Dik-dik? I didn’t know what they were, but with a name like that . . .
I clicked on the link. “A small antelope that lives in the African brush . . . named for the sound it makes when alarmed . . . they stand approx 35 cm at the shoulder and weigh about 5 kg . . .” To the right of the page was a photo of an animal that looked like a cross between a midget antelope and a scrawny Bambi.
I grinned: So this is how Shane views submissive men; a totally demeaning, yet creative analogy nonetheless.
But do I buy it? Do I want to “devour” these creatures, my sweet little dik-dik men? Do I want to “keep them in their place” by making them do my laundry or jumping to serve my every whim and mood? Or do I want them hanging around at all?
Sigh. I really couldn’t see getting any pleasure from it. And looking at the dik-dik photo, the mother in me just wanted to singsong, “awwww” and send him back to his own momma.
CHAPTER 15
PONYTAILED MOM VS. AUDACIOUS ONLINE DIVA
ANOTHER WEEKEND ALONE WITH my kids had passed. And it had felt so long. Not because of activity overload or anything particularly strenuous. It was all because of me. My tank was bone dry. Cracked.
Just after six o’clock that evening, kids fed and in the bathtub, I snuck out the backdoor for a cigarette and some quiet. Through the small bathroom window above me, I could hear the kids’ voices as they played happily in the bubble-filled tub. PLEASE don’t fight for five minutes, I thought, feeling exhausted. Please just give me a few uninterrupted minutes to myself.
Suddenly, guilt engulfed me. I knew damn well that if I didn’t stay up so late talking to strange men online, I’d have more energy for my kids. You need to get your priorities straight, Girl, a disgusted voice scolded.
I inhaled deeply, lifting my hands as if in surrender to an empty backyard. Truth was, I had no defense. Triple shame on me. But—I thought, as I exhaled long. I’m doing the best I can.
I felt like I was living two separate lives: ponytailed stay-at-home mom and audacious online diva. The e-dating world continued to seduce and distract me. Like an addiction. Like an unfaithful red hot lover who I knew could only spell bad news.
Last night, on the Sugar Daddy site, a married man wrote that he was coming to Calgary on business. He wanted to meet me. After a quick read of his written profile, I politely, yet firmly replied that I don’t date married men.
“I will give you one thousand dollars,” he responded.
WHAT? “I’m not a prostitute, thank-you-very-much,” I replied angrily. “And I don’t date married men, regardless of wallet-size.” “Two thousand.”
“I’m NOT a prostitute,” I pounded on my keyboard. “I’m sure you’ll find other takers in Calgary if you look around.”
A final email: “Five thousand dollars.” And his picture was attached.
I sat there with my mouth open—both at the amount he was offering and his audacity. I clicked on the photo and looked straight into the olive-skinned face of a dark-haired man wearing an obviously expensive suit. “Who are you?” I asked the picture, wondering at his life story. I felt intrigued, yet disgusted and sorry for him all at the same time. I blocked him.
Last night, I also had an appalling phone conversation with a another man: some fifty-year-old oil tycoon from Texas. Although he was highly intelligent and well spoken, my spider senses started tingling when he began referring to the “nobles” (such as himself) and the “peasants” (anyone outside his social circle). He also kept asking me about my family history—diseases, genetics, if my family was well educated, etcetera. Finally, I came right out and asked what his true intentions were. His goal, he said, was to find and impregnate several women of good “breeding stock” from either Canada or the United States. Once the babies were born, he would pay off the moms while he raised the children with his immediate family.
“You’ve GOT to be joking,” I declared.
“I’m dead serious,” he said. “One twenty-five-year-old in L.A. is already three months along. I just need to find two more.” He laughed.
And I hung up.
During the past couple of months, I’d received other strange requests and offers. Like a two-week vacation to an exclusive hedonistic resort. Or other impromptu trips to cities dotted all over the United States and the Caribbean. One man was specifically looking for a woman who enjoyed wearing a strap-on. He stated this in his first email to me. Another man wanted me to join him and his wife for some “honky-tonk” on their ranch. And when I told him I wasn’t into women, he tried to entice me with naked photos—of HER.
What are you looking for, Delaine? I kept asking myself. I wasn’t free to travel; I wasn’t interested in any of these kinks. What did I want?
But I had no answer. My mind and heart were all over the map—and the men I was attracting proved this. The universe was responding to my overblown, under-settled, major-confused energy.
Relax! a voice would call to me in my brain. You’re simply in exploration mode. You’re “doing research,” so-to-speak. Like Shane said, this isn’t a fortune cookie, it’s a process. Over time, you’ll zoom in on what you really want.
“Moooooom!” My daughter’s voice sliced through my diffuse awareness. I raced inside to help her out of the tub and dress her in her jammies for bed. Twenty minutes later, all three kids sat on the family room couch, gobbling up chopped fruit, while I threw on Walt Disney’s Pocahontas.
Normally, I was a Nazi-police when it came to controlling TV and movie-watching time. But tonight, I ached for some dead-brain time. A movie was the perfect way to be with the kids in body, if not in mind and heart.
But I’d forgotten: children have no movie-watching etiquette. Their questions started flying:
“Are Indians real mom?”
“Why is their hair sticking up?”
“This show is TRUE? Is Pocahontas here now?
Finally, I blurted: “Just watch the movie guys! You’re missing it!”
As if on cue, Pocahontas began singing the song, “Just Around the River Bend.” I watched my kids go wide-eyed and semiconscious as the movie cast its spell. Relieved, I leaned back into the couch and turned my weary mind to the TV screen. And suddenly, before I knew it, I, the only adult in the room, was being whisked down the river in this vibrant flurry of song and animation as well.
And then it happened. Maybe because I was overtired, or maybe because I was an emotional basket case. But I associated so deeply with the final bars and scene of the song that I started to cry. Pocahontas had arrived at a fork in the river. The time was upon her to choose a path. Should she choose the river that appeared as smooth and steady as a beating drum? Or should she take a risk, go against her common sense, and choose the other, full of rapids and dreams and the unknown?
My heart pushed and pulled, as if being kneaded to the beat of the native drum. I felt every one of Pocahontas’ words. I knew the position she was in. I’d arrived at a critical fork in my life’s river, TWICE in the past two years: first, when Robert had an affair and I chose what I’d believed was the “smooth course,” the safe route, by staying married. And then again, two years ago, when I chose the turbulent course, the one that broke all of society’s rules and potentially put my reputation on the chopping block: I had an affair with Graham. And as I watched Pocahontas boldly take the more tumultuous river, even though everyone else had warned her not to, I felt her passion, her desire to reach for more, the fire in her heart and bones. And inwardly I applauded her. I applauded myself; not because I’m proud to have had an affair. But because I knew how much courage my choice had required. It went against everything I’d been taught or believed in. I’d had three kids and a family dream on board with me, and I was terrified. But I’d believed in love, I’d believed in me/us/destiny /the universe, and I’d dared to be true to my heart. And even though I didn’t foresee the perilous waterfall of betrayal awaiting me ahead, even though I was still navigating an internal and external gulf of rapids, I wo
uldn’t change any of my decisions.
I still had hope, faith, that somewhere up ahead, along this tumultuous, unbelted ride, I’d arrive at a place within myself that would make every second of this journey worthwhile; that somehow, in reaching new lows of sorrow, grief, failure, and fear, I’d one day be destined to reach heightened levels of joy and love; that each and every task, obstacle, and emotional danger I’d confronted along this course would change me, improve me, and empower me to live authentic to myself, not how the world expected me live.
“Are you crying Mom?” my five-year-old son suddenly asked, ducking his face in front of mine.
“Yeah,” I replied, wiping my eyes with my sleeve.
“It’s okay mom,” he said sincerely, pulling my neck into a hug.
I chuckled, hugging him tenderly. “I’m not sad honey. It’s just that . . . if you listen closely to the sound of the native drum, it opens up your heart.”
And so I sat, snuggling with my children, to the very end of Pocahontas. And I cried many times throughout, as my heart throbbed to the not-so-steady rhythm of my own life. And when my children noticed my ongoing streams of tears, they nodded their heads sweetly . . . as if they understood.
CHAPTER 16
HOTEL FANTASY WITH A SERVICE MALE
Mission No. 5
Subject’s Name: Patrick
Age: 28
Body Type: rugged and muscular
Penis Size: reported as 7 ½ inches long and 6 inches around (unconfirmed)
WHEN PATRICK FIRST MESSAGED ME a month ago, his profile immediately seized my attention and made my imagination run wild. It read:Not looking for anything serious, just fun and intense. So tell me what you fantasize about, what you wish for and keep locked inside you. We’ll keep it our secret . . .
Only one photo was attached: He was sitting on a curb in bluejeans and a T-shirt, arm muscles were relaxed but bulging, his chiseled face and dark smoky eyes looked slightly off to the left. He was cloaked in an air of Mysterious Bad Boy. And I wanted to investigate.
Problem was, he lived and worked out of town. I doubted a face-to-face meeting would ever actually transpire. But then came his unexpected email: “I’m coming to town next Wednesday and staying at the Glenclose Hotel. Tell me what you want.”
I saw fantasy written all over it: the backdrop, the circumstances, and the leading man. For over a decade, I’d secretly fantasized about lounging in a classy hotel bar, dressed to the nines, sipping white wine, and having a handsome, gallant man approach me. He’d buy me another drink and slowly engage me with his intelligence and charm (and killer smile). But I’d keep him guessing the whole time; the tango of seduction would be on.
But of course, he’d succeed, and we’d eventually end up in his hotel room for a long night of sensual, uninhibited pleasure. And the next day, after we kissed goodbye, I’d replay our delicious memories together. I knew I’d never see him again, and I’d be perfectly fine with that. Our one hot night together would fulfill my erotic fantasy.
Sure, I knew it seemed a little daring to want to live out this fantasy with an online stranger. The safer, more sensible choice would have been to role-play it within the safety of my marriage, or the cocoon of a love affair. After all, fantasies are supposedly best shared and explored with someone we trust and love, or so I was taught to believe.
The truth is, I never prioritized this fantasy when I was married or in love with Graham. More specifically, I didn’t prioritize my Sexual Self, nor the process of getting to know that side of me more. Sure, I considered mentioning it to both of them, especially at the beginning of our relationships, when everything was new. But I couldn’t summon my voice. I felt silly. Nervous, too. Beause what if they felt obliged rather than eager to enact it? What if the scene fell flat because they couldn’t properly play their role, or it felt too contrived? I held this fantasy close to me, protectively, self-protectively; for in it, the man intuitively reads me. He gives me what I want, what I desire, what I yearn to feel . . . without instructions. What further appealed to me was that the next day, I wouldn’t have to do his laundry or listen to him belch in front of the TV.
While I knew I couldn’t expect men to be mind-readers, and that I needed to verbalize my wants and preferences, I also believed a little focused intuition wasn’t too much to ask for. Whether it was my husband or a stranger in a one-night fantasy, how hard could it be, I wondered, to bring more to the scene than a pant-load of testosterone? What about a little dash of imagination, a large heaping of confidence, mixed with a good dose of attention to nuance and subtlety? Because I knew I would intuit his every movement, gesture, smile, and word; I would want to make him feel like a Man. Call me entitled, but I didn’t want to be skim-read like a box of cereal; making me feel like a Woman didn’t just mean “wife” or “pussy.” My feeling like a Woman should be his honor, his duty, and his ultimate pleasure.
But in order for anyone to “intuitively read” another person meant that his heart, on some level, must be open; mind/body energies needed to funnel through his heart center in order to access higher perceptions. And the men I’d been with to date didn’t have a handle on that one. Most of their energy was concentrated solely between their legs. Maybe it’s testosterone, maybe it’s social conditioning about gender roles and expectations, or maybe they were so well taught to shove their emotions deep into their bellies (or into their muscles) that their heart passage remained underused, over guarded, or even out-of-order. Whatever the reason, I never got what I secretly yearned for, which, sadly, also robbed them from experiencing new levels of pleasure and intensity. Without intuition, the tango of seduction was reduced to the “Hokey Pokey.”
Maybe I was aching for something that simply didn’t exist. Maybe the steamy scenes I’d been fed through romance novels and erotic literature had mislead me, set unrealistic expectations about how men behaved, both romantically and sexually. I couldn’t help but ask myself, if men really wanted to know what made women tick, why were they locked on hard-core porn sites instead of erotic literature. Because men are visual, my informed self told me. Yet, I just knew they were out there—men as sensual and playful and intuitive as me. I just had to find them.
But now, Patrick-with-the-smoky-eyes was not just coming to town, he was coming to a “hotel near me.” It was time to realize my fantasy.
I wrote him an email outlining the seduction scene I wanted, deliberately saying nothing about sex. “You’ll recognize me when you see me,” I wrote. “But you must act like you don’t know me. We are complete strangers. Your job will be to pick me up—and it won’t be easy to win over a lady like me. You better be mentally ready to rise to the occasion and earn me . . . or you’ll return to your hotel room alone.”
He responded that he fully understood the scene and would perform his role expertly.
As I beautified for the evening and slipped on my lingerie and red wrap-dress, I inwardly groomed my starlet persona that I’d selected for my fantasy. She would shine in the lead role tonight and leave poor Patrick wondering, “Who was that incredible woman who shook my world?” Or at least that was my hope.
Driving to the hotel, I felt sexy, alive. This called for some Rihanna, a little “Good Girl Gone Bad.” (Ha! It could be my new theme song!)
As I cranked the volume and sped down the highway, I sang along and meant every word of it. I am SO the Good Girl Gone Bad, I thought, laughing to myself. Wait, no-no-no-no-no. I’m worse! I am the Good Stay-at-Home Mom Gone Bad. Yup, that’s right. We stay-at-home moms can get more than a little naughty too. But unlike our younger, child-free sisters, we are extra wise, extra strong, and we take whatever “extras” we want. You self-proclaimed “MILF” hunters have it all wrong—we aren’t the prey, you are. You are but a Service Male—a SMILF!
And by the way, this SMILF huntress expects at least one orgasm before you have one.
. . . And, if I squirt and you have to change the sheets, I’ll expect you to do so without complaint.<
br />
. . . And and—one last thing here since I’m on a roll: No. Small. Penises. Allowed.
WHILE PULLING INTO the hotel parking lot, I noticed a 7-11 in a strip mall close by. Pit stop: I needed cigarettes.
As I walked through the neon-lit store in my winter jacket, my strappy high heels clacking across the floor, heads turned in my direction. Inwardly I smiled: That’s a thumbs-up on the stunning factor, Houston! Outwardly I beamed, my movements deliberate and unselfconscious.
Exiting the store, I noticed three men smoking and talking beside a parked car. I watched them literally halt their conversation midsentence to turn and stare at me.
Now in the past, such a reaction would have made me feel awkward and flustered. I’d have looked away as if I hadn’t noticed them, or done something as idiotic as drop my car keys.
But not tonight. Instead, my vanity was empowering.
I stopped and faced them directly. “Hi guys, how are you?”
This time, they were the ones who became flustered and looked away embarrassed. “Good,” one man managed to call out. They obviously weren’t expecting the lady-object to speak.
I grinned and got back in my car. The alpha had emerged from the pack. And low and behold, it wasn’t any of them, it was me. Shane would be proud! I felt suddenly so strong, independent, and in control. It was a pretty fabulous feeling.
Back in the hotel parking lot, I kept the engine running to do a final mirror check: nose clear, no makeup smudges, fresh lipstick applied to moist lips. I was ready. I looked over at the hotel entranceway, wondering if Patrick was already inside.
Suddenly, the insanity of what I was doing hit me. Have I lost my mind? Why am I doing this—and not Hali? Why am I the one who pushes things to the next degree? First there was Yummy Stranger, and now I’m planning to live out a fantasy with a total stranger?
The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom Page 16