The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom

by Moore, Delaine

  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 lik
e 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.

  Thank God no one saw me!

  CHAPTER 4

  FRIENDS IN NEED

  “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.

  At three months pregnant, Hali discovered that her husband, Paul, was having an affair. She’d accidentally stumbled across a peculiar email, and when she casually approached him about it, he crumbled instantly. In tears, his rugged chin down, he begged her to understand that he was in love with this other woman. He believed they were “soul mates”; how could he walk away from her, the “love of his life”? He was just “so confused and lost. Couldn’t she see that? Where was her compassion?” And with that, he abandoned his stunned, horrified, pregnant wife and four-year-old son to go “find himself”—and his girlfriend.

  As Hali dealt with the aftermath of betrayal—not sleeping, not eating, emotionally floundering and flailing—I was there for her. I babysat her son whenever possible to give her time to rest and grieve. I listened when she called, teary, at 2:00 AM, needing courage and compassion and commiseration. Even though I was still seeing Graham at the time, I understood her. I’d gone through it with Robert. Little did I know that in a few months, I’d be in her shoes—again—and while the irony was not lost on me that I was “the other woman,” Hali never judged me. It helped that both Graham’s marriage and my own had ended, if not literally, then emotionally. Hali and I each, in our separate and similar ways, understood the scorching pain of deceit and heartbreak. We were both forced to sift through the ashes of our family dreams for a new foundation. Life was tough. We couldn’t have needed each other more.

  Despite it all, Hali not only “got through” the next six months of her pregnancy, she did so with a toughness and determination that belied her inner despair. She immediately began hashing through the legalities of their separation, moved into their just-completed dream house without him, constructed new dreams as a single mom-to-be of two children, and planned a home birth. I admired her deeply. In my eyes, she was the embodiment of a powerful woman.

  Hali’s shower was a marvelous success. I’m not sure which was stronger: Hali’s glow or the amount of warmth and laughter in her house. Either way, I knew she was basking in and absorbing the loving energy we’d created. So, too, were the freshly painted walls of her brand new, albeit single-mom, home.

  “I’VE BEEN FEELING kind of funny all morning,” said Hali, gently rubbing her giant belly. “I kind of think today might be the day.”

  We were sitting in the shopping mall food court having lunch. She was due any day, so I packed the kids in the minivan and joined her on a last-minute foray for baby gear. As we sat finishing our lunches, we kept an eye on the kids as they monkeyed in the atrium.

  I looked at Hali closely. She looked radiant.

  “Yep. You’re ready,” I concluded.

  “I am,” she said, patting her belly and smiling. “I am ready to meet my daughter.

  “You know what Delaine?” she continued, picking at her salad. “As exciting as it is that I’ll soon meet my daughter, I also can’t wait to get back out there and start dating again.” She leaned in conspiratorially, looking around to make sure no one was listening. “I really want to have sex again. I mean seriously, it’s been a long six months.”

  “I know it has,” I said laughing. “Remember how you wanted to go speed dating when you first found out about Paul’s affair? You were three months pregnant, for God’s sake!”

  “Crazy,
eh?” she laughed. “But I wanted to do it while I could still hide my pregnancy.”

  I shook my head, “That is crazy, hon. I’m glad you didn’t do it.”

  She smiled, but her eyes suddenly turned more serious. “It just hasn’t been fair. Paul freely spent these past six months feeling giddy-in-love with someone new, while I was left to pick up the pieces, look after the kids, and go through all of this alone. I’ve wanted so badly to lean on another man, to have someone tell me I’m desirable and lovable. But instead I’ve had to give that comfort to myself. Hell, I couldn’t even turn to alcohol or smoking to make me feel better!”

  I listened, seeing the weight of her burdens and loneliness shift across her face.

  “I know all this was supposed to make me stronger,” she continued, raising her chin. “It has made me stronger, but I swear to God,” she added passionately, “as soon as the midwives give me the thumbs up, I’m going to find me a well-hung man and screw the hell out of him!”

  I laughed, full bellied, at the powerful irony of what she’d just said. Visions of happily married pregnant moms gasping raced through my mind.

  “So what’s happening with you and Cal?” she asked.

  Despite my post-sex dramatics, Cal did contact me again, and we’d met up afterward for a few more sweaty trysts.

  “I like him. He’s a nice guy,” I said, shrugging. “But I just don’t see it going anywhere.”

  “Why does it have to go anywhere? The sex is good, isn’t it?”