He just laughed.
“Um . . . I’m serious.” I stopped mid sheet-change and put my hands on my hips. “I want to know how you did that with your fingers.”
“It’s pretty straight forward, really. You know how the G-spot is supposed to be activated with the ‘come here’ motion—” He bent his index and middle fingers to demonstrate. I nodded. “I find it works better when you do ‘come here’ combined randomly with a ‘go up.’ And it has to be done pretty hard, not gently.” He demonstrated the combination of movements in front of his face—fingers were a flyin’: Up- up-up, curl-curl, up, curl-curl, up . . . “Just tell guys to imagine they’re playing a trumpet.” We laughed.
Over the next hour, we showered, had breakfast, and leisurely talked and hung out. I didn’t want to overstay my welcome, so I volunteered to leave on my own. He hugged and kissed me goodbye, and as I floated to my car in the brisk autumn air, he waved to me in the doorway.
As I made my way home, basking in the glow of amazing uninhibited sex, I couldn’t help but wonder, Why the heck did my squirting happen now? Why not with Graham? After all, we’d made love. But instead of letting loose with the man I believed to be the love of my life, it happened with a guy I hardly knew! That made no sense to me. Was it a function of my pent-up sexual frustration? Or my age and that I was done having children? Or was I becoming more in tune with my body? But that didn’t make any sense either—I’d been treating my body horribly, not eating, smoking cigarettes, not sleeping. God, I felt like such a newbie!
Suddenly, a new thought zoomed in for landing: Maybe the “why” doesn’t matter. What if I wasn’t supposed to understand why it happened. Maybe my body was simply ready. Maybe I was simply meant to enjoy the experience. No “because,” just period.
Gosh, was such a thing even possible?
All I knew for sure was that I was thrilled by this unexpected “gift”—kind of like looking down and discovering a treasure box sitting on my lap—or in my case, between my legs. I was flooded with sudden gratitude: If I’d stayed married to Robert, I’d never have experienced anything like this; my sexual self would’ve remained in lockdown. When Graham came along, reigniting my sexual energy and bringing me to new heights of lovemaking, I’d thought my sexual evolution had reached the final pinnacle; that every other experience would be downhill from there; that I’d be struggling to recreate what I once had . . . and lost. Instead, not only did I feel more personally liberated, I’d discovered a whole new aspect of my sexuality that I never knew existed. And it was empowering! Because it was my body that experienced it. And it suggested that there was more to me, more to sex, more to my life than I’d ever realized. I felt hopeful . . . Maybe all the emptiness that sorrow had gutted into my bones this past year would one day spill over with happiness.
Because why shouldn’t a profound sexual experience be any less contemplated as a life catalyst than “making love”? Isn’t making love but an ideal that we use to validate sex, as if the pleasure our bodies experience is not, in itself, worthy on its own? We cloak the act of sex in the chastity of love to play down the carnal, as if carnal is wrong. But why? Certainly, religion, social conditioning, gender stereotyping, culture, etc., play a role here (control, anyone?), but I wanted to blast aside those filters and honor the rawness of the experience for what it was: a pure expression of my Sexual Self, which was an intimate aspect of who I was as a woman—yet someone I’d consistently mistrusted in the past. What if this was actually an honest and wise aspect of myself that I’d been ignoring? Maybe “she” could direct me down new avenues of joy and pleasure. Maybe she was a powerful conduit of creativity—even epiphanies—that could be applied to other areas of my life.
The only thing I knew for sure was that I wanted to investigate her further . . .
CHAPTER 11
OPERATION SERVICE BOY(S)
“SO HAVE YOU HEARD FROM Chad?” Hali asked me over the phone. It was Thursday, four days since Chad and I had spent our first (soaking wet) night together.
“No, but I’m not surprised. He said his weeknights are crazy-busy right now with the football team. It’s all good.”
“Fair enough. You’re good for a little while anyway, eh?” she teased.
“Yes!” I enthused. I was still smiling. “What about you? Any fireworks on your date last night with the lawyer?”
“Nah. He was nice and everything, but he looked so old. That photo he posted on the site is way too flattering. He’s only forty-three but he’s an old forty-three.”
“Oh, Hali!” I laughed at her bluntness, but I also felt guilty; I had been harshly judging men online by their physical appearance, too. And I worried this made me shallow. After all, everyone has flaws, everyone gets older, and it wasn’t like I was a supermodel.
“I know it sounds awful to say,” Hali continued, “but there really is a big difference in how people age. I don’t think commenting on it is being superficial; it’s just the obvious truth. You and I were both married to young, attractive, athletic men; that’s the ideal we’re used to, and that’s what we like.” Then softly: “And wow, Paul really looks amazing these days . . .”
Warning bells went off in my head. Paul and his “soul mate” had broken up a few weeks ago, and though he wasn’t actively trying to win Hali back, I knew she was still vulnerable to him. Before I had a chance to express my concern, Hali changed the subject: “I’m just so damn horny and aware of my sexuality these days. The other day I was grocery shopping with the kids, and you know what I started doing? The stripper walk. The one I learned in my stripping class.”
I burst out laughing. “As you walked up the aisles?”
“Yes! Through the produce section, too. I even had Teah strapped to my chest in the Baby Bjorn while I did it.”
I laughed even harder.
She continued: “And you know what? It really worked! Men were looking at me.”
“I’ve no doubt they were.” I wiped away tears. “Ohhh, man. Thanks for the laugh. So tell me, what is the stripper walk anyway?”
“The most important thing to remember is that each time you take a step, place your foot directly in front of the other. This is key because it makes your rear-end wiggle more. And men love the sway of a woman’s hips and butt.”
“’K, you’ll have to show me when I see you next. Speaking of, what are you doing this weekend? You’re without kids, right?”
“Yeah. Josh is working, and I’m all alone. And it sucks because I really want to get laid. Got a man for me?” She made an attempt to laugh, but I could tell it was forced. This wasn’t just about wanting sex; she was hurting.
Two weeks ago, Paul had started taking both kids every second weekend, instead of just her older son. Hali had phoned me in tears shortly after he picked them up: “It’s just not fair! God, I didn’t think it would be so hard to hand Teah over to him. She’s just so young and small, she’s my baby girl. While he was out fucking his girlfriend, I was carrying her and giving birth to her and loving and caring for her. And when she looked up at me from her car seat with those big, beautiful, innocent eyes, my heart was in my throat as I gave her to him. It took everything in me not to snatch her back, to not scream at him, ‘Give me back my baby! You don’t fucking deserve her!’ But I held it together for the kids’ sake. I smiled and gave him all the baby supplies he’d need for the weekend. But as soon as I shut the front door, I sat on the floor in the entryway and bawled for twenty minutes.”
I’d listened to her with an ache in my heart. God, when does the pain end? When will “living” require less of us? I reminded her that “first times” are always the hardest; that it would get easier—it had to.
But Hali had never enjoyed spending large chucks of time alone. Now she was alone for entire weekends. If she didn’t fill them up with friends and activities, she’d stay in her pajamas and succumb to depression.
She needed some distraction, and at times like this, comfort in the form of a strong set of sh
oulders and a big penis really come in handy. “Hali,” I said. “Do you remember that guy Don I dated one time, about a month ago? I thought he was a player—the bed-post-notcher that looked like a shorter Val Kilmer? Maybe I could set you two up this weekend. As long as you understand it will probably be a one-nighter.”
“You met him in person, right? You thought he was cute?”
“Yes! And he’s got a pretty hot ‘bad boy’ air about him.” I filled her in on a few more details. Finally, “I think you guys could have a lot of fun together.”
“Oh what the hell, why not.”
A few minutes later, I dug up Don’s last email and got to work. What are friends for, right?
UNFORTUNATELY, THE WEEKEND passed without either of us getting distracted by a penis, let alone a strong set of shoulders. But Hali and bad-boy Don did start chatting, and the sexual innuendoes were flying. Systems engaged, engines running, the countdown to their sexual launch had begun.
As for me, Football Coach Chad hadn’t called yet. What the hell? Now I was feeling a little jilted. We’d had great sex and got along fabulously. My mind raced with excuses for him: Maybe he was busy with family or school or his volunteer work. Or maybe he was playing it cool because he liked me too much.
Whatever the reasons, it hurt my pride. I was not going to sit around waiting for him, or any other man for that matter. I waited around too long for Graham. Never again! To hell with Chad. Stupid jock.
Grumbling, I fired up my computer to check my mail on the Sugar Daddy site. Ahhh, a message from Shane:Where’s my next date report?
We need to work with this phenomenon of the young boys liking you. You’ve been kind of surprised by the young-boy attention, so perhaps not mentally prepared for it. In general, boys like this should be submissive to you. But we need to figure out what your brain looks like so we can work with it.
I leaned back in my chair, Coach Chad forgotten. What do I think of younger-male attention? Is this something I want to explore?
Because being promiscuous with young men didn’t blend with the image I had of who I was: caring, upstanding neighbor on the block; loving, dedicated mother to three children; smart business woman who was also a lady. I believed I was a woman who conducted her life by high principles and morals, and slutting around with young boy toys was NOT me. It was Madonna.
Someone once told me you should pretend a video camera is following you every minute of the day. And if you wouldn’t want what you’re doing to be broadcast to the masses, it’s probably wrong.
Pffft, that’s ridiculous! a voice retorted in my head. Everyone has sex and most don’t want it broadcast to the world. That doesn’t make casual sex wrong! No—just because I was a divorced mom didn’t mean I had to stay home every night, alphabetize my spice rack, and plot my kids’ futures. I was a mature woman who had sexual wants and needs, just like any other normal, healthy person. Geez, I finally get rid of my bullyish husband and yet I’m still following someone else’s rule book, I thought, irritated.
But what was the alternative? Write my own? I wasn’t convinced I was strong enough to go against the herd. Nor was I certain I could trust myself.
I sighed and glanced over at Shane’s email: young-man attention . If I did choose to follow Shane’s directives and play with, maybe even dominate, a young lover or two, the bottom line was that no one else needed to know. I wasn’t sixteen anymore, I knew how to keep a secret.
But what if I’m fooling myself into trivializing sex? What if the main reason why people are sexually attracted to one another is nature’s way of ensuring we constantly seek to bond with, care for, and love someone?
Oh PUULLEEZE. Would you STOP?! I scolded. Who was this overly chaste person, anyway? Unfortunately, it was me—conditioned so well about how a woman/wife/mother should and should not behave, that my ability to be self-expressive had been genuinely stifled. Growing up, the messages I heard about sexuality were that only in marriage would I feel safe enough, comfortable enough, to fully explore the fire of my sexuality; it was supposed to automatically come with the territory of true love, right? But I wondered how many women truly found their marital sex life as prolific and satisfying as they’d imagined it would be? Like me, how many wished their husbands would intuitively know how to touch them, seduce them, and romance them, without having to spell it out to them? And how many of us even knew how to? Over time, did most women make it a priority to voice their hidden wants and desires? Or did their fire get dowsed by inhibitions that deemed such desires as unimportant, selfish, or worse, somehow deviant? For many, including me, submissiveness—by default, not choice, both in and out of bed—was a condition of marriage.
Perhaps this was why I couldn’t recall having any burning sexual wants and curiosities during my marriage, even at the beginning, when we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. I believed I was pretty uninhibited, and the sex was physically fulfilling. But the aftermath of sex and the joy of being in love meant as much, if not more to me: the cuddling, the pillow-talk, the dream of one day having children and building a life together. To me, sex was just a small part of the “us” equation. Independent of Robert, it was anything but a priority to me.
The truth was, I never really pondered what sex meant to me. I knew I had sexual impulses; “animal urges” in need of appeasement. But not once did I think of my Sexual Self as being an important aspect of my Spiritual Self. Not once did I think of it as a source of my beauty, my creative expression, my empowerment. Never did it cross my mind that my sexual passion—or lack thereof—might be partially shaping the overall composition of Delaine.
The bottom line was that I had fire in me right now, I thought, as I returned to Shane’s email. And there was no inkling of a love relationship on the horizon. So I had to decide: Was I going to smolder the fire? Keep it safely under control? Or was I going to play with it, blend with it, maybe even dance naked around it, and see if it was something worth celebrating?
Decision made, I logged onto the dating site and pulled up the profiles of two young men who had hunted me for weeks: Daniel and Brent. I wrote them asking for their chat addresses. Time to find out if there’d be any combustion.
Next I responded to Shane’s email, briefly outlining my intentions and action plan. At the end, on impulse, I added: “It’s really quite fun corresponding with you, Shane. In not knowing your identity or seeing your face, I kinda feel like you’re my ‘Charlie’ from Charlie’s Angels.”
I fired it off into cyberspace, imagining a man with thick hairy forearms and a gold watch reading it at his desk with a smile.
The next morning Shane’s reply was waiting in my inbox:There is a term I have for men like your prospects: “service males.” They are hot, well-endowed males who are essentially walking dildos. They are not relationship material, but fun to f * * * under the right circumstances.
These young boys will be too young for you to care about or spend non-sex time with. Talking to a service male is like talking to a puppy. They aren’t for talking to. They are little boys, not men to rely on. Just put boys like this in their place, use them how YOU want, then kick their ass out the door until you want them again (if ever). If they cry about wanting to see you again, tell them to shut the f*** up and you’ll let them know if you want to use them in the future. In the meantime, they can wash your car.
Re “Charlie”: I’m glad you’re loosening up. Stop sweating the trivia. I prefer to think of myself as a SAM—Super Alpha Male. Sam can prepare the alpha female to eventually bond with another alpha male or mentally hold her hand while she dominates the submissive. As much as you coyly want to resist it, you feel submissive to me, so you may think of me as SAM if you wish. I look forward to your next date report.
Yes, Charlie! Er, I mean SAM or Duke or Shane, or whoever you are.
I sat back in my chair and reread his message. Service males? Super Alpha Male? Where did he even come up with such terms?
But in a weird way, I was gratefu
l to have him on my team; he was a knowledgeable and caring guardian/protector of sorts. And it felt good knowing that no matter how far I pushed the boundaries, he’d be on my side, “watching over me” from afar.
I just hoped my guardian angels weren’t panicking.
Mission No. 2
Subject’s Name: Adonis-Boy Daniel
Age: 27
Body Type: 6 feet tall and ripped from head to toe
Penis Size: 6 ½ inches
Right from the get-go with Daniel, I decided that I was going to call the shots. Even during our preliminary email exchanges, I wrote things I’d never dare say face-to-face. One email he wrote: “I may only be twenty-seven, but I can make your toes curl and you scream my name.”
To which I responded: “Hon, there isn’t a man who walks the face of this planet who doesn’t think he’s ‘all that’ in bed. Until I say otherwise, you are not to even think about me in a sexual way. You haven’t earned it. And if you want to play to my thought in the future, you need to ask for my permission.” (I got that idea from Shane.)
His response: “I humbly place myself at your feet, Oh Master. Lol, you sound like a lot of fun!”
As I sat across from him at our initial meeting, I was impressed. He was smart, well-spoken and . . . oh, who am I trying to kid? The guy was absolutely gorgeous! His teeth were perfectly white, his hair thick and blond, his intense green eyes almost laugh-line free. I found myself trying to mentally sketch a composite of how he’d look at my age. Yep, still strikingly handsome—even with the goatee he was currently sporting (which I’m not normally a fan of).
So yes, the spark was definitely there for me at our first meeting. But I wasn’t sure if it was mutual. What if he thought I looked old? Did he tell the waitress I was his aunt when I went to the bathroom? Did he see me as the other dreaded C-word—COUGAR?
The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom Page 12