Who cares! I screamed to myself. You’re here now so get a move on. Walk the walk! Too many people talk the talk and never take action. Live it, do it, and analyze it tomorrow.
I shut the car door and briskly walked into the hotel lobby. I easily followed signage to the bar and entered without pause.
I was greeted by the sound of classic rock music, the clink of cocktail glasses, and the hum of male conversation. Most of the stools were occupied—men in jeans and checkered work shirts or T’s, who turned from their drinks to appraise me. Damn, I’m way too overdressed for this place! I thought panicked. I hadn’t realized it was a popular hotel for oil rig workers.
But I straightened my shoulders and sidled up to the bar. Screw it! Own your power, I thought, as I ordered a glass of white wine. I deliberately kept my eyes facing front while the bartender poured. I wonder if Patrick is watching me. My spine tingled. Play it cool, I coached myself. Remember, you’re just some lovely diva who happened by this bar tonight. Act the role!
Wine glass in hand, I strolled toward the back of the bar where it was quieter. He’d have to come find me over here; plan his approach, so-to-speak. While standing, I took my jacket off—slowly—imagining him watching me over a highball glass. Damn, this is fun! I thought, giddy with my newfound confidence. I couldn’t believe I was actually finally doing this.
I sat poised and ladylike, casually drinking my white wine as if it was normal for a woman dressed like me to be in a place like this all alone. I could feel someone staring at me . . . I looked across a few tables and into the eyes of a bald-headed man with a big paunch. He looked like the archetype of a Mafia boss and so did his crew. Give me a break, I thought. His stare was so brazen, it was actually rude. He licked his upper lip. I stared right back, not smiling. Who’s gonna give? I wondered. I felt feline and tough, sexy and powerful. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. Finally, he half stood and waved. “Hi,” he said, and then gave me a big dopey smile.
“Hi,” I said back, with a nod of my head. I made no move to get up. He sat down and looked away. I sipped my wine. Score another for Alpha Delaine!
I fished through my purse to find my cell phone. Both Hali and Tory knew what I was up to. I had given them as many details as I could for my own protection. But I thought I should touch base with them, just to let them know all was well so far.
I’d almost finished dialing Hali’s number when a man plopped down in the chair across from me. I looked up at him and thought, Who are you?
“Sorry I’m late!” the man before me said jovially. “I’m Patrick.”
Slowly, I put down my glass and folded my arms in front of me. What the . . . ? This guy looked nothing like the guy online. He looked like a plump Islander from Hawaii, not a chiseled hunk.
Outwardly, I remained cool as my brain clamored to assess the situation. I told him he was to pretend he didn’t know me. And he came over and introduced himself as if this were a regular date. He broke my rule!
“You don’t look like your photo,” I stated in a matter-of-fact tone.
“I don’t?” He shifted in his seat.
I lifted my glass and took another sip. “No. You don’t.” I continued to stare. He squirmed around some more, his round, soft cheeks smiling.
But his eyes were full of fear. I knew then, without a doubt, that this man could never mentally rise to my challenge.
After ten seconds of silence, he asked, “Do you want me to leave?”
Four-second pause.
“Yes.”
And with that, he jumped off his chair and disappeared around the corner like he was doing the 100-meter dash.
I sat there stunned. My fantasy had gone directly from the starting gates to the finish line in under thirty seconds; a new world record, I’m sure.
Ten minutes later, I was driving home, fuming, a freshly lit cigarette scissored between my fingers. What a waste of time and energy! I’d been “had.” He wasn’t even who he said he was!
But despite my fuming, I suddenly giggled. The situation was just so absurd. And hilarious. Me in full fantasy mode, decked out, serious as could be about playing my “role”—and who cruises in but the antithesis of my “fantasy” hunk. Talk about crash and burn: that was fantasy pulverization.
Oh well, I thought with a grin. Five gold stars to me for walking the talk. But I think it’s time to reshelve this fantasy—too much of a wild card for the online dating world!
And I swore I heard my guardian angels laugh, “Ya think?”
CHAPTER 17
A CHAMELEON IN SEARCH OF HOME
OVER THE PAST FEW WEEKS, both of my relationships with my service males—Adonis-Boy Daniel and Minotaur Brent—freefell to the ground at astonishing speeds. But there was no earth-shattering crash, no alarming 911 response. It was more like the sound of a shoulder shrug.
Perhaps if I’d maintained our relationships as dominant/submissive, as per Shane’s instructions, the erotic mystique and “power” play may have lengthened their life spans. But when it came right down to it, I ended up just being me, which meant talking and getting to know them in a normal, friendly way outside the bedroom. As a result, our ten-year age difference flapped and crackled in my face like a wind-whipped red flag.
I tried to reserve judgment on them, to accept and appreciate them for exactly who they were. And I did see some good qualities in each of them, like Adonis Boy’s flare for interior decorating, and Minotaur’s fondness of cats. But our looking glasses were just too different; they’d never been married, neither had kids, and they were just getting started in their careers. In short, life was all about them.
“The key to making marriages work,” Adonis Boy said to me on our third and final evening together, “is to not live together beforehand.”
Great, I thought with a smile. He’s opening an interesting conversation. “And . . . ?” I asked, waiting. “What else?”
“That’s it,” he said with a wave of his hand. “If you live together before the wedding, you’ve already bought pots and pans together and decorated your house. So after you sign the papers, nothing really changes. But, if you wait, you spend a good three years going out and shopping for pots and pans and stuff for your home. It’s something new you can enjoy together.”
Seriously?!
“But Daniel,” I laughed, his naivety worse than I even imagined. “Down the road, life is going to throw you both many challenges—kids, work . . . and so many others. Whether you shopped for dishes before or after the wedding won’t make a darn difference!”
“No. You’re wrong.” Mouth pursed, he shook his blond head from side-to-side. “Couples just need to wait to move in together. It gives them the glue to stay together in the future.”
Oh. My. God. He was serious. I had to turn my face away as he then pontificated to me about marriage and divorce. His ignorance and righteousness were too much—with each slow blink of my eyes, his golden Adonis aura was fading.
A few days later, I saw Minotaur Brent for the third and final time, too. He’d had a long, stressful day at work. I knew he was grumpy (he was a moody type), so I let him spew for a while as we sat on the couch. Then, true to Delaine form, I offered up words of support and empathy: “I know what you’re saying, Brent. My stress level often goes into the red zone, too. But it’ll pass. Try to let it go till tomorrow.”
He laughed, “What stress do you know? You’re just a stay-at-home mom.”
Raw nerve exposed. My eyes shifted from side-to-side. Relax, Delaine. He’s not Robert. He’s just young and ignorant. He doesn’t mean anything by it.
“You have no idea . . . ” I said to the wall, willing myself not to lay into him.
But fifteen minutes later, I still hadn’t recovered. He was no longer a Minotaur but an arrogant, ignorant donkey’s ass. Suffice to say, I didn’t see him again.
What killed me now, in retrospect, was how poorly I’d reacted to their egotism. Inwardly, I was appalled and screaming, but outwardly, I avoided
conflict. Moreover, I saw how, in a few other conversations we shared, I not only “dumbed myself down” to appeal to their level, but I also brushed off insensitive comments to “keep the peace.”
So much for Dominant Tough Girl.
Why couldn’t I muster my alpha side? I knew she was there. Was the chameleon-like Delaine who sat across from these boys more concerned with winning their approval than being true to her convictions and who she was? Or had my marriage trained me to brush off rudeness, chauvinism, even callousness to avoid conflict and disharmony? Maybe I was simply hardwired to want to please others at the expense of my authentic self. But I had to wonder, who the heck was the authentic Delaine anyway? I knew she was in there somewhere. Perhaps the first step to becoming more real was becoming aware of when I wasn’t.
I always thought my “chameleon” inclination was a good thing—that it made me adaptable, more expansive, and better able to connect and blend with different types of people. But upon closer examination, I also recognized its shadow side: the loss of my own true colors. I’d been wearing camouflage for so long, I couldn’t even remember what the vibrant shades of myself looked like. Because this chameleon-like tendency undermined my true self when I dealt with domineering personalities. Like Robert. I became compliant and acquiescent. In fact, with Robert, I’d have bent myself into a pretzel if it meant keeping him happy or keeping the peace.
Oh, you need to stay out all night and get drunk with your friends? Sure, Robert darling, go ahead. I’ll drive home alone and pay the baby sitter. I’ll get up in the middle of the night with the kids.
What’s that? You’ll need to sleep it off in the morning? Of course, honey, I’ll bring the kids out somewhere first thing so the house will be quiet. ’K, have a good time, sweetheart.
How often had that scenario played itself out? Once, twice a month? Or had it really been every other night when he was home, just in more subtle ways? God, why hadn’t I just said, “Nope, you get your butt home. You should be with your wife and kids!” But I hadn’t. I’d just bent. Despite the cost to me.
When it came to arguing with Robert, my vertebrae were as supple as unbaked dough. It wouldn’t matter what we were at odds about, the dynamic was almost always the same: I would carefully approach him, and clearly, but sincerely, express my concerns—I didn’t want to come across as on the attack. But his response was almost always the same: passive-aggressive anger. He’d go into internal lockdown, ignoring me, avoiding me, throwing backhanded remarks at me. Potent one-liners, full of disdain. I hated it. I hated the tension; I hated the knot in my stomach; I hated the fact that we were wasting the precious limited time we had together in between his work assignments.
So I would apologize to him. Apologize for bringing it up, apologize for making him mad or upset. Yes, honey, I know you work hard when you’re out of town . . . Yes I know you’re a great provider and you’re doing the best you can . . . Yes, I’m just being silly. Yeah, stubborn and unreasonable, too. What’s that? Make up sex? Yeah . . . sure . . . I definitely needed to get a handle on my knee-jerk deference
I definitely needed to get a handle on my knee-jerk deference response, not just with the men I dated, but with Robert. Because he was still threatening and bullying me around our separation agreement. A part of me wanted to cave in to his financial terms just so I could free myself from him and move on with my life. Yet another part of me screamed, Stand your ground, Delaine! He is so accustomed to you giving in to him that he assumes he’ll get his way again. You need this money to look after yourself and your kids, and whether he likes it or not, he has a financial responsibility to you.
So I wasn’t going to cave. I still wavered from time to time, but I wasn’t backing down.
Lately, when I’d had contact with Robert, I did a little creative visualization to help me deal with him: I’d metamorphose into my Warrior Woman, a respected and close ally of my Wild Woman. I’d imagine myself standing before him in a warrior stance with a shield in my hands, instead of my hands wrapped defensively around my chest. I’d look him square in the eyes and hold his gaze, instead of looking away. Still, sometimes I exited our meetings wounded all the same, and it took me a few days to recover. But sometimes not. And I walked away with my head held high.
As I employed this tactic, I noticed changes in his behavior. He avoided looking me in the eyes more. Hey, for all I know, maybe the sight of me disgusted him. But my intuition said he sensed I was getting stronger. I sensed his growing cowardice. And yet . . . my softer, more forgiving side was a strong force too, because while I felt proud of the progress I was showing, I nonetheless felt compassion and sympathy for him; he, too, was struggling to figure out life as a newly single father. But I knew I couldn’t let my guard down about the settlement and custody agreements. He’d come in for the jugular every time.
As for my brief “relationships” with Adonis Boy Daniel and Minotaur Brent, I had no regrets. Unwittingly, they helped me take a deeper look at my chameleon-like nature. And they enticed me to step out of the “Land of Shouldn’ts” and into harmless Young Man Territory. Their sexually desiring me was a great ego rub; no doubt about that. And having sex with them was good, delicious fun. Not only did I expend my pent-up sexual energy on them, but I also discovered I could G-spot orgasm in different positions and with different men other than with Football Coach Chad and his “maneuver.” It ultimately affirmed that I was the one in charge of my body; my body, my sexuality, and my sensuality belonged to me.
My young-man relationships also confirmed something that I already knew: A nice butt and a broad set of shoulders weren’t enough to hold my interest for long. I could respect and appreciate them for all their worth to me, but I was definitely ready to move on.
The question was . . . to what?
THE “THOUGHT” CROSSED my mind today. It wasn’t the first time. In fact, it had stuck its nose in my face hundreds of times since I’d initiated my divorce.
Maybe I should get back together with Robert.
Doubts always lurked around my decision to end my marriage: What if I gave up too soon? What if things got better? What if, what if, what if ?
Sometimes I wished I hated him; then all doubt would be eradicated. If I could dump all my anger, blame, and hurt on top of him, I could turn him into a monster so hideous that I could wallow, self-righteously, in the role of Undeserving Victim. But I knew it didn’t work that way, that hate would only turn its ugly head on me and eat me from the inside out. My wish was nothing but an illusion, a fantasy of a quick fix that momentarily justified my suffering and excused me from having to take responsibility. For anything.
But I knew I still loved Robert in many ways, in spite of how unkind he could be. It was my nature to see the best of a person, to their core. And I believed in his authentic goodness. I would always care about him. I simply didn’t have enough rage to wipe out all our wonderful memories together. I couldn’t label him Evil when I could still feel the warmth of his smiles and laughter. Or when I remembered the times he cried, the times he tenderly held my children, the times he generously gave with his love and money. I couldn’t take the vastness of his spirit and lock it into a container marked “POISON.”
Thoughts are funny things—dangerous too. My conscious mind never seems to turn off. It’s an endless barrage of memories, analyses, projections, fantasies. It chatters to the point of overload, determined to understand, decipher, solve. And quick on its heels lay an army of emotions, a chaotic mass of furious feelings that range from love and gratitude to anger and despair. I become prisoner to an internal hell that is 100 percent self-created. Could Robert and I salvage our marriage? Could we have a decent life together if we chose to? I knew the answers were yes. It would take a tremendous amount of work, but yes, we could. But the bigger, more important question remained: Was Robert the man I wanted, desired, and deserved to spend my life with?
I loved Robert when I married him. My definition of love back then was more naïve
and more limited than what it is now, but my feelings for him were genuine. Often I hear divorced people speak bitterly about their marriage: that it was a mistake, that they never really loved their ex, that warning signs had been flashing from the get-go. My hindsight exposed those incongruities, too. But I felt no need to minimize or rip apart a love I deemed so beautiful in my twenties. It was real to me then and offered me many gifts, like my three beautiful children. If a marriage was already dead, why wave a carving knife over its grave?
I found myself constantly pondering the meaning of “true love.” Through TV, books, my family, the church, I was indoctrinated to believe it was the ultimate goal in life, that it was this magical merging of two souls on every level. And that “time” was one of its essential ingredients—a lifetime, that is. No doubt, there was something beautifully romantic and courageous in the idea of two people witnessing each other’s entire life journey, through all the triumphs and heartbreaks.
But I wasn’t convinced that that definition was correct. And I felt certain I was but one of thousands, if not millions, who had questioned it. Especially if they’d gone through a divorce. I wondered if perhaps true love wasn’t something conferred on you by another, but that it was more a state of personal being that one expressed outwardly and received in return. A state of being that was not exclusive, but inclusive: to her partner, her friends, her neighbors, her coworkers, and the vast beautiful world at large. To me, that kind of love seemed the ultimate, for it honored the connectedness and sacredness of all life.
My personal take on this thing called life is that we’re here on Earth to learn and grow and evolve into beings of love—individually. Perhaps that process is fostered within one serious relationship alone, or not. If a relationship no longer served me on a spiritual level, I wondered, should I feel compelled, guilty, obliged to stay in it—whether I made those vows two, five, or twenty years ago? Do the rules and expectations of marriage sabotage our souls’ ultimate mission?
The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom Page 17