He’d already narrowed his gift search down to two items: a diamond teardrop pendant and a diamond-laced gold bracelet. “Which would you prefer?” he asked, pointing them out in the showcase.
As I bent forward to examine his selections, Chad leaned over the top of me, with his hand on my waist. I made no effort to move away from the warm press of his body, which immediately aroused me. For an intense moment I forgot I was shopping . . . Yoo-hoo, Delaine, make a choice! “Definitely the bracelet.” And our bodies separated.
A couple of hotdogs and sodas later, we wrapped up our date with a big strong hug (against his big strong chest) and his declaration to call me soon. Overall, our date left me feeling pumped and ready to square off with him again. The idea of being tackled was very appealing.
LOST IN THE warm thoughts of my date with Football Coach Chad, I began walking home from the grocery store. Even though my five grocery bags were heavy, I decided to take the longer, scenic route through the park. It was a beautiful day, and besides, I needed the exercise.
Halfway into the park, I stopped and put down my bags to rest my numbing arms. It was then that I noticed someone lying down on the far side of the hill.
I froze, my heart kicking into high gear. He had a long body and short, dark hair. I clenched the handles of my grocery bags and walked slowly in his direction, feeling pulled, pushed, as if under a spell. Eyes straight ahead, I proceeded through the large evergreens. Fifteen feet away now, out of the trees and into the buttery afternoon sunlight . . .
It was HIM. He was lying where we used to picnic during his lunch hours. Still, I continued moving toward him, silently, not even a faint rustle from my bags. I felt like I was floating ghostlike, as if I was astral-traveling to “here,” to this moment, to this Netherland of my past. I stopped right beside him and looked down. He was sleeping.
“Hi Graham,” I said, in a voice colder than I intended.
He quickly sat up and removed his sunglasses. “Oh geez—you scared me!”
Pause.
“How are you?” he asked hesitantly.
“Good . . . . and you?”
“I’m okay.” He moved over on his blanket to make room for me to sit down. I ignored the gesture and stood there gripping my grocery bags. I wanted to look down on him. I felt strangely unmoved.
“How’s your business going?” he asked.
“It’s not. I’ve had too much else to deal with.” He looked away.
“How’s work for you?” I asked.
“Not good. I’m not sure what’s going on. I’ve gone from having a three-week waiting list to having hours off every day. All I know is that it’s the beginning of the month and I have eighty dollars in my bank account.”
“Wow.” I stared down at him, feeling no pity. Sucks when karma catches up with you, eh?
I knew he was now the father of a four-month-old baby girl; my friend Sara had informed me the day she’d been born. Right now, I wasn’t about to pretend that she and her mother never happened.
“Do you get to see your daughter very much?” I asked directly.
He paused, fiddling with his glasses. When he finally spoke, he did not look at me. “Usually once a week.”
I nodded slowly. I could tell from his demeanor that the truth had not yet surfaced, that he was still doing damage control. Because you see, Melissa, his girlfriend/friend/lover or whatever she was, was married; not only that, she had four other kids from this marriage. And her husband, even though he’d had a vasectomy two years ago, believed the baby she’d just birthed was his. That’s right. Graham and Melissa had knowingly stood by and allowed her husband to fall in love with another man’s child. They resorted to sneak visits behind her husband’s back, and they had yet to formulate a long-term game plan . . . somebody, at some point, was going to be devastated.
As I looked down at Graham now, sitting in a long-sleeved polo shirt on this hillside full of intimate memories, I felt strangely calm and composed. He looked the same as he always had—but somehow . . . . somehow . . . he felt like a stranger; I knew him, yet I did not. I had pressed against that lean chest in the throes of our lovemaking. I had excavated and shared my innermost thoughts and dreams with him. I had planned to love his three children and build my entire future with HIM—this man, this stranger, sitting on a blanket, in the afternoon sunshine.
“So Graham—” I looked him straight in the eyes. “Do you have any regrets?” I felt the power behind my question hit Graham square in the chest like a well-placed punch.
He flinched, I swear, and his chiseled jaw dropped. He did not expect that question, either. At first he looked pained, and then his eyes flashed with defensiveness. “I have no regrets for bringing my daughter into this world. She is beautiful and I would never regret giving her life.” Then his tone softened. “But . . . I do regret all the people I hurt.”
I nodded my head, mouth tight. Was that supposed to be an apology? You still have no balls, you selfish coward.
“Well, I need to get going.” I rustled my grocery bags. “Goodbye, Graham.”
“Bye, Delaine. It was great to see you.”
I started walking away. “Hey Delaine,” he called. I turned around. “Thanks for stopping. Thanks for talking to me.”
“Bye, Graham.” I turned my back to him, and with my head held high, I walked across the remaining length of the open park. I knew I was visible to him the entire way. I knew he was watching me leave, hoping I’d look back over my shoulder. But I didn’t. I didn’t even want to. And that said it all.
IT WAS SATURDAY night, a week since my first date with Coach Chad. Even though Chad was at a wedding reception, he’d texted me numerous times throughout the evening. And it was clear that he was becoming increasingly inebriated. But that was okay, because so was I.
After a month on the road, Robert had unexpectedly come to town and taken the kids for twenty-four hours. And I was beyond ecstatic. Oh, I love my kids more than anything, but as any busy mother will attest, me-time is a rare treasure. When I look back on the last seven years of my life, I’m baffled by where my energy came from; hell, how did my engine even turn over some days? Even when Robert was in town to help out, my workload didn’t lessen, it simply changed. His short returns home meant a mad rush to maximize the ever-important family time that most other families share on a regular basis. Plus, I had to organize fun husband-wife date nights—not just dinners out (which I preferred), but dancing, bars, live bands, action. “Just because you’re a mom doesn’t mean you have to act like an old lady,” he’d say, if I protested. I didn’t want to be perceived as that kind of wife: Mrs. I-Am-Boring-and-No-Fun, now that I’ve had kids. No—it was my duty to maintain my pre-mom vibrancy and be the same energetic woman Robert fell in love with, even though I longed to be treated like a lady and not his party girl . . . or maybe just fall asleep on the couch.
Robert took the kids too late in the day for me to make plans to go out. So instead, I caught up with a few girlfriends via phone and, as usual, chatted online. I’d been corresponding with a few young men, who were between twenty-seven and thirty, for a couple of weeks now. Just harmless flirting, with no real agenda . . . yet.
Around eight o’clock, I cracked open a bottle of white wine—which I’d never done alone (kids have no sympathy for a hung-over parent)—and poured myself a generous glass. Tonight I didn’t have to worry about getting up with the kids, and I was filled with restless energy. After my texting repartee with Chad, I was hoping, even expecting him to call or drop by after the reception. But in the meantime, I’d happily throw a private party—for just Me, Myself and I.
As I sat at my desk, my wine buzz quickly kicking in, I discovered a trove of online music videos that I’d never had time to watch. Shakira, Rihanna, the Dixie Chicks, Madonna—damn!—when did they start writing songs based on my life? Belting out their lyrics was no longer enough: I moved my office chairs off to the side and voila!—instant dance floor. What started as a few hip rolls
with a well-balanced wine glass in hand turned into full-blown, full-body, Mom-Going-Nuts in her SuperGirl pajama bottoms and bra (I got sweaty!). Anyone watching me would have thought “Wow, what an ass,” but as I caught my reflection in the picture frames on the wall, all I could think was YEAH, you still got the moves girl! Pfft, if Robert and Graham could see me now! And as I inwardly cursed my former husband and lover I suddenly wished they could see who I was becoming, who they were missing out on: a woman on the verge—not of a nervous breakdown, but of a breakthrough. Metamorphosis. Because I liked this new, emerging Delaine, now that she was out of their shadows. I liked the fact that I was drunk by myself and dancing around half-naked at home on a Saturday night. I liked the fact that younger men wanted to jump in bed with me. I liked feeling sexy and desirable . . . and a little wild, and a lot horny. God, I was so grateful I wasn’t sitting across from Graham in a makeshift house with our six children squeezed into shared beds. Or kowtowing to Robert, as he belittled me and further killed my self-worth, not to mention my sexuality. Well, fuck them and the horses (or women) they rode in on! Life was just getting good for me . . . With my head beginning to feel spinny, I hit the hay—keeping my phone next to me, just in case Football Coach Chad called . . .
Sure enough, the sound of a text mail interrupted my hazy sleep. I squinted at the bright cell phone screen, trying to focus on the little black letters that jumped out at me: “U awake? Comin ovr? 1632 Blackbird Dr.”
I glanced at my clock: 1:45 AM. I quickly texted back: “Give me 30 mins.”
A couple minutes later, my phone bleeped again: “Come on in. Door open.”
So this was probably not the smartest decision. A rendezvous at a man’s house in the middle of the night meant only one thing. And a first time I’m-drunk-and-horny encounter could very well set the stage for it being a last encounter. Men need to work for it, don’t they? Wine you, dine you, respect you? But I wasn’t interested in deciphering anyone else’s “rules”—I liked him, I was sick of due diligence, and I wanted to have sex.
Forty minutes later, after freshening up, brushing my teeth ten times, and Mapquesting directions to his house, I pulled up in front of his bungalow. All the neighbors’ houses were dark and quiet, as was Chad’s, except for a dim light coming from a back room. I stepped into the chilly night wearing my winter jacket and my Super Girl jammies underneath. I’d packed some clothes for the morning.
I walked right in, as per his instructions. In the dark foyer, a wet nose pressed against my hand. It was his golden retriever, Buddy. Hey there. Pat, pat. Where’s your master? His tail banged against the wall.
I took off my jacket and laid it on the couch. I stood there, expecting Chad to walk into the room or at least call out to me. But only Buddy seemed to know I was there.
“Chad?” I called out softly. No answer.
“Chad?” I called again, walking through to the kitchen where a dim light glowed. Still no answer. With my hands tracing the wall, I began shuffling down a long dark corridor.
Finally, I came to a room at the end of the hall with its door ajar. My eyes were adjusting to the dark, and I could make out the shape of a bed in the corner. I listened for a second and heard heavy, slow breathing. He was passed out! I stood there trying to decide what to do. Was this a sign to leave?
Oh screw it! I thought, as I walked over to the bed, pulled back the covers, and slid in beside him. He was naked.
“What the—” he chuckled gruffly. He pulled me tightly into a spoon and I snuggled in close. “Am I dreaming or did a beautiful woman just jump into bed with me in the middle of the night?” His hands firmly traced down the side of my body.
“No, you’re not dreaming,” I laughed. “Problem is, you’re passed out.”
“Yeah, guess I dozed off a bit.” He lifted the covers off me. “What are you wearing?”
“My Super Girl pajamas.”
“Ah, yes. The infamous Super Girl PJs. Sooooo sexy. But—” He pulled me underneath him—strong arms, thick muscular body. “I think they need to come off.” He kissed me. And for the next hour, this girl felt pretty darn super.
IN THE REALM of lovemaking, there are “bad lovers” and “good lovers,” and then there are “knock-your-socks-off, knee-wobbling lovers.” As good luck would have it—and I’m talking major windfall here—Chad fell into the latter category. Not only was he sensual and generous, his skill set was beyond excellent—so much so that my body did something it’s never done before . . .
Now, up to this point, I thought I knew my body very well. I’d lived in it for thirty-seven years, bore three little humans from it, pushed it to its physical limits. And while I’d never, say, participated in a rainbow blowjob competition, I’d certainly had my fair share of sexual experiences, so I thought I knew what would make me orgasm, how I liked to be touched, and how my body would respond to such touch . . . I considered myself a pretty knowledgeable and experienced lover. But whoa, was I wrong! Chad had me doing things I’d never done before and my body shocked me by reacting in a brand new way. Not only did I G-spot orgasm for the first time, I did something else: I squirted (queue me cringing a little after admitting this).
Now clearly, the term itself is enough to make anyone squirm. Something about the idea of shooting warm liquid out of your lady parts during orgasm can seem, well, unladylike. In fact, it may be a subject that’s too personal, even off-putting, for some women to handle—like discussing the nuances of getting a Brazilian wax (how do you keep your inner labia from getting scorched by hot wax, anyway?). Squeamishness aside, I was absolutely stunned when my body did this. And not once, but several times.
Squirting was something I knew very little about it. I mean, I’d heard of it. But I’d thought it sounded freaky.
This was one for my girlfriends; I definitely needed their input. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that about a quarter of them had experienced what I thought was a rare phenomenon. Women aren’t supposed to ejaculate, I thought. But apparently, we are. And further, each woman experienced it differently: some with deep penetration, some with oral stimulation. But it wasn’t consistent, they said; there wasn’t a formula for it. Sometimes it happened, more often it didn’t. But they all agreed on one thing: When it did happen, it felt great.
During my first orgasm (there were many), Chad was sitting upright on his knees and I was on my back with my hips up high. Nothing unusual about this position. But then he started with the “Chad Maneuver,” a technique that broke the dam.
He took hold of his penis (average size) and slipped it in about two inches. Then, with just the right pressure, he started vigorously rubbing himself up and down inside me. At first, I thought, What the heck is he DOING? But after a few seconds, it started to feel incredible. I couldn’t help but moan and surrender to the sensation. Suddenly, I started to orgasm, and while in the throes I heard, “Oh yeah baby, you’re squirting!” I felt a huge release and wetness sprayed all over him and me. A part of me wanted to say something at that point, but I was too shocked and weak to do more than just lie there smiling.
Our session was far from over. Chad then thrust deep inside me for a minute or so and then started with his maneuver again (two inches in, vigorous rubbing). The feeling came back so quick and intense, that I sprayed again . . . and again . . . and again.
Afterward, the bed was too wet to lay on—the sheets and the mattress. I apologized profusely for my mess as we covered the mattress with towels and remade the bed. He teased, “Why didn’t you tell me you were a squirter?”
“Because I’ve never been one before!” I said, laughing.
“Really?”
“Yes, I swear that has never happened to me before!”
“Well, cool. Now you know you can.” He was smiling and seemed comfortable with what had transpired. I, on the other hand, was embarrassed, as if I had just bled all over his sheets from my period. As we climbed back into our newly made bed and snuggled up close, I had questions:
/> “Have you been with other women who squirted?”
“Yes. Maybe five.” Thank God. So he doesn’t think I’m abnormal.
“So . . . it’s pretty common then?”
“Well no, not really.”
“Hmmm . . . ” Guess I’m still part of the borderline “freaky” group.
“So you mean that in all those years you were married, you never squirted?” he asked.
“No, never! In fact, I remember my ex-husband telling me once that he’d seen it on a porno and he wished that I could.” Chad chuckled. I continued: “That ‘maneuver’ you did on me was sensational. No one’s ever done that to me before.”
“Well it obviously worked on you.” He was being modest, but I could tell he was pleased.
“I think you should give classes on it and teach the rest of the male population how to do it,” I blurted.
“It doesn’t seem like all that big a secret. It just makes sense to me. Once a woman’s all warmed up, the G-spot is located just a couple of inches inside. I can position myself at the right angle to stimulate it. It often helps if I also put pressure on the outside of her pubic bone with my hand.”
“You were touching the front of my pubic bone?” (Too busy feeling sensations elsewhere.)
“Yeah,” he laughed. “Almost the entire time.”
“Hmmm. So did that ‘maneuver’ feel good for you, too?”
“Yeah, it was GREAT. I had to stop myself from orgasming the first time you squirted.”
I sighed blissfully and snuggled in closer.
Then he added: “We’ll have to try it again in the morning and find out if it was just a fluke.”
And we did. With sunlight streaming in through the windows, he made me orgasm and squirt half a dozen more times. One time, he even did it with his fingers.
“Holy Toledo, Chad!” I said as we changed the sheets again. “Now you’re really impressing me. What the heck were you doing in there?”
The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom Page 11