I wondered: Did I just treat him disrespectfully? Was that rude? Mean? Degrading?
No, 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 anything 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. And really, 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 too 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 select 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 very 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 your 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. And it was minus-thirty outside. I darn near froze my butt off!”
As we laughed, I could easily picture Tory doing such a thing. We’d lived together for a while back in our twenties, and let’s just say the wall between our bedrooms was a little thin. On the outside, she came across as being sweet and innocent, and I’d watched men flock to her like bears on honey. But behind closed doors, a hungry tigress was unleashed. Guys must have thought they’d died and gone to heaven. Now, at thirty-eight, successful in her career, comfortable in her own skin and happily married, I trusted and respected her deeply.
“I did some pretty wild sexy things when I was younger too,” I reflected. “But there’s a big difference between what I did back then versus what I did yesterday.” Tory looked at me attentively. “Those sexy scenarios from my younger days were mainly designed to please the man. On some level, sure, I was having fun too. But ultimately, I was using my sexual prowess as a weapon: to win him, to keep him, to make him love me. It came from a place of insecurity.
“But yesterday’s meeting was not about him, not in the least. Sure, I wanted him to have fun too, but my primary objective was to satisfy myself. I decided I wanted sex, I decided where, how and with whom, and I felt mentally and emotionally entitled to have it as I pleased.”
It felt good to admit this, to own up to my newfound conviction, which felt fresh and liberating. It was a good feeling—no, not just good. Great.
“I get you,” Tory said thoughtfully. “There is a big difference. It was mainly about the man back then. How many times did we put up with men being selfish in bed? How many times did they orgasm and we didn’t? And we just accepted it. We women are trained to be so darn polite.”
“And how many times in the aftermath did they not want to cuddle or spend the night like we wanted?” I added. “That’s why it felt kind of good to push him out the door. It felt like role reversal.”
I paused as the waitress served our food. “In a way, the whole thing almost feels imagined now. It was like some wild persona came over me; I was me . . . and yet, I wasn’t me.” I shook my head trying to understand. “I keep thinking I should feel bad about myself for what I did. I almost WANT to feel bad about myself so that I’ll know I have some morals. But the truth is, every time I think of it, I can’t stop smiling.”
“Well I think you have every right to smile,” Shiloh piped in, having listened quietly up until now.
Tory laughed. “Of course you do! You’re having sex with two different guys.”
“You are?” I said with surprise. I still thought of Shiloh as being so young and innocent, even though she was twenty-five. It seemed like just yesterday she was fifteen and telling me about losing her virginity. Now, as I gazed at this poised, dark-eyed woman across from me, I realized it was time to get current. “How did this happen?” I asked. “Do they know about each other?”
“No. I met them off a dating site, too,” Shiloh said, pushing strands of her long, curly hair away from her face. “Until the ‘exclusivity’ conversation comes up, you’re free to date and have sex with whomever you please.”
I was flabbergasted. I thought my generation of women was sexually liberated, yet here she was already doing what I’d never done before.
“That’s the way it works today,” Shiloh explained. “So I have one guy who I enjoy spending time with—he’s really sweet and the sex is okay. And one other guy—Rocko (laugh)—who I call just for wild, passionate sex.”
Tory, seeing the shocked look on my face, jumped in: “Dating has changed a lot since we were younger, Delaine. I hear Shiloh’s stories and one thing’s for sure, things move a lot faster than they did before. The rules are whatever you make them.�
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OUTSIDE THE RESTAURANT, I had just said goodbye to the girls when I remembered I owed Tory money for a girls’ trip to Las Vegas she was organizing. I caught up to her on the sidewalk, gave her a check and another hug goodbye.
Vegas. I couldn’t believe it. It was the ultimate fabulous cliché trip for any group of women to take, and I couldn’t be more delighted. A couple of months after the Graham bomb went off, I kept feeling the need to get away; escape. “How about Vegas?” I threw out to my girlfriends one afternoon, when we’d met for lunch. “I’ve never been there before. Anyone want to come?” I crossed my fingers that one or two would be free; we’d tried to organize such trips in the past, but careers, kids, or some life variable always choked our plans. It seemed that once women got to a “certain age,” getaways were reserved for partners, spouses, and kids, not girlfriends (unless you counted weekend scrapbook parties, which I didn’t). But for this trip, to my surprise and absolute delight, the timing for everyone was perfect, and a gang of seven gals had committed to go in November, just four months away.
As I strolled down the street to my minivan, with the midsummer sun warming my face, I felt exhilarated. Another twenty-four hours without kids still stretched before me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had lunch or hung out with my girlfriends on a Sunday afternoon. For seven years, I’d spent virtually every weekend running around catering to my kids and their activities. And usually I’d done it alone, since Robert was often out of town.
I passed by patio cafes and noticed all the adults hanging out—talking, eating, people-watching. So this is what childless adults do with their time on weekends. I couldn’t stop smiling. I’m like you, I called to them in my mind. It’s just for today, but look, I’m enjoying a nice Sunday afternoon down here too! I even noticed a few men checking me out. I wondered if any men had looked at me these past years . . . Not that I’d been aware of. I’d always been too preoccupied, pushing a stroller, holding kids’ hands, and getting from point A to point B without losing a child or my sanity.
As I climbed into my minivan and started it up, I remembered the new CDs Tory had gifted me at lunch. I loaded them into my player and Fergie’s “Big Girls Don’t Cry” began to play. I pulled out of the parking lot, speakers cranked up high. As I sang along and shoulder-shimmied in my seat, I realized other drivers and pedestrians were looking at my car. That’s right guys, I thought with a smile. That loud dance music you hear is coming from a MINIVAN.
CHAPTER 6
STAY-AT-HOME MOM MEETS A DOM
I LOGGED ONTO THE DATING website with new resolve. I’d made a decision: to eliminate the over-thirty-five age restriction I’d imposed. Surely there was no harm in seeing what the younger men had to say.
Within two hours I was flipping through so much new mail, I couldn’t keep track of which young man was which. I wondered: Did younger men secretly fantasize about being with an older woman? Did they actually believe they would have anything in common with me, or were they strictly sexually curious? I had heard the term “cougar” before, which in my book, I am not—I hate the word. And I had recently learned that “MILF” stood for Mother I’d Like to Fuck (how endearing). Is that how these younger men saw me? Should I be flattered or appalled?
Some of their emails were so blatantly immature, I laughed out loud: “Hey baby, how YOU doin’?” “You are so HOT!!!!” or “Holy MILF?!” Most of their profiles were clones: they liked to “hang with friends,” “go to the gym,” and they were looking for some “fun.” Their photo galleries commonly showed them with a beer bottle in hand, standing in a lineup of intoxicated friends.
I enjoyed the attention though, and I wrote and chatted to a few. I had no intention of pursuing any of them seriously; this was just harmless play.
It was 1:00 AM. I was getting bored but not tired. My eyes kept returning to an advertisement in the corner of the screen. It boasted to be a site for millionaire men and gorgeous women—“Sugar Daddies” (cue eyes rolling), and “Sugar Babes” (good God!). On a whim, I clicked on the link.
Surprisingly, it didn’t look too shoddy. In fact, the site itself was professionally presented and their mission statement, which focused on coupling attractive, educated, and like-minded men and women, actually made sense to me. Maybe it would weed out the riff-raff?
I was feeling feisty, so I signed up. I revised my current profile and uploaded it with a few of my best photos. They paled in comparison to other women’s photos; many had professional modeling shots. But why not try it out? It could prove entertaining at the very least.
An hour later, my profile was approved and I was officially a new “Sugar Babe” (eyes still rolling). It was late and time for bed. Yawning, I went to click out of email when a “new mail” icon flashed on my screen. I quickly opened the message:I certainly enjoyed your profile. Please review mine and if it intrigues you, instead of making you run away screaming, please contact me . . .
The Duke
The Duke? PU-leeze. I clicked on his profile:I’m a Dominant alpha male with two basic kinks (and a zillion small ones). First, I am very attracted to strong, confident, Dominant women—the “alpha females”—and I like them to be sexually submissive to me. I like a lioness that desires the intimate company of a lion.
The second thing is even kinkier. I like helping to create “monsters”—powerful, take-no-shit, demanding women who want to rule submissive or beta males for sport. I’ve been involved with a number of women whom I helped find and express their full alpha-femaleness through exerting their power over men . . . and I found it very satisfying.
So if you are a top-shelf alpha female not afraid of the work needed to be a woman like that, or the responsibilities in that (it’s a sin for a nimrod male to take advantage of an alpha female), and you are looking for a partner/mentor to support you in pursuing your alpha dreams, then let me know. (If you are bi, that would also be very nice.)
Besides the company of confident, fun women, other interests include art, classic movies, and investing.
Wow. I reread his profile. Wow again.
I didn’t really understand what he meant by Dominant/submissive. But for some reason, I was drawn to his words. He seemed confident and strong and, well . . . experienced. I wondered what it would be like to hang out with someone like him—inside and outside the bedroom.
Suddenly, my inner voice shrieked: Are you crazy? He’s probably some freak who’s into leather and whips! Visions of a skinhead wearing a studded collar and a sinister grin flashed through my mind.
“Oh relax,” I grumbled and rolled my eyes. Seriously, if I took an objective, nonhysterical look at his profile, his writing suggested a man who was well educated and who possessed a strong respect for women. In fact, it sounded like he wanted to empower women.
My eyes moved to his photo at the side of the page. His head was cropped off, but I could tell that he was a large, heavily built man. My “headless” admirer stood with his hands on his waist, wearing jeans and a pastel green shirt with big white flowers on it. Okay, obviously not the best dresser, I grinned. And those bright-white running shoes should only be worn at the gym. Still, I felt intrigued. He had big hands, big arms, a thick waist; even his stance was strong, like a man who commanded attention.
I continued scouring his profile for other clues. It listed him as forty-eight years old; hmmm . . . a bit out of my age bracket . . . Ah, he’s six foot three—I was right, he is a big man . . . Jeepers, he lives in New York—that’s kind of far . . . His work is apparently “Internet-related,” which is kind of cool, because my business (which I’ve neglected terribly) is e-based. His annual income? More than one million USD. His net worth? Five to ten million USD.
I’m certainly not at all what one would call a “gold digger.” Money alone isn’t enough to interest me; I see it as more of a bonus. In fact, this past summer during my serial dating rampage, I’d met and rejected a few millionaires.
But still, my imagination wandered. At
this point in my life, I wanted to experience new things. And the idea of being treated like a queen by a successful, powerful man appealed to me. Yes, I grinned, I could enjoy being swept away on a few exotic trips. But more than that, I would enjoy having an intense mental connection with such a man. I envisioned myself waking up in a king-size bed in a penthouse somewhere, 600-thread-count Egyptian cotton caressing my skin, a sexy, ultra-intelligent man lying beside me. Oh my god, could I get any more cliché! I thought. But a woman’s allowed to have her daydreams—stay-at-home moms too! So what if I wasn’t a supermodel. I was smart enough and educated enough to keep any one of these guys on their toes,for a little while anyway.
I scoured his photograph one more time. This “Duke” guy could be a total cracker jack or an imposter. On the other hand, maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was authentic. A man of his thinking might make a good friend or mentor, maybe even a lover, though this Dominant/submissive stuff both scared and enticed me.
Since I was on a roll this weekend, why not see what was behind door number two?
So I wrote him back.
THE KIDS WERE in bed, fast asleep. Down in my office, I stared at the minute hand on my clock. After exchanging a few emails the past few days, I’d agreed to talk to The Duke by phone. Tonight. I was so nervous, I’d jotted down questions on a piece of paper. When the phone rang at precisely 9:00 PM, I knew it was him. But I let it ring four times to seem less eager.
“Is this Delaine?” asked a deep voice.
“Yes, it is. Hello Duke, how are you?” I asked, trying to sound calm and confidant.
“Very well. Let’s begin by answering some of your questions, shall we?”
Shocked, I hid the paper behind my back. Huh?
The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom Page 6