Then the tickles snuck up both arms at once. Maybe I had a rash? I sat back on my heels to take a peek. I rolled up my sleeves. Oh, Christ! My arms were covered with insects! I jumped up and vigorously started swiping them off. Gross! Gross! Gross!
Suddenly, a voice told me to calm down: Look, Delaine, look at them. Still panicked, I gazed down at my now totally bare arms. Ladybugs. I’m covered in ladybugs. Hundreds of them. I smiled. No need to be afraid. They were a reminder.
As I laid in bed remembering my dream, I rocked between excitement and disbelief. Ladybugs again. The ladybugs were back! This had to be a sign, especially since I rarely remembered my dreams.
Back in March, one month before the Graham bomb went off, they had appeared in my dreams for the first time in my life. The dream was so unusual and emotional that I’d even told my girlfriends about it.
I was lying on a gynecologist table, legs spread, in preparation for my check-up. My doctor, a sixtyish woman with pulled-back gray hair and glasses, was busy on the other side of the room. All of a sudden, I felt something between my legs: movement, wiggling. Worms! I thought to myself, I have worms—parasites!
I screamed to the woman, “Help! Save me! them!” She looked over at me, totally unconcerned at all; instead, she seemed pleased.
I sat up and frantically looked down at my pelvis. Hold on. Oh phew, they’re not worms, they’re ladybugs. This must be a dream. I looked around the table and sheets. Where the heck are they coming from? I then watched, bewildered, as a stream of ladybugs emerged from my vagina. What the!? Why were they in my VAGINA? Then I woke up.
The dream was so bizarre yet vivid that the next morning I googled the meaning of a ladybug dream. I’d always felt akin to the Native American beliefs in animal totems; that is, each animal is symbolic and acts as a specific dream messenger. What might a cute, red bug have to tell me? I grinned.
Chills ran up and down my spine as I read about their meaning: a sign of good luck, new beginnings, and rebirth. My ladybugs had actually come out of my vagina. No doubt they were a sign of rebirth! This was too odd and loaded with meaning to be a coincidence, I thought. I took it as confirmation that I was on the right path, that a wonderful new chapter of my life was opening to me with Graham—that we were soul mates, destined to be together. It never occurred to me that rebirth required the death of something first.
Their reappearance tonight felt significant. I had experienced so much death! The death of love, the death of trust, and the death of my old self. At the cusp of so much change and uncertainty and second-guessing of myself, their return both soothed and uplifted me.
I curled my body into the fetal position with my hands cupped close to my chest. As I drifted off to sleep, I guarded the ladybugs’ hope-filled message close to my heart.
CHAPTER 9
SERGEANT SHANE’S BOOT CAMP
THE DUKE SAID IT WAS time for me to “stop talking” and “start walking.” It was time to get out of his online classroom and take action in the real world. He wrote:By the time you’re finished overanalyzing everything, not only will the cows have come home, they’ll have had babies, and their babies will have had babies. If you want to find and exert your alpha femaleness, you need to get out there.
Think of it as having enlisted in a Sexuality Boot Camp, wherein I am your sergeant in command. Like a good little girl you will listen to your superior, and in turn, I’ll make sure you keep your men in line—not to mention deliver good strong spankings when you’re slacking off. What’s that? Was that a “Yes Sir!”?
I laughed and thought, How about “Bite me, sir.”
I leaned back in my chair, still smiling. He sure does have a strange sense of humor. But for whatever reason, I liked it. I liked that he caught me off guard, and I liked that he made me lighten up around the issue of dating and sex.
Shane’s proposition appealed to me, despite the fact it was totally unconventional. Not taking every date seriously seemed a pretty sensible thing for me to do right now, because it liberated me to have fun and explore. Maybe my need to “seek and replace” wasn’t as urgent as I once thought. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to delay it a month or two . . .
I hit the reply button, smirking and shaking my head. Yes, I think I’ll play along with “Sergeant Shane.” Temporarily, anyway. Or unless Mr. Right comes along.
Mission No. 1
Subject’s Name: Payton
Age: 36
Body Type: tall, average build
Penis Size: I’ve no clue, Shane!
My “training” kicked off with a wavy-haired computer techie named Payton. I reread Sergeant Shane’s last directives before walking out the door to meet him:You can remain the classy good girl of old, but I want you to start thinking in terms of Dominant and submissive. No more settling for “nice.” I don’t want to hear about any more lukewarm nights. Let him know that any kissing will be decided by you. If you choose to see him again, he needs to know he will need to submit to your lead. If we’re going to get you exploring this masculine side of you, you need to experiment a bit. You have no points on that side of the scoreboard yet.
I met Payton at a pub in his neighborhood, a twenty-minute drive from my house. As our date progressed, I willed myself to be interested in him. I couldn’t quite finger why, but I wasn’t attracted to him. Give the guy a chance! I barked at myself. He’s cute, he’s smart, he’s nice—what more do you want?
But no matter how vigorously I rubbed my thoughts together, my body didn’t spark.
Nonetheless, as per Shane’s directives, I decided to “experiment” a bit near the end of our date, for curiosity’s sake. Suddenly, the night didn’t seem like just another disappointing, dead-end date.
Payton and I were in the parking lot, preparing for our final goodbyes. I could tell that he really wanted to kiss me, but earlier in the night, I had mischievously joked to him: “Don’t even think about kissing me tonight without my permission. Otherwise I might just have to slap you.”
Behind his half-smile, I could see him wondering, Is she serious?
I stood across from him in the parking lot, hands at my side, body language open. His eyes were darting, his hands fidgety: in his pockets, out of his pockets, through his hair, rubbing his chin. I could hear his thoughts, Is she going to kiss me? God, I want to kiss her. Should I try to kiss her? Will she slap me?
I stood where I was, staring at him unwaveringly. Fidget-fidget squirm-squirm, fidget-fidget, squirm-squirm. Outwardly I appeared cool and collected, but inwardly, my body surged with adrenaline. Stay in control, Delaine, I coached myself. Stand in the tension. Don’t back down.
Finally, I smiled and offered him a handshake. “It was good to meet you, Payton. Thank you for the drink.” And I turned and got in my minivan.
By the time I got home, my adrenaline rush was gone and I was convinced I’d just acted like a cold-hearted bitch. You toyed with him like a cat does with a mouse, I inwardly scolded. Then why are you smiling? taunted a voice in my head. Admit it: it was kind of fun.
I sat down at my computer, my smile quickly fading. Time to fill out a report. “Shane,” I wrote. “No doubt I was in a dominant position tonight. But I have mixed feelings about my behavior. I can’t help but wonder, Why am I doing this? What feeling am I striving for? In the big scheme of things, “playing” like this isn’t sustainable.”
To which he immediately replied:Neither is laughing or eating chocolate cake or having a phenomenal orgasm. These things aren’t 24/7, but they are a great way to make our lives a cabaret. So what if you don’t want to see him again. Reject him, move on.
Let me remind you we’re doing this because you want to explore your masculine side. This means you need to become comfortable feeling power. You had a small taste of it tonight. Don’t run away from it because you’re unfamiliar with it.
Just RELAX. God, sometimes you sound like the world is going to end tomorrow. You have thirty-seven years of how you have been, and we are seeking to
explore another part of you. Don’t expect the answer overnight. This isn’t a fortune cookie.
His condescension was transparent and my blood quickly boiled. How dare this jerk-off speak to me like I’m some kind of drama queen!
But you are being a tad melodramatic, a part of me calmly stated. He’s just calling you out. It suddenly dawned on me that maybe a good glove-slapping was what I needed. He was a Dom, not a sympathetic girlfriend—what, was I expecting him to rub my back and wipe away my tears? He and I were playing a game: sportsmanship rules required I toughen up.
My jets cooled off, I reread his message more objectively. I did become aware of a new aspect of myself tonight, I thought. It was kind of fun, too. Maybe I did need to stop worrying so much about what everyone else was thinking and feeling.
But this kind of power is calculated and potentially hurtful, a voice inside my head protested. True power comes from treating everyone with love and respect.
Oh, it’s not like I beat the guy up or belittled him, I retorted. Don’t be such a marshmallow, Delaine, he’s a big boy, not a child.
I called a truce between my sensibilities and decided that, at least for now, I was going to study and play under Shane’s tutelage—but carefully. Not only were other people’s feelings at stake, so were mine.
A FEW DAYS later, I negotiated, signed, and sealed a deal with myself: I was placing my Internet business on the backburner. Indefinitely.
I’d stressed about it for months. Beat myself up for neglecting it. I’d poured my soul into that business; was so close to launching it. How could I just . . . walk away? Everyone would surely label me a quitter.
The bottom line was that pregnancy and childbirth and babies were of no interest to me. Given my recent life circumstances, the subject matter seemed like a twisted joke. And no matter how hard I willed myself to revive my passion for it, I felt nothing. Flat line.
A voice in my head objected, and rancorously: You never finish anything! You bounce all over the place, there’s a new flavor every day. Those criticisms were too familiar; they first came from Robert. And now, even though he was gone, the tapes played automatically.
True, when I was younger, I never focused on just one job for very long. From renting out boogey boards and singing and playing guitar in the streets, to working in corporate finance and building a counseling business for women, my work life had taken some sudden swerves and detours.
But I never thought that was a bad thing. I just figured I had an adventurous spirit; that regardless of income earned (or not earned), each job was a life experience contributing to my being a more well-rounded and interesting person. I kind of liked that about me. I’d thought Robert did too.
But somewhere over the course of our marriage, he apparently “reassessed” my past and decided that it reflected “a very irresponsible, uncommitted person.” More so, it made me “a spoiled little girl,” always taking the liberty to do as I pleased.
I spent years wondering if he was right, doubting myself and my character. Maybe without a man’s steady financial support, I’d be in for a huge reality jolt. Maybe I really was a spoiled brat. I knew I couldn’t earn the same amount as him in the workforce, especially the longer I stayed out of it. I felt indebted to Robert: All those long hours and weeks he spent away from home were for me and the kids, he’d remind me; “I’d work a fraction of the time if it were just me,” he’d say. I was wracked with guilt; after all, I enjoyed my life as a stay-at-home mom. His suffering was for my gain.
Almost all my mom friends had returned to work within a year of giving birth. To a “real job,” Robert called it. “Not everyone has the luxury of staying home all day, eating bon-bons, and watching Oprah.” He was so off—and I tried to explain the scope and value of my hard work at home. But he cut me off: “Geez, you women never stop complaining. My grandma had six kids, no appliances, and she had to grow our food and work in the fields. Maybe I should’ve married a good ol’ farm girl.” No matter how I tried to explain my situation to him, it fell on deaf ears. “Every uterus has been doing what you do since the beginning of time,” he joked backhandedly. “C’mon Delaine. Cowboy up.”
So I did. I saddled up and shut up. I knew how tough a job I had, I knew how hard I worked. He just doesn’t understand the demands of parenting because he works out of town, I told myself. But that’s okay. I’m strong and I don’t need his validation.
I knew he was wrong in his assessment of my past, too. I had finished six years of university, held two lengthy professional jobs, but... but...
The seeds of self-doubt had taken root. The Delaine I saw reflected back through his eyes was much less than what I’d credited her to be. I knocked myself down a few notches. Then a few more.
In hindsight, I can actually see the slow destruction of my sense of self over the years. His words, like sharp pins, covered my body from head to toe like a well-used voodoo doll. I’d thought my skin was tough and thick. But his attacks were too numerous. Slowly, his toxic criticisms had poisoned my sense of self-worth.
I could not allow Robert to call the shots on my life anymore! I knew this, but it was a lot easier said than done. His verbal pins had transformed into arrows since we’d separated. We were still disagreeing over a few important points on our separation agreement, particularly those related to money. Any time Robert and I entered discussion around it, I could literally see the anger climb up his back and ignite a fire in his eyes, burning out his ability to reason. Suddenly, we were no longer talking about the issue at hand, and all my energy went into shielding off his attacks on my character:
“You were nothing but a footloose hippie before you met me. And you’d still be nothing if it weren’t for me!”
“I see you’re on the dating sites, God, what a joke. You describe yourself as athletic . . . smart? You’re the most fucked-up woman I’ve ever known!”
“You think I’m not paying you enough? Well, how about if I work only half-time and take the kids the other half? Then you won’t get anything!”
I knew Robert was hurting. I also knew he was afraid. And I did feel compassion for him: He was processing the death of our marriage, too. But I didn’t know where to draw the line around his taking out his pain on me; there was no pleasure in being the victim of his verbal assaults, but there was also no pleasure in seeing him suffering and upset. Moreover, what if I was WRONG? What if I was acting selfishly, but didn’t see it?
So I’d just wrap my arms tightly around my chest, imagine myself wrapped in white light, and take it.
But no more. I knew it was time to stop taking it, to stop justifying my life to Robert, and focus on being true to me. Suddenly, Shane’s voice replayed in my ears: “From now on, you let no one disrespect you, even you . . . You’re no one’s doormat anymore. You got that?”
The “alpha” in me stirred. I got it alright. I had gotten rid of Robert, the flesh and blood man; now I needed to cauterize the wounds he’d left in my soul.
CHAPTER 10
MANEUVERS AND TOUCHDOWNS
I WAS KEEPING A SECRET from Sergeant Shane. Nothing shocking or scandalous. But I knew he would think I was being naughty for not telling him.
Turns out, I met someone online I actually liked. Maybe even more than Shane. And I’d been sneaking out of boot camp to see him.
His name was Chad. He was the fresh-faced quarterback look-alike who emailed me the night of my sex-club adventure. For whatever reason, he didn’t write me again until a few days ago. But we’d quickly made up for lost time.
As it turned out, my intuition was spot-on: He looked like a jock because he was a jock. Not only was he a high school physical education teacher, he was also the school’s football coach. He had no kids of his own, but his students served as surrogates; he spent countless volunteer hours with his athletes after school and spoke passionately about the issues teenagers faced, including the confusion, adventures, and heartbreak of adolescence.
Part of his teaching curricu
lum also required he teach sex education to his gym students. And though we sometimes shared a giggle at their telltale awkwardness or bravado, my jaw fell open when he shared the inside scoop on some students’ escapades:
Some teenagers, he said, proudly wear bracelets that mark the number of sexual partners they’d had at weekend parties. Some also engaged in “rainbow parties,” where girls compete in a contest of sorts—performing oral sex on boys while wearing different color lipstick, thus creating a rainbow. “They announce their sexual exploits as if it somehow makes them cool,” said Chad. “If I were a parent, I’d be looking at my child’s wrist very carefully.”
I suddenly felt like I’d been living in a bubble for the past twenty years. Back in the eighties, I thought my friends and I were being promiscuous when we smoked a joint and got felt-up in someone’s bathroom. But engaging in sex for sport? Suddenly, I wanted to shackle my kids!
For our first date, Chad invited me to go shopping to buy his mom a birthday present. Out front of the wholesale store, we finally met face to face; there was direct eye contact and big smiles on both sides. I liked what I saw. His face was handsome yet boyish, his small brown eyes and long eyelashes shimmered with mischief, and his white-toothed smile stretched from ear to ear. Like me, he was wearing jeans and a casual shirt. But his was a red and white football jersey—and whew, there was no denying the broad, muscular chest it concealed.
We meandered side by side toward the jewelry department, talking and laughing like old pals. Along the way, we checked out flat-screen TVs and a few deluxe barbeques (I feigned interest). The whole date-while-shopping experience felt pleasant, but very odd, especially since I’d wheeled through this store a hundred times with my kids.
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