anxiously, hoped that my sexual passion would reignite, that all this would bring us closer together and be the catalyst to renewed passion. Two months passed; nothing. Then three . . . four . . . five. Still, I felt absolutely no desire. But I knew I couldn’t expect him to wait forever. He’s trying so hard to be a better husband and dad. He deserves to have sex again, I reasoned. The problem really is mine.
So one night, I decided it was time. I mustered my courage, carefully dressed up in something lacy and seductive, and served myself to him like a plate of chicken.
He loved it. I felt nothing.
As we moved toward the one year mark of his affair, I resigned myself to thinking I would never enjoy sex again. For the rest of my life, it would be something to “get over with.” I told myself I didn’t need to enjoy sex. It was overrated and there were other, more important things, like keeping my family together. In fact, I imagined many of my foremothers had felt the same way. In my mind’s eye, I’d see a farm wife falling exhausted into bed after an eighteen-hour day of chores and caring for her ten kids . . . only to be awoken, yet again, by her husband’s calloused fingers under her bed dress. This was all just a part of marriage. A part of life. Besides, look how happy having sex made him—I’d literally find him whistling around the house, more than willing to do chores. And he was kinder, less harsh. Giving him my body seemed like such a small price to pay.
AROUND THIS TIME, a terrible pain in my hip appeared out of nowhere. It was interfering with my sleep and growing worse by the week. Thus, almost one year after Robert’s affair, I began twice-weekly treatments with a highly reputed acupuncturist named Graham, a tall, lean, Zen-looking man with unkempt dark hair and gentle eyes. From the moment I met him in the waiting room, I felt at ease by his warm smile and calm presence.
One day, as he worked on my hip in a session, I suddenly found myself crying. “My God, this is so embarrassing,” I apologized, as he quickly offered me a tissue. “Watching the leaves fall, Halloween just around the corner—they remind me of painful events from last year.”
Graham rolled his stool close to me and sat down, like he was fully prepared to listen to what I had to say. I could feel his presence, his attention, his kind brown eyes upon me. No pressure . . . no conditions. Just his powerfully gentle care.
The words poured from my mouth like blood out of a fresh wound. I told him of Robert’s betrayal, every detail. And as I told my story to Graham—who, despite all logic, felt like a trusted longtime friend—I wept like a grief-stricken child.
A dozen tissues later, I finally composed myself. “I’m really sorry to make such a scene,” I said self-consciously. “I don’t understand why this had to come out today, or here in your office.”
Graham looked upward for a moment, as if gathering his words from some otherworldly source. “The body never lies, Delaine,” he said, his soft baritone voice full of compassion. “Our bodies know and feel our truth, even when our minds aren’t there yet. You suffered tremendously, and your pain has manifested in your body. It needed to come out. Today’s session just triggered it.”
That night as I lay in bed, my body felt exhausted, yet lighter. It was as if I’d released something, and in its place was a serene weariness.
But then Robert came into the bedroom.
Immediately, I tensed from head to toe. I lay still, pretending to sleep. He crawled into bed and rolled over on to his side. I listened to his breathing, lying motionless, frozen, until I could tell he was asleep.
As I stared at the ceiling, Graham’s words came back to me: “The body never lies . . .”
OVER THE NEXT few months of treatment with Graham, my body began telling me something else: I was intensely attracted to him. No, it wasn’t just because of his lean runner’s body and dark, chiseled features; I swear I hardly even noticed his good looks when we first met. My attraction grew slowly, innocently, out of the conversations we shared. His mind, his energy, his sensitivity crept into known and unknown places within me . . . and filled them with light. He never crossed any professional lines, but sometimes, sometimes . . . during breaks in our conversations, he’d look down at me, and our eyes would meet and hold. I could swear I saw equal desire reflected back in his.
I tried to fight my feelings. I minimized them, denied them, even berated myself for them. But he was so different from Robert—a complete and total opposite. Side by side, they were like New Age Healer and an Old School Brute. Graham was expressive and attentive; he showed his strength through acts and words of gentleness. Robert, on the other hand, was crass and domineering, more apt to down a bottle of whisky or pull a wheelie on his motorcycle to prove his manhood. Mentally, I could connect with Graham with such ease; I marveled at how a thirty-minute session could pass so quickly, especially when someone
was poking me with needles. And the fact that he, too, was adrift in a failing marriage with an emotionally distant wife, clinging to the hope that it might someday turn a corner for the sake of his three kids, was yet one more thing we had in common.
I struggled with my feelings constantly, torn between fantasy and reality, truth and deceit, right and wrong. I knew I should stop seeing him as my therapist and firmly walk away, but I simply couldn’t fight it; I didn’t want to fight it. And in a flash, I understood the roots of Robert’s indiscretion.
We arranged our first rendezvous at a hotel close by. I was drunk on two glasses of wine when he arrived, and he looked around so conspicuously, that I was sure the front desk clerk must have known. We knew we were crossing a formidable moral line, one that carried a dangerous price tag if we were caught. Still, we proceeded. We had no future expectations of one another, no promises, only the mutual need to be together this one time.
Ah, but to finally be alone together—to finally allow the flesh to express the connection that had grown between us for months. We stood before one another kissing long and tenderly. God how I’d ached for this. How I’d longed to feel his arms around me, his lean chest pressing against mine.
Yet he was trembling; his entire six-foot-three frame was visibly shaking. “I’m sorry,” he offered softy, his dark eyes beseeching mine. “I want to do this, I really want you, Delaine. It’s just such a big step.”
“Shhh, it’s okay,” I replied, looking up at him. “I’m really nervous too . . .” And with our admissions came laughter: “Boy, aren’t we the most pathetic pair of cheaters,” he grinned. And with laughter, the pressure seemingly disappeared; for when he reached down to kiss me again, there was no more shaking, only the undeniable presence of his passion.
And I allowed him to take the lead. I allowed him to bring me across that line with him. Because I wanted him; my body wanted him.
One night would never be enough.
MY SEX DRIVE exploded back like a neutron hitting plutonium. Who is this woman? I laughed at myself. My body craved sex so intensely and frequently it baffled me. Just the mere thought of Graham filled me with longing, an ache that surged deep inside my pelvis and stretched up to my heart.
Not only was I enjoying sex again, all the creative energies associated with my sex chakra were streaming throughout my being: Vibrancy! Effervescence! Passion! I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d felt such things! I mean, it wasn’t that my life as Robert’s wife didn’t make me feel “happy.” It just felt more along the lines of . . . contentedness. Not bad, not good. Just “content.” Or was it complacency?
However I labeled it, I believed my feelings were par for the marriage course—that as the banality of life settled in, as I assumed it did in most marriages, the arc of passion and magic fell away. This was all part of the natural order of things. I’d developed such beliefs in order to normalize what I was experiencing—or maybe endure it, I don’t know. But I thought my ultimate job, my marital duty, was to appreciate what I did have, put honor and society’s morality code above all else, and trust that over time mine and my husband’s virtuous behavior would translate into “happily ever after.” I bought the marriage sacrament hook, line, and sinker. It didn’t occur to me that it could be any different.
But now, my passion was back. My dull, mediocre existence was dancing in color, a full-blown sensory experience painted with pleasure and beauty. And that’s when my inspired energy met opportunity: Out of the blue, I decided to create my own Internet business. “Pregnant Soul,” in how I dreamed it, would be unlike any other pregnancy site: it would take the emphasis off the physical journey of pregnancy and focus on nurturing the mother in the making.
My new business venture meant the world to me—not just for the creative outlet it provided, but for the new self-image it was birthing. I’d been out of the workforce for seven years, and my self-confidence was shaky at best. Maybe there was a smart, dynamic business woman lurking beneath my Supermom attire. My creative energies, now channeled into a goal, fuelled me with a new purpose in life.
As months slowly folded into a year, there came the day when I knew I was in love with Graham. I was peacefully snuggled up on his chest after having made love. The room was completely silent beside the sound of his heartbeat. Then he spoke.
“You are like a beautiful butterfly, Delaine,” he said softly. “One that was trapped in her cocoon for a very long time . . .” He was stroking my hair as we talked, and I felt such tenderness, something I hadn’t ever truly felt with Robert. “I’ve watched you transform these past months we’ve been together... I’ve watched you grow these exquisite, colorful wings. All you needed was a bit more time and someone to really love you.”
My throat closed. I pressed my face deeper into his chest, as my heart absorbed the beauty of his words. Gently, he continued: “Now the question is: Does she believe she can fly? She can, you know. She just needs to trust and believe . . . in herself.”
He lifted my face to his and kissed me.
In that brief moment, I realized I never wanted to be apart from this man; that we connected—mind, body, and soul—in a way Robert and I never had and never would. This was not some foolhardy, childish romance, I told myself. Nor was it just a sexually driven affair. To me, it was the real thing—kindred love; yin and yang, on all levels. And I believed Graham felt the same.
But of course, things couldn’t go on as they were forever. The bottom line was that Graham and I were still married to other people. I was doing what Robert had done, even though I justified it by love. We were committing adultery, and choices inevitably had to be made. But first I needed to stop running. I needed to face off with two scary questions that had chased me for years; questions that were being posed by a most mistrusted source: my body. Why do you dislike having sex with your husband, Delaine? And could it ever change for the better?
I’d always tried to blame our sexual disconnection on me—my hormones, my feeling fat, my being pregnant, my being selfish. But now my body was standing firm and calling bullshit.
Flashback: I am on my knees in front of the toilet bowl, three months pregnant with our first child. I have just thrown up for the sixth time that day. Suddenly, movement at the bathroom door catches my eye.
He is standing there.
Naked.
Touching himself.
“Are you done yet?” he asks impatiently. “C’mon baby—let’s get it on!”
My stomach lurches. Tears fill my eyes. “I’ll be there in a second,” I say, looking down. I pull myself up off the floor, brush my teeth, and proceed to our bedroom to fulfill my “wifely duty.”
My body boiled with rage at the memory. How dare he have demanded sex when I was sick as a dog from carrying his child? Then my anger surged back at me: Why didn’t you just damn well say no? You enabled it, Delaine! Not just once but over and over and over again!
Flashback: We’d just finished having sex and I am lying in bed, watching him dress. An “aha” question suddenly hits me: “Robert,” I ask, sitting up. “Do you enjoy having so much sex because it makes you feel close to me?”
He looks at me funny, then continues putting on his socks.
“I’m serious,” I say, leaning in. “Have you ever wondered if it’s through sex that you feel most connected to me? Maybe it’s the primary way you show love?”
He pauses for a moment, then laughs: “Nah. I just need to get off.”
There it was. In his own words: “I just need to get off.” But did I hear him? Did I listen? No. Instead I chose to psychoanalyze him, me, us: “It’s a Mars/Venus thing” or “It’s just a stage in marriage” or “It’s a case of mismatched sex drives.” How about, “Your husband doesn’t respect you, Delaine . . . and neither do you.”
I’d always tried to have a positive outlook and focus on the good things about Robert and our relationship beyond the bedroom. But they didn’t erase his Dark Side—a side I’d chosen to make excuses
for in the name of love, and family.
He’s younger than me and more immature. He’ll eventually grow up . . .
He doesn’t know how to communicate because no one in his family can . . .
He doesn’t really mean it when he says those things . . .
I maintained that his criticisms never hurt me, even though virtually nothing was off-limits to his attacks: my cooking, my friends, my family, my competence, my parenting skills, my appearance. I can take it, I would tell myself. I’m just more self-aware than he is, but he’ll get there.
Of course, I was lying to myself. Over time, the negative bombardment had silently chipped away at my soul and my body—those restless dreams, the unexplained muscle pains, the heaviness in my chest, and yes, the absence of sexual desire. Underneath my skin I felt squashed. Belittled. Unheard. At some point or another, I’d started convincing myself I was happy, instead of facing the truth: I was living in denial and subsisting off of self-told lies.
The body never lies. Such poignancy in those words now. My sexual self had literally closed to Robert as a means of self-protection. My body had learned long ago what my mind and heart had been unprepared to acknowledge: My marriage was severely broken. And Robert’s infidelity had yielded the final blow.
Even though I had forgiven him, even though I could still laugh and carry on a conversation with him, that was as far as I could extend it. My body had had enough. I knew I would never feel special with him, a feeling I wanted, needed, and deserved. Moreover, I knew such a feeling was possible because I believed in soul mates, and the universe had reunited me with Graham.
“I TOLD ROBERT I want a divorce,” I said to Graham the day after it happened. It was a cold December day and we’d snuck away to share tea at a coffee shop.
The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom Page 2