Isn’t every woman presented with big personal life choices at one time or another? Whether it’s to have a child, quit a job, move to a new city, get married, or even have an affair. And if she finds herself standing at the critical fork of “Stay Married or Get Divorced,” will she feel cornered by the scrum of her own fears, by the voices and opinions of other people and society? I know I was. So what do we do? Do we hang around at the crossroads for the rest of our days, too afraid to commit to one path or another, and resign ourselves to thinking that a “full life” is never our destiny? Or, whether it’s months or years in the making, will we choose a path—make a choice and not just commit to it, but take action to either change it into what we do want or start anew on our own? Only we can decide when or if we’re ready to make that decision, to face the fears and pitfalls and hurtles that we’ll be confronted with. Without trying, ours souls would cease to grow.
Now, in the warm, cozy setting of Hali’s bedroom, with the bluesy music of Norah Jones playing over the stereo, Hali and I tended to our bewildered friend as she adjusted to her new surroundings: the dreaded “Wilderness.” We knew her journey ahead would be arduous and full of internal and external obstacles, but for tonight, we, her fellow warriors, would bear her weight as she took her first few shaky steps.
As our evening progressed, I inevitably found myself looking back over my shoulder to my own personal D-Day—the day the Graham Bomb exploded. And that’s when it struck me: I had come a long way. For some reason, I’d envisioned myself like an anchored boat at sea, rocking about, but not really going anywhere. But in reaching out to help Tara, I was given a new yardstick, a new perspective, on just how far I’d come. I was a survivor. A Warrior. A Woman with a History, who would one day let it flow behind her like a colorful silk scarf.
And even though I still felt bruised, even though I knew I was still a work in progress, sitting there in Hali’s room with my best friends I became aware of another feeling stirring in my body: excitement. For I was changing. I felt it—viscerally, emotionally, psychologically—I was becoming stronger, a bit wiser, a bit more confident; a broader, fuller me was awakening beneath the crevices left behind by the destruction. Who might she become? How will she evolve? Her field of dreams was unknown, yet vast, her potential and possibilities still to be discovered. But one thing was clear: She was rousing.
As I looked over at Hali, I saw many of my own thoughts reflected in her eyes. This night wasn’t just about Tara: There was learning in it for us all. Hali and I weren’t meant to “save” Tara or expedite her journey. We were meant to offer her hope; we were half-lit beacons reminding her to have faith in herself and a bigger plan for her life. And as we affirmed Tara’s belief in herself, we were further reinforcing our own.
And so it was that I experienced my first sleepover in more than twenty-five years. But it was special to me in a different way than those of my childhood. For what did we do? We talked, we shared, and we learned from each other’s stories. We drank wine, read aloud passages from books, and brushed each other’s hair. We got silly, we got emotional, we got recharged.
For one full night, three grown women were as adoring and intimate as young sisters. And when we finally laid down to sleep, feet touching, on Hali’s giant king-size bed, it felt perfectly right. Our togetherness, our solidarity, made the world outside and its big, adult problems fade away.
CHAPTER 21
INTRODUCTIONS TO A NEW YEAR
AS WE SLID INTO OUR BOOTH at Chili’s Restaurant and Bar, Tory and her younger sister, Shiloh, pelted me with questions.
“What happened with the Dragonfly Man?” fired Tory, before I’d even removed my winter jacket.
“Yeah, fill us in, girl!” chimed Shiloh.
Less than two weeks after my cathartic girl-night at Hali’s, Lornce had followed through on his promise to visit. And I couldn’t help but laugh: I obviously wasn’t the only person who’d greatly anticipated our face-to-face meeting.
Feigning seriousness, Tory continued: “I hope you realize we’re living vicariously through your dating adventures, Delaine. We’re relying on you to educate us through your experiences. So tell us everything.”
“Well . . .” I began, chuckling, as I bundled my jacket over the top of my purse beside me. “We had fun. And I do like him. It wasn’t a love connection or anything. But yes, I do like him. So I’m going to see him again. I’m going to fly to San Francisco. Probably next month.”
The girls giggled gleefully. “That’s so cool.”
I looked down at my hands, smirking from ear to ear. Yeah, I thought. It is.
The waitress arrived at our table and we cited off our usual order: Southwestern rolls and two quesadillas to split. Extra hot sauce and guacamole on the side.
Waitress gone, Tory quickly jumped in, elbows firmly planted on the table: “So . . . what did you do while he was here? Did you have fun? Did you have sex?”
My mind flashed to the Calgary arrivals gate terminal: me pacing, fidgeting, and making numerous trips to the ladies room. Oh the suspense! Every time the customs doors slid open and an unattractive older man passed through solo, I held my breath: Please don’t be Lornce, please don’t be Lornce . . . Phew, he’s hailing a taxi, or Phew, he’s meeting his family.
Then: What the hell am I doing? This is CRAZY. Then: Every other normal person in this room is here to pick up a friend or loved one. But no-no-no, not THIS nutcase. I’m awaiting an online stranger from another country!
Finally, I saw him come through the customs door. We immediately locked eyes and he smiled. So did I. He looked like his photo, only better: he stood tall, he didn’t have a big belly (phew again), and he was wearing a cashmere sweater and slacks. I could see both confidence and playfulness in his stance as he walked straight over to me and locked me in a big hug.
“Wow, you’re gorgeous!” he announced exuberantly over my back.
I laughed. “Hi Lornce, welcome to Canada . . .”
Grinning at the memory, I turned to my keyed-up girlfriends: “I picked him up at the airport at around six thirty. And then we jumped in my minivan and drove to a Thai restaurant for dinner.”
“Was it awkward at first?” asked Tory.
“Actually, no. It felt perfectly comfortable. Maybe it’s because I’ve been on so many first dates,” I said, with a sly grin. “But I liked his energy right off the bat.
“We enjoyed a great dinner together and spent about three hours talking. He talks and thinks really fast, so I had to pay close attention to keep up with him. But he’s really funny too. Mind you, I’m sure it helped that I had a couple glasses of wine.”
“And then?” asked Tory.
“Give us the juice!” squealed Shiloh.
I laughed. “And then he drove my minivan to the hotel—because I couldn’t drive. We drank some more wine and talked up in his room. And . . .” I knew they were dying for me to get there, so I added with relish, laughing, “. . . then we had sex.”
They were literally on the edge of their seats.
“And how was it?” Eyes wide, vicarious.
Hmmm, how to answer. I thought for a moment. “It was good,” I said, with reservation, “but it wasn’t fantastic.” Then thinking I may have downplayed it too much, because it really wasn’t bad, I quickly added, “But it was good, don’t get me wrong.”
“Did it feel strange to be with an older man after being with such yummy younger guys?” asked Tory, taking a sip of her diet coke.
“Not really,” I answered honestly. “It’s hard to explain. I wasn’t overwhelmed with desire when I looked at him, but I was attracted to his energy and his personality; he was fun and easy to be around. So when it came down to sex, age really didn’t seem to matter—the body parts were the same!” I said laughing.
“Did you find him more attentive than the younger guys?” asked Shiloh. “Because that’s what they always say about older men.”
I paused for a moment, remembering our foreplay.
“No, I can’t say he was any more attentive . . . or unusually highly skilled, for that matter. No doubt, he was concerned with my pleasure, and he wanted me to orgasm before he did. Plus, he had surprisingly good stamina—which I made great use of.” I gave them a wink. “But overall, the sex was very vanilla and well . . . average. But he was lovely to cuddle and chat with afterwards.”
“Hm,” said Tory, leaning back. I sensed she had hoped for something juicier. I sipped my water and shrugged my shoulders.
“Oh! But I gotta tell ya,” I suddenly added, a memory bursting to come out. “When we started messing around and clothes were coming off, I had to laugh—the guy had on two pairs of long underwear.”
“What?” laughed Tory. “It wasn’t even that cold out!”
“Yeah, well, I guess some Americans really do believe we live in the Arctic up here.
“Anyway, the next morning we went for breakfast, had some more good conversation. Then I drove him back to the airport to catch his flight. We kept it short and sweet; we planned it that way in case we didn’t like each other. We’ll spend more time together in San Francisco.”
“You seem pretty relaxed about the whole thing,” said Tory thoughtfully.
I shrugged. “If I wasn’t talking to John, too—the dom—I’d probably get more wrapped up in it.”
“Is the ‘dom guy’ planning to come here too?” asked Shiloh.
I sighed. “No, not at this point. I’m not sure what we’re doing . . .”
When it came to talking about John, I didn’t even know where to start. We’d already spent over thirty-six hours talking over the phone. And he was teaching me so many new things—about D/s . . . life . . . even myself.
Certainly, we sometimes discussed dominance and submission, but it was always in a mentor/student-like way. He seemed focused on helping me understand the D/s lifestyle and my submissive side, but not actually meeting. That being said, erotic tension often permeated our conversations. And I immediately connected with his voice as soon as I picked up the phone; I looked forward to them.
One of the things I found captivating about John was that there was no separating John the Man from John the Dom. It was simply part of who he was: Strong. Calm. Intuitive. When I spoke with him, I could feel him listening to me; reading me. He heard not only what I was saying, but what I wasn’t saying. We constantly talked about me—my past, my feelings, my dreams, my sexuality. I felt like he was trying to figure out my mind, not because he had an agenda, but because he genuinely cared. I felt no pressure, no expectations. He seemed to want me to understand myself. He kept reiterating: “A dom never takes away, Delaine. He only builds.” And he was doing just that: I always felt uplifted after talking to him. Never cut-off or burdened or drained, like when I was married to Robert. Not only were my conversations with John liberating, they affirmed to me that my voice did count; that I was worth listening to; and that this was how couples could and should feel when they communicated. So I was filing this information away as reference for my next serious relationship. Because I didn’t deserve to be anyone’s emotional punching bag. And I now understood that if a man took out his boxing gloves, I could simply choose to walk away.
I looked at Tory and Shiloh across the table. I exhaled loudly. “A part of me worries that you guys think this D/s stuff is really wacked and so am I for being interested in it.”
“No!” Tory said quickly. “I don’t think you’re wacked at all. I just don’t know much about D/s beyond what you’ve told me.”
“I’m not interested in any of the freaky sadomasochistic stuff,” I reassured. “I envision it more like the movie 9 1/2 Weeks . . .
The girls were quiet, all ears, patiently waiting for more.
“Have you ever imagined what it would be like to have your husband pin your arms against the wall, calmly tell you you’re going to do whatever he wants, and then proceed to have his way with you in whatever way he chose? Or can you imagine being out to dinner with him, and as you sit next to him drinking wine, he suddenly leans over and whispers in your ear a detailed sample of how he’s going to enjoy you later? Wouldn’t that totally turn you on and leave you anticipating what was to come?”
“Absolutely!” said Tory. “Those scenarios are totally arousing. I think most women secretly wish that would happen. But I know if my husband did it, I would burst out laughing. Seriously! He would be so awkward; it would be wayyyy outside his comfort zone.”
I laughed. “OK . . . but a part of you can imagine that being ‘submissive’ in this respect would be a turn-on?”
“For sure,” Tory replied, and Shiloh nodded her head vehemently.
“John told me that from a neuropsychological perspective, it makes sense for women to have a submissive side.
“Imagine the two main parts of the human brain,” I said, using my hands to demonstrate. “Down here you have the lower brain and up here is the upper brain. John said the lower brain is our ‘old’ brain—we’ve had it since the beginning of time and throughout evolution. It’s where our instinctive, primitive thinking lies, like the fight or flight response, or the biological urge to have sex and reproduce.
“To understand how our lower brain functions, you simply need look to other less-evolved primates. Like gorillas, for example. One of the behaviors you’ll observe amongst female gorillas is their jockeying to win the ‘alpha males’ in the pack. The females prefer to associate with the stronger, more dominant gorillas. They want to submit to an alpha, knowing that he improves their chances of survival. It’s about safety, protection, and well, having his babies.
“Today,” I said, with a deep breath, “this same lower brain activity is still active in the human female brain. The difference with our species is that we also have this evolved upper part of our brains.” I referred to my air drawing with my hand again. “The upper brain is where we store our values and beliefs and morals, which have been compiled through social conditioning; for example: our family, our work environment, our community, etcetera. As women of Western culture, our social conditioning teaches us the exact opposite thinking to our primitive brain: that we are men’s equals, that submission in any form is a ‘bad’ thing, and that we can be as strong and dominant as men are—which is true in most respects. But,” I added, pausing, “What sometimes happens is that the two parts of a woman’s brain are at war. She knows she is an independent, self-sufficient person, capable of forging and managing her own life. Yet secretly or subconsciously, she may dream or fantasize about submitting to a man sexually or otherwise, all the while berating herself for doing so because she judges her thoughts as weak, clingy, or abnormal.”
Tory and Shiloh were staring at me wide-eyed. I asked, “Did what I just said make any sense?”
“Yes,” said Tory.
“I think so,” smiled Shiloh. “It’s fascinating!”
A moment of silence. Then Tory blurted, “Why do I suddenly feel like I don’t know squat about sex? I’m thirty-eight years old for God’s sake, I thought I knew so much!”
I smiled and nodded my head. “Believe me, my friend, I know that feeling all too well . . .”
I HUNG UP the phone with John the Dom and looked at the clock: 12:25 AM. A New Year was officially underway. And there I sat—alone, the kids upstairs in bed, watching the silent hand go around.
I wasn’t sad. I actually felt very content; but alert too, as if I was waiting for something to happen. Like the wall was about to open up and suck me into a New Year.
But nothing changed. The room remained still. My cat stretched.
I laid back on my couch and stared at the ceiling. I wonder if Hali and the rest of the girls are having fun. Almost all of my closest girlfriends were attending the same house party. I’d declined. I just wasn’t in the mood; I felt like being quiet and spending the evening with my kids. Besides, I knew this party was mainly being attended by couples—including Hali and her new boyfriend.
Yup. Hali had a new man: Bobby. Three weeks no
w, and she was over the moon. He’d tracked her down on Facebook, of all places; they’d attended the same high school. And they were totally smitten with each other.
“He seems to be everything I want in a partner,” Hali gushed, when she told me. “He’s communicative and generous and family focused and so ‘everything’ that Paul wasn’t . . .”
I was genuinely happy for Hali, but I found it ironic that I was less interested in “serious” now than I was eight months ago when I first started dating. God, I was so panicked to find a replacement partner back then! I’m not embarrassed by it—I was scared to death, hurting like hell, and thought “serious” was what I needed. But the universe gave me what I really needed: a multitude of unusual dating and sexual experiences that helped me further understand my body and my Self. It was an objective I never would have considered, if asked back then.
Still, some part of me ached to find love right away. But the wiser, postdivorce Delaine I was becoming cradled it to rest, soothing that longing like a child who didn’t know any better. For given the depth of my wounds, given the healing and self-discovery I’d yet to master, I intuitively knew I was at risk of falling in love for the sake of the blissful feeling, not because it was real, true, or what was best for me. No—I didn’t need a hero, a second party with broad shoulders to step in and save me. I needed to stay focused on making myself stronger and more limber from the inside out, and trust that the universe would bring me who and what I needed, when I really needed it.
I did feel a tweak of sadness that Hali and I weren’t “partners in crime” anymore. A part of me also felt kind of dropped—like a casual high school boyfriend—because suddenly all her time and energy were diverted to him, to them. But I knew she wasn’t neglecting me intentionally or maliciously; she just desperately wanted and needed a stable, loving family life. If I were an abandoned woman with a six-month-old baby, I’d probably do the same. It was simply time for Hali and me to branch off on our own forks in the river. I knew she was ready. And deep in my bones, I sensed I was too.
The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom Page 21