The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom

by Moore, Delaine

  Immediately he explained that he (like Shane) was more interested in the mental side of D/s, though it “might” include some tactile elements, such as spanking, hair pulling, and using toys. “It really depends on what the submissive wants,” he said. “People have this misconception that a submissive is vulnerable and weak and at the Dom’s mercy. But that’s completely wrong. A Dom never takes away. He only builds.”

  A D/s relationship, in its truest form, is all about the submissive, he explained patiently. It’s about her wants, her needs, her fantasies. Some of her desires may be conscious, but others may be locked in her subconscious. The Dom’s job is to build a bond so strong with her that she feels safe enough, connected enough with him, to unleash her creativity and explore her innermost self. Through submission, she actually becomes empowered because she connects with her body, heart, and mind in much deeper ways.

  “Trust. Honesty. Communication. And Respect,” he said firmly. “Remember those four words. Those are the four pillars that a genuine D/s relationship is built upon. And until they are in place with any dom, always meet in a public place and always keep your clothes on,” he warned, “because there are men out there who use D/s as a way to abuse women. They think sex is all about them, that they can take whatever they want. I’ve been active in the D/s lifestyle for the past fifteen years and I’ve seen enough and heard enough to know that subs have to be very careful. Otherwise, you can end up in the hospital.”

  Okay, now I was scared. Hang up, hang up! a voice shrieked in my head. This is a sexual underground full of wackos. You’re still WAY too naive to go here.

  Nonetheless, I kept talking to him. I appreciated the fact that he was warning me. And I liked that our conversation switched easily to other aspects of our lives: family, work, past relationships. Unlike Shane, who’d been secretive and much more about the sex, John seemed an open book. He talked about his family—his younger sister who was pursuing her dream to become a violinist in New York City, his widowed mom and divorced brother who were very active in the church community, and his fourteen-year-old nephew, who regularly dropped in to play his Wii and raid his fridge. I found his devotion very warming, and when I mentioned this, he replied: “I am a very loving and caring man, Delaine. I love and laugh and work and play just like everyone else. The only difference is that I’m also a dom. It’s who I am and who I must continue to be. Once a person explores D/s, once he or she experiences the intensity of that connection, he can’t go back to regular ‘vanilla’ relationships.”

  As our conversation progressed, I gazed over at my computer screen where my favorite profile photo of him sat open. Arms loosely at his sides, he was leaning back against a wall wearing dark jeans and a simple white T-shirt. His gaze was slightly off to the side of the camera lens, and a soft smile spread across his clean-shaven face. He looks like the “man next door,” I thought to myself, knowing that he lived in the suburbs. Then: I sure wish a cute dom would move onto my street!

  I asked: “But since you’re single, I assume you must get sexually frustrated sometimes. Do you have a friend with benefits somewhere to help you out? Don’t you ever have one-night stands?”

  “No,” he stated matter-of-factly. “It’s been over a year since my last relationship and since I’ve had sex. I’d rather take care of myself than pick up some woman at a bar. I’m not twenty-five years old anymore; I am in control of myself, my body, and my life. I choose to wait for the mental connection.”

  He then asked if I’d heard the term “subspace” before. When I told him I hadn’t, he explained: “Subspace is the name given to the state that a submissive often goes into with her dom. Usually it happens after she’s had multiple orgasms and her mind and body are on overload. It’s kind of like being half-asleep, half-awake, yet it’s euphoric and she can remain in that place for up to an hour—at least, from what I’ve experienced.”

  “And what do you do when she’s off in subspace? Go have a coffee?” I asked, cheeky.

  He ignored my flip tone. “I may exit the room, but only for a few minutes. It’s my job to watch over her, stay close to her, and make sure she’s okay.”

  “But don’t you ever want to go into subspace?” I blurted.

  “No. I’m a dominant. My pleasure comes from giving her what she wants and needs. My pleasure is derived from the connection I feel with my partner.”

  “I see,” I answered weakly. But I really didn’t see or understand at all. You mean to tell me a dominant is someone whose goal and greatest pleasure is to explore and satisfy a woman’s every sexual want and need? WHAT? My body raced with excitement—this news couldn’t get any better! But my brain was scanning for the loophole. Surely there had to be a catch....

  John, noting my long silence, gently asked, “What are you looking for Delaine?”

  “I . . . I’m not really sure.” He patiently sat on the line. “I’ve never been in a D/s relationship before, and I don’t know if it’s what I really want. But I do know I’m drawn to it, even more so now that I’ve talked to you about it,” I admitted. “I do believe I have a submissive side to me. And I do want to explore it. My body totally responds to it—it shocks me, actually. But it scares me too,” I went on. “There’s so much I don’t know. And from what you’ve told me, a real element of trust needs to be in place between the dom and sub. And I’m kind of lacking in the trust department.”

  He waited, his attentive silence coaxing me to talk. And so I told him about Robert’s and Graham’s betrayals. And it felt strange to tell my stories again out loud. On the one hand I felt removed from them, yet at the same time, a few silent tears fell while I spoke. John listened quietly until I finished.

  “Good God,” he finally said, exhaling loudly. “What a twisted story. And I have to say, though Graham sounds like a jerk, your ex is even worse. He sounds like a selfish little boy.”

  “Yes, he made some bad choices,” I replied. “But he was younger than me and I just don’t think he was ready to have three kids before the age of thirty. I changed a lot when I became a mother: I didn’t want to party and get drunk anymore. He, on the other hand, did. I didn’t think it was my place to tell him when or if he could go out at night, so I gave him his freedom. And the next morning, if he came home, I would usher the kids downstairs and try to keep them quiet so he could sleep it off until noon.”

  I continued: “Sometimes though, he never even came home—he crashed at a friend’s place, which of course was his girlfriend’s house. But I’d always been okay with him staying at a friend’s place because he had a history of drinking and driving. At least this way I knew he was safe,” I said, laughing dryly. “I didn’t realize I was enabling his affair.

  “Oh well,” I sighed. “It’s all water under the bridge now. It’s all worked out for the best.”

  “Why are you defending him?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Why are you defending him?” He was irritated. “The man chose to abandon his wife and kids at night so he could go out, get drunk, and fuck other women. I don’t care how hard he worked or how many days he worked out of town. He should have come home and risen up to his responsibilities as a husband and a father. It doesn’t matter if he was younger than you, he chose to have children. He chose to have sex with you, get you pregnant, and bring them into this world. But instead of acting like a real man and taking care of his family, he was more interested in getting drunk and getting his rocks off.”

  The force of John’s words caught me off guard. I mustn’t be describing this fairly, I thought to myself.

  “Remember John, you’re only hearing my side of the story. I’m sure I was an imperfect wife in many ways. I contributed to the demise of my marriage, too.”

  “Of course you weren’t the perfect wife. There’s no such thing,” he answered curtly. “But the bottom line is that when things got tough, when life was demanding and you and your kids needed him most, he only thought about himself.”

  He exhaled lo
ng again.

  “Sorry to be so upfront, Delaine,” he said more gently. “I know it’s none of my business and I’m inserting my opinion without your asking. I’m ferociously protective of the people I love—I would do anything for them. And when I hear stories about men putting their cocks before the needs of their wives and kids, it repulses me.”

  Later on that night, as I lay in bed trying to sleep, John’s comments around Robert kept jabbing me awake. I knew he was just an outsider, a stranger, looking in on my marriage for but a few minutes. But his judgment of Robert was so absolute. And I wondered: Was his summation right? And did it even matter anymore?

  For a few brief minutes, I allowed myself to go back in time to revisit my marriage. It didn’t take long for the old feelings of hurt and anger to resurface. I knew that dwelling there would only suck me in and downward, so I quickly fast-forwarded to the now.

  But John’s vehement words wouldn’t let go. Why do I defend Robert and make excuses for his behavior?

  I didn’t think I was “defending” Robert so much as trying to be fair. We’ve all heard, after all, that “relationships are complicated things” and “the truth lies somewhere in between two people’s stories.” In essence, I was trying to view and speak of our history from a place of empathy and objectivity. That required I assume culpability for the role I played in its failure; to balance the scales, so-to-speak. I didn’t think that should be perceived as “weakness.” I think it was a very female way to perceive the world, for better or worse.

  After all, we’d both lost: Our family was torn apart, and the wounds we each carried were real.

  Over the next two weeks, John and I continued to talk every night by phone after I put the kids to bed. It felt strange, sometimes, going from snuggling with my bath-fresh babies, reading Goodnight Moon or Where the Wild Things Are, to then crossing into my own Wild Things territory soon after they fell into slumber. But it felt right, this distinction between my Mother Self and my Adult Self. I was finally getting it . . . I thought, feeling my equilibrium shift more to center. It’s okay to be a woman, too.

  Each conversation we shared was as lengthy and open as the first. An intense yet warm connection was developing between us; I’d dare to even call it a “special friendship.” Would we ever go further? I wasn’t sure. He never talked as if he was my dom. He referred to D/s in the third person. He never made any suggestion of us meeting, nor did he ever attempt to have phone sex with me. He just seemed to want to get to know me.

  And I was letting him in.

  IN KEEPING WITH my “date more than one man at a time” decision, I also started talking to Lornce, a successful businessman and entrepreneur. His energy was the polar opposite of John’s. He was as excitable and distractible as John was calm and intense. I inevitably found myself smiling after our whirlwind phone conversations. There was never time to get “deep” with Lornce; his other line was always beeping or he was rushing to his next appointment somewhere in San Francisco. Still, his flitting, touch-base phone calls were most charming: “Hi beautiful!” he’d pipe into the line, when he’d burst briefly into my day. “Just saying a quick hello. Are you conquering the world? Shaping your kiddies into little Einsteins? Give that pretty ass of yours a pat! Ciao, gotta run!”

  I felt his presence like the fleeting dance of a dragonfly: surprising, delightful, then . . . “outta here.”

  Lornce sent me a picture soon after we’d made contact—just his face. I’d studied it, trying not to be judgmental. He was pushing fifty and losing his hair, laugh lines and bags decorated his eyes, and his lips were thinning. As Hali put it, “He looks like your typical middle-aged man.”

  The truth was, had I met a man like Lornce locally, I highly doubt I’d have dated him. For the role of “out-of-town friend/lover,” however, he merited consideration. More importantly, I found his intelligence very attractive (though he talked a mile a minute), and I enjoyed his silliness and the ease with which he laughed. I felt very unthreatened by him. Like he would enhance my world but not rock it.

  Still, the physical attraction concerned me. I’d never been intimate with a much older man before, and I’d become accustomed to hunky younger men. What if he looked closer in age to my dad? Ewww. Then again, maybe his age and experience would make him a more attentive lover. Hmm, I’d hate to get his hopes up and fly down to San Francisco only to reject him.

  For yes, he was already pushing to meet. He’d eagerly given me his personal info and I’d not only Googled him, but I’d paid for a background check on him through an online service; everything appeared fine. My next concern, however, was that I’d feel guilted or pressured into having sex with him; eventually, I came right out and told him so.

  He was totally understanding. “If, when we meet, you decide you only want to be friends, I’m perfectly alright with that. I know this whole situation requires a huge leap of faith on your part and I respect that. My only concern is that I’ll like you too much,” he added, laughing. “You seem very real and honest. Plus, you’re smart and sexy-as-hell. So . . . if it’ll set your mind at ease, I’ll fly there to meet you.”

  Thus it was arranged: my Dragonfly Man would be fluttering first class to Calgary ten days hence, in mid-December. Snow would be thick. Travel uncertain. Obviously, he was a man of action; a man who wasn’t afraid to take risks, not just in business, but in life. And what wasn’t to like about a man going the extra two thousand miles for me?

  TWO DAYS LATER, I received an urgent phone call from Hali. “Tara’s flying in tonight at seven thirty. She found out Matt’s having an affair.”

  Oh dear God. Hali and I both knew what had to be done: Tara needed to be cocooned by her best friends.

  As soon as my kids were asleep in the sitter’s care, I grabbed my overnight bag and jumped in the car. Driving across the city, I thought back to the last time I’d seen Tara: We were at Black Cloud Brian’s comedy club and her beautiful blue eyes had looked so sad.

  I had expected this moment to arrive in one shape or another. Their marriage had been locked in a state of inertia for ages. I’d sensed something “big” would propel them into motion again, upward or down. I just wish she’d been the one to find a lover, not him. Now she had to deal with his betrayal—for the second time—and go through the painful divorce process. My heart wept for her, knowing the utter devastation she was feeling right now.

  As I walked into Hali’s house, I saw Tara and greeted her immediately with a long tender hug. She was already in her pajamas and her long blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Her eyes were puffy from crying, her face worn and tired. Shock had done its number on her.

  “Thanks for coming, Delaine,” she said in my ear, squeezing me back.

  Hali came in from the kitchen. “Hey girl, thanks for getting here so fast,” she said warmly. She was carrying a bottle of wine and three glasses by their stems. “Since you’re both spending the night, let’s go get cozy upstairs. Get our jammies on, pretend we’re nine or something, kay?”

  As we headed upstairs, me in the rear, Hali called back. “Delaine, maybe you should grab another bottle from the fridge. Fuck having to leave our cozy room, right?”

  Tara laughed and I obliged.

  Back upstairs, I quickly donned my Super Girl attire, wondering when I’d last had a “sleepover” at a girlfriend’s house. University? That was more a case of me passing out on someone’s couch. When then? Fifth grade? My mind flashed with memories of pillow fights, sleeping bags, and ghost stories. Hardly on tonight’s agenda.

  The girls were sprawled across Hail’s king-size bed, already immersed in conversation, when I rejoined them. I quickly found an open space and listened in. Hali, who’d become an overnight expert in the legalities of divorce, was answering Tara’s quick-fire questions about the nuances of separation and divorce, reassuring her of her rights.

  So it’s come to this, I thought with empathy. Oh my dear, we’re here for you.

  Finally, Tara turned t
o me and told me her story. She explained that a few days ago, Matt had said he was going away on business. And though he commonly traveled for work, this time her spider senses wouldn’t stop tingling. On impulse, she’d hired a private investigator and had him trailed. The evidence delivered to her was 100 percent conclusive: Matt was on romantic sojourn with a colleague from work.

  Then came the dramatic confrontation. Tara, though reeling with shock and hurt, donned a brave face and calmly demanded an explanation. But none was forthcoming. Matt was furious she’d had him followed and couldn’t get over it. He went on the offensive, yelling, name-calling, lying, blaming, while Tara stood there shell-shocked and numb.

  “I could feel myself withdrawing deeper and deeper into myself,” she said numbly. “I couldn’t believe he was attacking me. I couldn’t believe this selfish, angry, unselfaware man was my husband. I mean, I knew he was like that. But it was like, ‘Tara, why are you fighting for this guy?’ So what if you’ve been married for fifteen years and have two kids together. You don’t have to spend the rest of your life being treated this way.”

  Hali and I nodded somberly as Tara reached for a tissue and dabbed her eyes. Suddenly, out of the corner of her mouth she muttered, “Well, at least now I know he’s not gay!” Hali and I burst out laughing. “Seriously!” she said now grinning. “Considering how little he wanted sex, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d found out he was with a man.” And laughter relieved our heavy hearts for a moment.

  All these years we’d been friends, I’d assumed our married sex lives were so different—she’d always wanted much more sex from her husband, whereas I’d wanted much less. But beneath the surface we suffered the same wound, it had just been inflicted through opposite means: her body ached from the suppression of her need, my body ached with my need to suppress. Ultimately, both of us were being disempowered by our sex lives. Even though we tried to deny it and convince ourselves otherwise, some chunk of our souls had been slowly rotting away. Rejected. Dejected. Unheard. And I wondered how long we’d have let it go on had our partners not had affairs: Would we ever have found the courage to leave on our own? Or would our sense of duty, our fears and insecurities, have held us hostage?