“You said in your email you didn’t understand what I meant by Dominant and submissive. So let’s start there.”
“Oh. Yes. Sounds good,” I replied, whacking my palm against my temple. God, I’m such an ass!
Immediately he explained that he wasn’t into whips and chains and sadomasochism Phew. His interest, he said, lay more on the “mental side” of domination, though at times, he might also include physical elements such as teasing and spanking. “Before we even went into the bedroom, I might grab you by the hair, look you straight in the eyes, and tell you that you are going to do everything I want,” he said, his voice deep and matter-of-fact in my ear. “And you would submit to me . . . Because you respected me. And because you know I’m worthy.”
“Being submissive to an alpha male does not make you a weakling or a doormat,” he clarified. “Alpha females are very capable, confident, strong-minded women who normally have a dozen things on the go. But some part of them wants to relinquish control; they want a strong alpha man to take charge and challenge them, because with that comes an intensity and creative connection unlike anything they could experience in a regular or ‘vanilla’ relationship.”
“There are many men out there pretending to be Dominants or alpha men,” he went on. “But in actuality, they are ‘beta men,’ who are riddled with insecurities. They may appear successful and self-assured on the exterior, but underneath they are ‘wannabes’: Their identities are locked into their accomplishments and they live in constant fear of being exposed. I’ve sat in many meetings with these kinds of men before. They’re easy to pick out. They’re either pompous and arrogant or complete ass-suckers. It often comes out in how they talk about women: They put them down, treat them like objects. It’s disgusting. I’ve had to sit there listening to them, all the while itching to punch them out.”
“The worst thing that can happen to an alpha woman is be in a relationship with a beta man,” he said with conviction. “He will bring her down, be jealous of her accomplishments, and consistently hold her back or sabotage her efforts, often unconsciously. This beta man doesn’t deserve her—and he may or may not know it.”
“A true alpha male,” he continued, “is one whose confidence comes from within. There’s no pretending, no need to be egotistical; he knows who he is. Often, these men are very successful and wealthy, but not always. Having money is certainly not proof alone of an alpha male,” he warned. “There are lots of super rich trust-fund babies out there who are ‘pathetic little boys with hard-ons.’ Conversely, there are also many rich men out there who are so accustomed to getting what they want that they in turn feel a need to be submissive. They want to hand over control, be humiliated, beg for sex, or whatever their fetish may be, because some part of them doesn’t want all that power.”
As I listened to Duke talk, I paced the room, the phone pressed to my ear. My mind raced to process his ideas. Some seemed overly simplistic and superficial to me. But some were alluring, and I felt my body respond to them. My brain rushed to filter my own life through his looking glass: Am I an alpha female? I thought about all I manage and had managed for years as a full-time mother of three young kids; pfft, that was a CEO position if I’d ever seen one. I thought back to all the moms groups and meditation groups I had pioneered, how I’d worked full-time pre-kids, while also attending school and starting my own counseling practice. Even all the overseas travelling and moving I did in my twenties were indicative of a woman who was ferociously independent and bold. I’d just never felt comfortable with the label “Type A” or “alpha” personality. To me, being a leader meant being perceived as a bitch. I’d rather be well-liked, but seen as self-sufficient.
My thoughts shifted to Robert: Is he an alpha male? Without knowing it, I think I judged him to be one when I’d dated him. I thought he’d stood out as the alpha leader of his pack of friends. From the outside he was strong, rugged, handsome; he exuded what I deemed to be the quintessence of masculinity. His personality ranged from being confident and gregarious—the life of the party—to being quiet and private, a man of few words. But did he “know” himself? Was he self-aware and secure in who he was? Not at all. I’d mistaken his masculine bravado for alphaness. And consequently, I had put myself at risk, trying to forge a meaningful relationship with someone who was both afraid and intimidated by my power; all his bullying and put-downs were meant to “keep me in my place.”
“So are you dating someone, Delaine?” the Duke was asking.
“Er—no,” I said pulling my thoughts back to the present. “I dated a hockey player a while back. But his penis was really small and well, the sex was lame.” I can’t believe I just said that to a man!
Duke’s response caught me off guard: “Being with a lame lover disrespects you, and I don’t like anyone disrespecting you, even you. I’d like to take you over my lap and spank you right now for this. I’d spank you, then grab you by the hair and look in your eyes and tell you that from now on you let no one disrespect you. If it happens, you have to answer to me. I don’t want you spreading your legs for ‘lame,’ got it?”
“I’m not making a habit of it!” I defended, wondering why I felt aroused by his verbal reprimands. “I’ve been out with a dozen men since him and I didn’t see any of them beyond a first date.” I paused. “Actually, I did consider one, but at the end of our date, he grabbed me, kissed me, and soaked my face.” I laughed.
“TWO things here,” he stated. I gripped the phone, waiting. “FIRST, this is the kind of guy you should have slapped or painfully squeezed his nuts. I’d give you another spanking right now if I could. Nobody takes from you without your permission. Allowing this to happen was a ‘bad Delaine’ moment. Get this: You are nobody’s doormat anymore. You got that?
“SECONDLY, regarding the other eleven men, you rejected them because they aren’t good enough for you. That’s good. No one should have a piece of you who doesn’t deserve it. It’s a sin. But the problem is, you’re becoming more and more sexually frustrated in the interim. You aren’t actually happy because your pussy isn’t getting what it wants. There’s a slut in you that is not being satisfied.”
My mouth flew open in shock. How dare he call me a slut! “A slut,” he explained, as if hearing my thoughts, “is a woman who likes to orgasm. Look it up. The current version. And you do like to orgasm. Don’t you.” It was a statement, not a question. Part of me wished I could slap him, yet another part roused in acknowledgement; no one had ever spoken to me like this before.
Then, for reasons unknown, I told him about my rendezvous with Yummy Stranger. He wasn’t appalled or shocked like most men would be. Instead, he responded matter-of-factly: “You can choose to use boy toys as you please. You’re allowed to have sex with whomever you choose. But, if you’d been smart, you’d have made him your ongoing submissive. What happens when next week you’re going stir crazy for sex again? You should have told him as he left that you would call him again when you wanted him.”
No way, I thought to myself. I really don’t want to see Yummy Stranger again. That afternoon was a fantasy unto itself and was done. But he was right: What do I do next weekend when I’m raging for sex again? I’m in the same boat as before.
Duke continued, “You always have three choices available to you: dominate, submit, or reject. That’s how relationships work. That’s how the world works.”
Is it really that cut and dry? I wondered. Is this something men know about, but women don’t? I couldn’t help but think of how easily I’d been walked on by Robert and Graham. Are men thinking in terms of power while women are buried up to their eyeballs in romance novels?
“Look Duke,” I finally said, “I think that what I need to do is get more in touch with my masculine side. I’m very in tune with my feminine side, and I’m proud of that. But at this point, I don’t think being more feminine will help me. I want to be more self-assured and aggressive at times. I want to take without apology when I’m rightfully entitled. I want to b
e mentally, emotionally tougher. I need the masculine.”
“Your sexuality will translate into your day-to-day life,” he told me. “There really is a domino effect. So much of the world is, at its core, about power, and sexual power is the rawest way to express that. Business is about dominance and submission, alpha and beta. Learn to appreciate your sexual power and the rest of the world comes in to better focus.”
I was fascinated to have attracted a man like The Duke into my life. Why not some regular, simple, local guy? Out of all the millions of people on the Internet, why did I attract him?
I don’t believe in coincidences; I believe there is a reason for everything that happens, and everyone we meet. Furthermore, I believe that “like energy” attracts “like energy,” and that energy knows no time or space; that whether we are in the Arctic or Peru, we are like powerful radars, constantly emitting our mental and emotional signals, and attracting the perfect people and situations into our lives.
Perhaps Internet dating is the most brilliant example of that energy at work. We refer to cyberspace as being but an “electronic domain,” but maybe it’s more real and intuitive than we think.
I imagined emails—the thoughts and feelings of millions of people—zooming above the planet, searching, scanning, and connecting perfectly with those of others. I thought about all the different men I’d attracted thus far from cyberspace: hockey fighter Cal and all my serial dates. I then imagined my emails, my energy, traveling across Canada and the United States and locking onto The Duke’s like an electromagnetic coupling.
Yes, attracting Duke was no accident. But I was kind of scared of him too. What if he really was a highly intelligent sociopath?
I laughed at myself: He lives far away, Delaine. It was a harmless phone call.
Besides, even if he is trying to brainwash me, I’m a smart lady. I’m wiser and more mistrustful than I’ve ever been in my life.
CHAPTER 7
RED LIGHT MEANS GO
MIDWEEK, HALI PHONED TO SAY she was going to check out a new lingerie shop that just opened, and would I like to join her? My knee-jerk response was to say no. I should be spending that time at home with my daughter and cleaning the house, as per usual. Bah! Live a little, Delaine, I suddenly thought. The floors could wait and Jenna could have a playdate at her friend’s house.
An hour later, Hali and I met in front of Miss Chiff’s Closet. I could tell by the mannequins in the window that this wasn’t Victoria’s Secret: On display were leather dresses and whips, a sexy maid costume, and high heels that even Barbie would gape at.
Problem was, the front doors were locked. The sign said it opened at 10:00 AM, and it was already ten after. Since Teah was asleep in her car seat and there was a coffee shop close by, we decided to grab a quick tea.
“So I’m a little surprised at this,” I said, after we’d settled in at a table with steaming mugs. “What made you want to check this place out?”
Hali smiled without an ounce of timidity, and shrugged. “I just checked out their website and it seemed very empowering to women, like it caters to the woman’s imagination and pleasure, not just the guy’s. And the lingerie is higher-end, too.” Hali paused to take a sip of her tea, while I casually eyeballed the café to see if anyone might be listening in; the only other patron, a woman in a business suit and glasses, appeared fully engrossed in her book. I leaned over the table eagerly, prodding her. “Well what else?”
She smiled and leaned in to, dropping her voice a bit. “They also offer stripping classes for women—not professional stripping classes, just techniques on how to strip for your man,” she said, adding with a mischievous grin, “I might take a class.”
I smiled back. I was half in awe of this new side of her. All these years, I’d viewed her as reserved, very prim and proper. She’d always kept her hair cut short, and her dress style was conservative but elegant, mainly because of her male-dominated career in financial planning. I’d always felt like a bit of a flower child next to her. Certainly, I could dress up when called for, but day in, day out, I was a faded blue jeans, T-shirt, and handmade jewelry kind of girl. Side by side, we were like Sheryl Crow and the Prime Minister’s wife.
Now as I looked at her across the table, with her sexy, longer hairstyle and more fashionable attire, I realized her blossoming sexuality was transforming her from the inside out. Even though her life was in chaos, I could sense a new power about her.
“Are you planning to strip for Josh?” I asked.
“No!” she replied firmly. “There’s no doubt that he helps me feel good about my body. But this is more about my sexuality. I want to explore it. Maybe it’s because I’m approaching forty, or maybe it’s because of what I’ve been through.” She sat back and took another sip of tea. “I know the sex is exciting right now because it’s with someone new. But I really think it’s more than that. I’m trying new things in bed, I’m becoming less inhibited, I want to learn how to be a better lover—not for them, but for me.”
She leaned forward and lowered her voice even more. “All these years, I’ve never enjoyed giving blow jobs—not because I hated it, but because I didn’t think I was any good at it. I was talking to Patty the other day, and she said she found a video online that gives step-by-step instructions on how to give the best blow job. She said it was amazing and even she had being doing things wrong.”
“So what are these steps?” I asked. Surely I had room for improvement, too.
Suddenly, for a flash of second, I thought of being down on my knees in front of Robert. Planning my day. Willing him to hurry up with my thoughts and hands. What if that scenario presented itself in a future relationship? Once the newness wore off, would I end up in the exact same position emotionally as I was before?
I shook off the thoughts and tuned in closely as Hali began discreetly explaining and demonstrating blow job highlights. I smiled and began taking mental notes. I suddenly felt a rush of immense gratitude for the women in my life—our openness and honesty with each other was a source of true personal empowerment. I wondered if my mother had ever talked with her girlfriends like this when she was younger—especially with a newborn baby lying in a car seat beside their table.
JUST AFTER ELEVEN o’clock, Hali and I were back at Miss Chiff’s Closet, browsing through the clothes with grins plastered across our faces: policewoman, sexy nurse, latex dominatrix, full body fishnets . . . Bet they did great business here on Halloween. It was hard to imagine myself wearing it any other time of year.
“Hey Hali, is there something specific you’re looking for?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Something I feel good in. Something sexy. Something slutty,” she added, laughing.
“Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place,” I said dryly, holding up a black, sleeveless minidress that had large holes cut down the front. “How about something like this?”
Hali laughed. “Jesus, is that a dress? It looks small enough to fit your daughter!” She suddenly looked inspired. “Hey! Why don’t you try it on?”
I frowned. “Nah—I wasn’t planning to shop for me.”
“Oh, c’mon, try it on,” she begged, giving me a faux sad face. “You have the body for it.”
Hmmm. Maybe I would, I thought. Just for fun. I’d never actually wear something like this. But, there again . . . that was the knee-jerk reaction of practical Delaine, down-to-earth mother of three very small children. It felt frivolous and indulgent. Oh screw it! Just cause I’m a mom doesn’t mean I have to be milquetoast. I can be sensuous and adventurous, if I want to be! Especially with a man like The Duke. The sudden thought of him sent a little zing of pleasure through my body. Maybe he’d make me wear something decadent. Suddenly, I felt more motivated. It would be nice to have something naughty tucked away for “special occasions.”
Over the next hour, we were like giddy schoolgirls on back-to-school shopping day, scampering back and forth a dozen times from the changing room to the clothing racks. I was intoxi
cated with the fun and the sense of liberation it engendered, because with each garment I tried on, my imagination took flight. Not just with visions of me wearing it, but with how that woman might feel about herself as she wore it and who she might grow into one day. The possibilities were endless; this wasn’t about “dressing” my skin, but exploring what and who lay within me. Delaine the Sexually-Numb Wife wouldn’t have been caught dead in this store; God, why give her husband more incentive? Delaine the Love-Sick Mistress wouldn’t have lurked here either, for no other reason than because her lover Graham thought lingerie was “slutty.” But Delaine the Soon-to-be Divorcee had no man in the wings; no need to please or impress. The only reason she was in this store was because she wanted to be. It was her choice. And she liked it. Being in a shop that breathed with sexual mischief reconnected her with the feelings of passion and adventure she’d felt in her twenties. At the same time, it felt like a whole new land of discovery, for she was reentering this world at a different age and different stage of her life.
One hour later, I left the store carrying the inconspicuous “black bag.” I’d bought a glamorous pink corset, thigh-high fishnet stockings, and two very skimpy, “bedroom only” dresses. Grinning, I thought of Hali, who was last seen in the store feeding her daughter a bottle in a black latex minidress and high-heeled boots. Dominatrix Momma.
As I walked toward my car in the midday sunshine, I laughed to myself.
When am I ever going to wear this stuff ?
As it turned out, just two days later.
HALI PHONED ME Friday morning, excited. “So I took the stripping class last night.”
Why was I not surprised? “How was it?”
“Great,” she said, dismissively. Apparently, she had more important news to share.
“After everyone left, I was there with just the teacher. And all night long I had been wondering, what the heck is this place? It almost looked like a condo, but there were high tables and stools, like in a bar, and a dance floor with a pole—which we learned to work, by the way. The room actually looked quite elegant. But I didn’t understand why a place like this was located way out in an industrial area. It was in a warehouse building, and there were no signs on the outside door.
The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom Page 7