I was positively beaming as I emailed my accomplishment to Shane. Feeling feisty, I tacked onto the end: “It’s raining men. And I do, in fact, feel like a ‘QUEEN.’ Maybe you’re right—maybe I am a slut after all! (Meaning only a woman who loves to orgasm, of course.)”
Surprise-surprise, one of my lovers turned out to be Football Coach Chad (he was no longer a stupid jock). And the other was Minotaur Brent; let’s just say I had “pressing,” unfinished business with him.
On Friday night, the Minotaur and I picked up where we’d left off; that is, I was wrapped around his waist and pinned against the wall. This time I didn’t fight the rippling beast. Actually, that’s not true. I did fight him—by “resisting” him and acting nonchalant. But he easily saw through my pretense; he knew I wanted him to win. So he carefully tested my “no’s,” pushing them a little further, then a little further. “You’re a bad girl, Delaine,” he whispered in my ear. “You know you want my hard cock between your legs. Say it.”
To which I’d respond, “The only one in desperate need right now is you, young man.” Eventually, he had my hands held tight against my back, his obvious hardness pressed against my stomach.
My involuntary moans made my true desires transparent.
His force aroused me. It wouldn’t have used to. The Delaine I’d always known enjoyed gentle caresses, sensual touches, a look-me-deep-in-the-eyes kind of intimacy. Yet suddenly, it seemed I yearned to be taken, filled, physically overpowered if need be. Not just by any man, of course. But one who I deemed worthy. My match. My equal. Not of souls. But of mind and body only. It was pure carnal desire gone ballistic, or maybe just a simple case of hormones. Whatever the case, despite what I soon discovered was a noticeably smaller-than-average penis, I G-spot orgasmed numerous times—and squirted. Small, shmall. I wasn’t grumbling too much about penis size. Maybe it really was the motion of the ocean and not the size of the ship.
However, his reaction to my squirting didn’t impress me.
“Did you pee?” he asked, startled. He even looked a little disgusted.
“What? No!” I said, taken aback. “I climaxed. And when I orgasm I sometimes release a clear liquid. Lots of it. I squirt.”
“Oh,” he replied lamely. “I thought you peed the bed.”
Duh! “It’s something I started doing not too long ago. I take it you’ve never been with a girl who squirts?”
“Nope.” His voice was so monotone it irritated me. Perhaps I was hoping he’d be impressed? Apparently, it’s not a turn-on for every man. Pfft, couldn’t he at least show some interest?
Despite his ambivalence, I did not feel ashamed or embarrassed about my body—which was a big shift for me. (Hit the applause button.) In the past, I would have been ashamed if a man was put off by my body in any way. (Score one for the team!). If the Minotaur had a problem with me leaving a puddle when I orgasmed, well then, he could go back to the enchanted forest and track down a virgin princess.
Despite the uneven end to our evening, my clash with the Minotaur reinforced something powerful and new about myself: that my body’s ability to experience the intense pleasure of G-spot orgasm was not contingent on one or two men’s sexual prowess. My marvelous new talent was all mine to pack up, take with me, and enjoy with whomever I wanted.
Feeling inspired, I spent the next day and a half attacking a household project that I’d put off for months (alright, years): I painted my daughter’s bedroom. Goodbye star stencils, hello sunshine yellow! While on a roll, I also sorted through her closets and drawers, bagging up old and outgrown clothes for the Good Will. I viewed the results of my hard work with a smile: Now this was satisfying!
Then, out of the blue, Chad called. Yup, talk about unexpected. He apologized profusely, citing football games and practices as reasons for his disappearance. I decided to let him off the hook—not because I fully believed him but because my body wanted to see him.
I didn’t think his poor behavior warranted a sexy “Delaine-o-Gram” entrance, so I showed up wearing a stylish pink T and jeans, toting an overnight bag stuffed with my Super Girl jammies. And as we sat on his couch, feeling relaxed, our conversation flowing easily, I inwardly grinned at his feature wall painting: some NHL goalie making a save. Such a jock. And obviously a bachelor!
Suddenly, he was leaning into me on the couch. His lips were on my neck, sending warmth throughout my stomach. “So . . .” he said softly, as I sat there, eyes closed. “I covered my bed with a plastic parachute.”
I burst out laughing. “What?”
He stood up and added playfully: “And four layers of towels—actually, I think I emptied most of my linen closet. And I’ve got scuba gear beside the bed, you know—just in case.”
I laughed harder, “Maybe move the water cooler in there too so I don’t get dehydrated.”
“Done!” he said, as he pulled me to my feet and into his chest. More seriously: “Now let’s go see how many times I can make you squirt.”
An offer I couldn’t refuse.
Suffice it to say, our time together was amazing; the same as it was our first time together only longer and more intense. We changed the sheets twice.
This time when we said goodbye, I commanded him sweetly not to wait so long to phone. Our sexual chemistry was so dynamite, I felt confident he’d follow my orders.
So not only did I experience two nights of passion with two different men, I also completed Shane’s assigned mission. I had to rate Operation Double Satisfaction a hands-down success.
The Duke and his games aside, personally I felt completely at peace with my actions; no regrets. No guilt. Moreover, I felt proud of myself. I stepped outside my boundaries and experienced something new that felt empowering and didn’t hurt anyone. I allowed myself to be a little wild and be a little “bad” (if only in the context of “conventional” mores), and it was incredibly fun, sexy, and satisfying. I’d had a Super Girl weekend, that’s for sure. That said, I didn’t plan to broadcast it around, even to my more open-minded friends. Just Hali, as always. Besides, I soon learned she had her own story to tell. And she actually outscored me. The vixen!
After their heated email repartee reached the breaking point, Hali finally met up with the Mini Val Kilmer (a.k.a., “the bed-post-notcher”) on Thursday, the night before I “peed” on Minotaur Brent. Then on Saturday, she had a surprise quickie with the well-endowed Josh; and on Sunday it was with her soon-to-be ex-husband, Paul.
I was totally taken aback by the last one.
“Oh no, Hali—Paul? How did this happen?” I asked her the next morning.
“I know I know. It wasn’t planned at all, Delaine. He came to my place to drop off the kids and stuck around to help me put them to bed. Afterward, he asked if he could have a glass of wine. I was in the mood for one too, so I said, ‘Sure, go ahead.’ Of course, we ended up finishing the bottle.
“As we talked on the couch, he started rubbing my back and running his hand through my hair. I knew where it was leading and I kept looking at the clock thinking, ‘I had sex with Josh less than twenty-four hours ago. I should at least try to stall.’ (Laugh) But, oh well. It felt right so we went upstairs and had sex.”
“And how was it? Or more importantly, how do you feel now?”
There was a pause. “It was good,” she said. “It was familiar, you know? He was very passionate. I think it meant a lot to him and he kept telling me how beautiful I was. But for me it was more just the physical enjoyment of sex. I’m not reading into it, Delaine. It’s common for couples who break up to fall into bed a few times afterward. That’s all it was.”
I wasn’t convinced. My sense was that he was trying to maneuver his way back into her life and I feared her vulnerability. But she sounded okay with what transpired. In fact, she seemed stuck on the fact she’d had sex with three different men in four days: “I just can’t believe I had to kill time before sleeping with Paul so I could hit the twenty-four-hour mark. How bad is that?”
Later that night, I laid in bed grinning over our weekend’s sexual escapades. Who’d have thought that the two of us were capable of such naughtiness? Somehow, knowing my best friend had been as mischievous as me made it all the more sweet. And unlike me, Hali hadn’t needed a coach like Shane to dare her to do it. She simply “owned” it. Guess her Wild Woman just told her other committee members to shut up.
The next morning, I got mail from Shane:Of course you’re a slut. I see it every time I look at your coy little photos. I’m glad you enjoyed yourself last weekend and feel good about it. You see, this is the stuff I like. I enjoy effecting a woman’s actions even when miles away. The orgasms you had were partly caused by me. Admit it: you orgasmed partly because of me, didn’t you? Think about that. Maybe you should think about thanking me for helping you have your best orgasms ever. Maybe you should think about how your sexuality took a quantum leap forward just from having a taste of me and how it might improve more dramatically if you give yourself to me more.
I sat there with my mouth agape. I guess I had been expecting a jubilant high-five, not . . . this. It felt like a half-reprimand, half-reminder that my weekend men were but puny sprouts compared to the “Super Alpha Man.” Grrrr, not only was he trying to put me in “my place” again, he was titillating me with an even greater challenge: squaring off with him.
He was right, though: my actions and orgasms were, in part, because of him. Perhaps I did owe him a smidgen of gratitude. And yes, I wondered what might happen if I did give more of myself to him?
But I was getting ahead of myself. Because Wild Woman or not, this Super Girl could only take on so many challenges at once.
CHAPTER 13
HIDDEN DESIRES AND HOPEFULNESS
THE SCHOOL GYMNASIUM WAS PACKED full of parents when I arrived to watch my middle son, Evan’s, autumn kindergarten performance. I was standing to the side, scanning the room for an empty chair, when a hand waving from the back caught my attention. It was one of my mom-friends, Tina, gesturing me over.
“We saved you a seat,” she said as I sat down next to her and her husband.
“Thanks guys. I meant to come a few minutes earlier but homework was a war tonight, and I had to get the kids settled with my sitter.”
She smiled knowingly. “We have those nights too.” The lights in the room suddenly dimmed. “Good timing,” she whispered.
“Ladies and gentlemen, friends and parents,” the school principal announced over the microphone from center stage. “Welcome to this year’s kindergarten performance of Songs from Around the World.”
The room was abuzz with parent anticipation. Actually, this was an all-out family affair: younger siblings climbing in their seats, moms and dads perched side by side with video cameras, a grandparent or two reclining and browsing through the program. I noticed that a lot of fathers were present, some in their work suits, a few sitting alone. Though I had attended countless past events solo when Robert was out of town, tonight I felt my “singleness” acutely amid all these families. I wondered: How many of these men are separated or divorced?
All at once, music boomed over the loudspeakers and children paraded onto the stage and through the gym’s side doors. The room exploded with their sweet voices, a sound so angelic it brought tears to my eyes. I searched through the hoards of children smartly dressed in their navy blue and white uniforms, until there, off on the right side of the stage, I saw my son’s wild red hair. His mouth was moving, but I could tell he was looking for me. I half-stood and waved, again . . . and again . . . until finally our eyes met. He waved back immediately, beaming from ear-to-ear. I nodded enthusiastically: Don’t worry, Mommy’s here! And he carried on singing, now more animatedly.
The opening number ended with mighty applause. Cameras flashed like paparazzi. As tiny feet scurried off the stage, I quickly scanned the program. His class wasn’t performing until the last act. That meant five other kindergarten classes to sit through. Sigh.
As the first act commenced (some ditty about China), my attention shifted. There, in the back of the dark, elementary school auditorium, buried amid row after row of seemingly devoted moms and dads, my mind floated to a wholly different realm.
The tape rolled, unedited snippets of X-rated footage from last weekend’s sexual encounters: The Minotaur then Chad, Chad then The Minotaur. Hungry lips on my skin, a rough hand caressing my nipple, hard muscles engaged, groans from the throat, strong hands clenching my hips . . . Could I even tell them apart in my reverie? It was all just sizzling touches and erotic captions relived, replayed, over and over and over.
I felt a sudden warm rush. My body responded in the here and now. I sat up tall in my seat and crossed my legs. Welcome back. Did anyone notice I was gone? Am I looking in the right direction? Oh, everyone’s laughing. Smile along, look engaged.
Man, this is so bad, I thought, feeling really guilty. Instead of marveling at my son’s first kindergarten performance, I’m off in a sexual fantasy world!
I gazed at the faces and profiles of those near me. I was looking for evidence, signs, clues about their real lives: secret passions, hidden desires. I wondered who had a fulfilling sex life, a passionate lover in the wings, or maybe no sex at all. Surely I couldn’t be the only one with something to hide.
Suddenly, a man in the row ahead looked back over his shoulder at me. We locked eyes for a long second until I pulled mine away. What made him turn away from the stage? Did he unconsciously feel my wanton sexual energy? Did he see “Wild Divorcee” written all over me? Please don’t let his wife look back, too. She’ll know. She’ll know I’m a “promiscuous girl.” I swear I’m transparent.
Oh my God, I am so paranoid. I just can’t seem to escape it. Might as well go ahead and write in on my tombstone:LOVING MOM, DEDICATED FRIEND,
HAD SEX WITH TWO DIFFERENT MEN IN ONE WEEKEND.
DEVOTED HER LIFE TO WORRYING ABOUT IT.
But now that I’d had a few days to digest last weekend’s promiscuity, my mind was at war with itself and my body. Why the heck did I call it “promiscuity” anyway? I hated that word. It was so judgmental and, well, limiting. Why couldn’t I think of it as “sexual exploration”? Yes, that sounded way more empowering.
Where had this shrill, paranoid voice inside my head come from? Was it high school? Man, I perseverate! I thought back twenty-three years to that crazy self-defining time when I heard whispered rumors about “so and so” being a slut. Talk was vicious and spread like wildfire. No one had a clue how to keep a secret at that age, and once a girl was labeled, she was marked for good.
High school may have acted as a launch pad for my beliefs, but they were most certainly reinforced and drilled home afterward. In university, the workplace, the neighborhood, bars, sometimes even family gatherings, talk about “some woman” was bound to get cheap. It still did.
I’d naively assumed that the popularity of TV shows like Sex in the City and Desperate Housewives indicated that times had changed, that women could be seen as respectable and moral and sexual beings. But on closer look, that’s really wasn’t the case at all, was it? We still held our breaths when our favorite characters fell into bed with yet another man. They could only make so many mistakes. We still judged their actions: warranted? Or inexcusably whorish?
Then, there were the full-blown slut characters that we loved to hate. Look at Super Slut Samantha Jones who unapologetically “has sex like a man.” Carrie and the gang were ahead of the rest of us, accepting and loving and valuing her despite and because of her sexual lifestyle. But how many women would have frowned and whispered behind her back as soon as she left the table? Or even invited her to lunch in the first place?
And because I’m not just a woman, but a Divorced Mom, the harsh judgments potentially cast my way scared me to death. After all, “decent” divorced mothers should never engage in casual sex, right? Otherwise these women were loose, irresponsible, unfit mothers: the stereotype “divorcee.” That’s right; the insidious “D” word. Bet
ter lock up your husbands, ladies. No—decent divorced mothers should only want a serious relationship. And they better get on that quick, because with each year that passed, they were apt to grow more bitter and undesirable and desperate. They were women with cargo. Women who’d failed. Women who didn’t deserve any better. Spit.
I’m not even sure where my own judgments and those of society began and ended. All I knew was that I never dreamed of waking up at this point in my life a single mother of three. But reality dose: Here I was! And contrary to what any rule books may say, I knew beyond any morsel of doubt that I was not “dried up” and dead! Why couldn’t society trust me to be a good mother (amongst many other things), and allow me to be in charge of my own sexuality? Why should my “adventures,” which were helping me to heal, grow, and transform during a radical period of change, be a source of embarrassment or shame?
“We have to be careful about who we discuss our dating lives with,” Hali had warned me a month back. “You and I want to talk about this stuff because it’s exciting and scary and we’re suddenly single again. And we naturally assume that the people we love will understand us. But the truth is, most people can’t relate to it.”
Her warning had come after a conversation she’d had with her close, longtime friend Megan over lunch one day. Hali, accustomed to being open and honest with her, was rambling on about a twenty-nine-year-old man she’d met at a bar. The more she talked, the more she became aware of the disapproval in her friend’s eyes. When she’d confronted Megan about it, her friend replied defensively, “But I’m not judging you! You know I love you.”
The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom Page 14