I suddenly felt John’s fingers on my clit. Oh my god, it felt so good. But he was reminding me he wasn’t just a spectator. He was the Dom and in charge.
“Are you ready to apologize for being mouthy, Delaine?”
“Mm-hmm,” I moaned, so close to orgasm . . .
He grabbed my hips, immobilizing them with both of his hands. “I asked, ‘Are you ready to apologize for being mouthy?’”
“Yes,” I said faintly.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what are you sorry for?”
“I’m sorry for being mouthy, sir.”
“Good,” he said and released my hips. “Now get down off there. It’s going to be a long time before you orgasm yet . . .”
JOHN’S FLIGHT HOME on Sunday departed earlier than mine, so I stood with his luggage at the hotel entrance as he drove the rental car around. We’d spent Saturday driving up and down the coast, stopping whenever we so desired to shop, dine, or walk along the beach. John was pleasant and easygoing but remained true to his calm, self-controlled personality. Only once did I see him get ruffled—when the car’s GPS system was being wonky. But that made me giggle: It took a “she” in the guise of a computer to make him lose his cool.
Now, as John threw his luggage in the trunk, I watched him closely . . . tenderly. Time felt like it was slowing down so I could imprint these last moments in my long-term memory. Despite what might come across as John’s rough handling to the uninitiated, the experience fostered a deeper intimacy and bond with him; a backdrop to our broader relationship, which had always been underscored by kindness, depth, and sincerity. He helped me grow. I adored him for that—and for being John the Dom, when I needed him to be.
He took me into his arms for a big hug. My eyes filled with tears, and I embraced him tightly, knowing this was the one and only time I’d ever see this wonderful man; for we’d arrived at the decision earlier this morning. This moment was not just goodbye for now, but forever.
It wasn’t that we didn’t click; in fact, we did very much. But the bottom line was that we both had lives in two different cities, in two different countries. The mere thought of what that type of relationship might entail over time—financially, emotionally, logistically—was just too much for me; too complicated. I wanted simple, I wanted free-flowing. No more upstream battles. And I didn’t have room for that type of priority, not above my children. No, as much as he’d helped me grow, this was as far as we could go. It was time for me to stretch toward the sun myself. And I knew I could do it, on my own.
“Call me when you get home tonight so I know you got home safe, okay?” he said, as he wiped a tear from my cheek with his thumb.
“I will.” I looked into his green eyes and saw his concern. “I’m okay,” I laughed. “I’m just deeply grateful for everything we’ve shared this weekend. And prior to it. Thank you, John. Thank you.”
He pulled me into another strong embrace. “You’re an amazing woman, Delaine,” he murmured.
Two minutes later, he and the rental car were gone.
Back up in our hotel suite, I lay down on the bed and looked around. It felt strange without him here. So empty and quiet. The weekend had gone by so fast: forty-eight hours, vanished—like a dream.
But I could feel his presence, the energy of our togetherness, lingering everywhere in the room. I turned my face into my pillow; I could still smell him on it. I smoothed my hand across the sheets, noticing a small stain from one of my many orgasms that the towels hadn’t absorbed. My God, he had made me climax!—so intensely and so many times that my body had trembled for many minutes afterward. I couldn’t even hold a thought in my head at that point. My body was so overloaded with ecstasy, my brain had just floated away. John had lain down beside me and smoothed my hair out of my face, caring for me, watching over me, protecting me. This heaven-like realm was what John had referred to as “subspace.” I couldn’t think, couldn’t move, there was only light carrying me away . . . and lightness.
All alone now, I rolled over onto my back and stared up at the white ceiling with a sigh.
Flash!—neurons, electrons, and protons swarmed into a memory: my throat angled sharply off the side of the bed, mouth full and gagging.
Flash!—eyes veiled in darkness, the soft strands of the flogger trailing the length of my body.
Flash!—John hissing from the side of the bed: “Kick me? You think it’s okay to KICK me? He walked to the dresser and put something in his pocket. He turned and looked at me coldly. I think you need to lie there tied up and rethink that. I’ll be back later.
Flash!—The sound of the hotel door clicking shut. Staring at the ceiling aghast: Holy fuck, the asshole actually left me here! Struggling to get free. Lying back in defeat. Arms beginning to ache. Praying the hotel maid didn’t show up. Staring at the ceiling for what seemed like an hour . . .
My mental screen dissolved into the present: I was staring at the ceiling now by choice, not confinement; John was gone and I was alone. But my heart was pounding; my body remembered.
No doubt, much of what I experienced with John that weekend involved my being physically “forced.” And my “need” to experience that was scary and weird to me—it seemed dark . . . twisted . . . violent. It was one thing to have accepted my “need” to be taken by men during vanilla sex these past months; the former Delaine of soft touches and gentle kisses had certainly expanded. But in bringing the concept of “being taken” to being physically and sexually forced, potentially even demeaned, I feared I was subconsciously taking the abuse I’d endured in my marriage to the next level.
But I now realized that my fear was misguided. The sexual and physical control John exerted over me actually empowered me, not stole my power. For our connection was first and foremost psychological—a battle of the minds. I’d needed John’s control and self-control to force my assertiveness, something I never did when disempowered and belittled in my marriage; his knowledge, his creativity, his outstanding intuitive abilities helped direct that. The act of learning to submit forced me to assert myself enough that I felt confident and trusting enough to willingly submit, and for my gain not my loss. I had “submitted” to Robert against my will, and at great emotional cost, throughout my entire marriage. I didn’t trust myself—or believe in myself enough—to take control. John was the foil to my passivity and mistrust. And in opening up to him, in allowing him to dominate me, I’d made him “earn me.” Unlike Robert . . . who had “taken” from me for himself, sexually and emotionally.
So in the strangest of ways, the D/s relationship I shared with John—from our many phone calls right through to the scenes in our hotel room—had helped free me from the wounds of my marriage. The sex we’d shared in this room had been the final gateway—a passage through which I was able to learn to trust a man again and to claim the ecstasy and power of my sexual energy as my own.
As I lay in bed relishing the warmth of these revelations, I wondered how my weekend’s sexual adventures would affect me once home in Calgary. I knew my exploration hadn’t much changed me as added to me; I’d become more of Delaine. The woman I envisioned returning home carried herself with more confidence. She was in tune with her passion and creativity and saw the value in keeping those channels open. She had more faith in her body’s intuition and no longer quashed it without listening. She felt freer and more capable of expressing her wants and needs, not just in bed but in life.
My mind returned to John, wondering if he’d already boarded his plane. He’d invested a great deal of time and energy in me, offering me the most tender and unselfish “friendship love” I’d ever known—without demanding anything in return, without taking anything away.
I rolled over on my side and curled peacefully into the fetal position. Once again, this body of mine, the house of my sexual energy, had initiated an adventure for me. And by choosing to listen to it instead of ignoring it or judging it, many other levels of learning had opened to m
e. It had guided me into the beauty of submission. It had guided me to John. And, ultimately, it had guided me to new heights of ecstasy that had required and enabled me to trust again.
CHAPTER 23
THE PRIMARY SHAREHOLDER OF MY HEART
I SMILED AS I REREAD the travel itinerary lying on my desk. In less than two weeks, I’d be flying to San Francisco to meet Lornce. And as I listened to the minus-thirty gale howling outside my office window, all I could think was, Thank God!
Six weeks had passed since my weekend with John. I’d come back reenergized about life, about myself. The experience had been transformative—not just sexually, but in the realm of the heart, too. I had bonded deeply with a man and resisted the urge to force more out of it than was meant. It showed that my scales were continuing to tip toward self-purpose and independence. And healing. Sure, I found myself missing the intimacy that grew out of our conversations, but I knew the relationship had run its course: I had learned everything I was meant to learn from him. And even on the occasional night when I awoke seized by anxiety over being a single parent of three kids—with all its attendant pressures—still, I felt the change in my bones. I knew I could withstand, even prevail in, a future on my own; I could become the architect of my own life, a feeling I’d never fully experienced. And somehow, flying off to see Dragonfly Lornce seemed a necessary part of the blueprint.
Suddenly the phone rang. Who’s calling this late? I wondered. It was nearly midnight. For a brief second, I thought maybe it was John . . . Then Hali’s number popped up. I quickly grabbed it, excited to tell her my travel news, but she had her own big news: “You’ll never guess who showed up unannounced at my door tonight.”
“Oh, no . . . Who?” I asked, but I had my suspicions.
“PAUL. He came over to tell me he still loves me. He wants to get back together.”
Yep. I knew it, I thought as I clenched the phone and my teeth. As a bystander, I’d seen this shot being thrown out of left field. Hali, on the other hand, was knocked upside the head.
Not only that, but he’d arrived fully armed, offering words that every betrayed, abandoned (while pregnant!) woman aches to hear: “From the bottom of my heart, I’m sorry”; “I made a huge mistake”; “The problem was mine, not yours.” Paul spoke earnestly, she said, words that caressed her heart and made her weep with relief—some part of her had always wondered, Was I that horrible to be married to?
But as usual, Paul’s timing sucked. Over the last few months, Hali had developed pretty serious feelings for her boyfriend, Bobby. He seemed to be everything Hali wanted in a partner: He treated her with respect and kindness and seemed to be a real family man. Truly, the only problem she’d encountered with their relationship was that it seemed too perfect.
“I keep looking for signs that Bobby’s putting on an act,” she’d said countless times since they started dating. “Maybe he’s just trying to impress me, right? But no matter where we are or who we’re with, he’s always the same guy. I even asked his sister and mom, ‘Is he always like this?’ And they said, ‘Yup, this is just who he is.’”
With Paul’s sudden about-face, Hali found herself at yet another crossroads: Should she move forward with Bobby, a man who was Paul’s opposite, in a relationship that felt right on every level but was dangerously new? Or should she go back to her husband, the man she shared a history with, and try to revive their love and knit their family back together?
Half out of a sense of duty and half because she still had feelings for Paul, she went back to him.
“I just have to give him another try,” she reiterated to me before saying goodnight. But as I put the phone down, I knew it was more to convince herself than me.
Very quickly, Hali found herself an emotional mess all over again. “I feel sick inside,” she lamented to me on their first day of reuniting. “I keep having to remind myself why I’m doing this. I’m trying to convince myself I’ve made the right choice. But it feels—so—WRONG.”
The next day, I heard: “It’s the same old thing, Delaine. We’re two days into it and everything about us is a struggle. He says he’s a changed man, that his family means everything to him. But already today, it was same-old, same-old. First, he was late coming home from work. Then, after eating by himself, he laid down on the couch while I took care of the kids and did everything else, because his day was just that busy, you know. Like mine wasn’t.”
The third day: “Most of our conversations are still about him—his pain, his being lost, him not being able to express himself. I don’t think he’s much further ahead than where he was a year and a half ago.
Four days in: “I can’t help but wonder, ‘Do I really still love him? Is he the man I want to share the rest of my life with?’ I know I love him in a way, but those feelings are all jumbled up with other feelings: nostalgia, compassion, pity . . . I’m just not sure he could ever make me feel special again, Delaine. Really, after all we’ve been through, how could I ever feel special?”
The fifth day: “I’m not convinced he’s here for the right reasons. He says he loves me, but is he really in love with me, or does he just want his old life back: the kids, the house, the family dream? I just feel like I’m part of the backdrop of some ideal he’s looking for, you know?”
By the end of the first week, Hali was done.
“I know it sounds crazy to make a big decision like this within a week, but I’ve changed too much and he hasn’t. He’s just giving me too little too late. I want more than what Paul can ever give me, and I know it’s out there because I’ve had a taste of it with Bobby. And even though I don’t know where our relationship will end up, loving him and spending time with him is just so darn easy. It just feels right. Moment to moment, day to day, I feel happy. I feel like he loves me for me, not because we have kids together, not because we shared vows, but simply because of me.”
Who could argue with that? Not me. Every ounce of Hali’s intuition was telling her this was the best and right choice. Why waste another second of her life floundering at the crossroad?
FOUR DAYS LATER, wearing the same travel clothes I’d worn to see John—dark jeans and a beige three-quarter-length jacket—I caught a 6:00 AM flight to San Francisco, where freedom of expression was not just embraced but encouraged. And I intended to live up to that standard, because this time, nervousness didn’t impinge on my excitement. Unlike with my trip to meet John in the OC, I’d already met Lornce and knew I’d enjoy his company—in and out of our hotel room. It was like a really cool second date: forty hours with a great guy in one of the most beautiful (and liberated) cities in the world. I had no roles weighing me down, no expectations, I was simply free to be me—a carte blanche identity.
But the week before my trip, I suffered a crisis of confidence. How can you leave your kids yet again? How selfish are you?
One of my greatest struggles to date had been the guilt and emotional estrangement I’d felt as a mother after the chaos of Robert and Graham. Emotionally, I was bankrupt, but I desperately wanted to be the mom my kids knew and deserved. In the beginning, my inertia was terrifying. There was a wall up between me and everything, including them. But I had done many things right by my children. Like ensuring they were shielded from the animosity between Robert and me during the separation: Even when I was fuming or in tears, I either masked my emotions or excused myself to the bathroom or my bedroom until I pulled myself together. And when my kids expressed their sadness or anxiety around our divorce, my feelings took a backseat, and I listened, empathized, and reassured. I never put their father down in their presence, and I put their needs first.
Something else I’d done right was to show up for my mommy job every day, no matter what. Sometimes more in body than in heart, but I was there, I was consistent, and my presence was known. Furthermore, when I needed help, I asked for it. And this was tough for me in the realm of parenting because I viewed that job as my primary responsibility, and in floundering, I felt “less-than.” But I
accepted the help of a stellar baby sitter and when I needed a break—or a date . . . or two—I called her. And I felt smart doing that, not selfish. Because what my children needed was a happy, healthy mom raising them—and loving them—and I could only do that by exploring and nurturing myself, which is where I’d been headed these last eleven months. My D-Day anniversary was approaching, and Lornce was my last great fling. So I knew I had to put aside my maternal guilt and embrace the moment. And I did.
MY DRAGONFLY MAN showed up at the arrivals gate wearing not only a big smile, but his figurative tour guide hat. “A true San Franciscan, born and bred, so eagerly at the sexy lady’s service,” he said with a bow. I laughed and grabbed his hand: Let’s go!
First stop on the tour was Chinatown, where we blended into the bustling crowd of local vendors and tourists. Strolling along hand in hand with Lornce, I got just as much of a kick out of watching him as the people around us—he was like watching the song “Zip-a Dee-Doo-Da-Day” in human form. I don’t think he’d have batted an eyelash if a bluebird landed on his shoulder. He approached everything with such enthusiasm—including lunch: “I want to take you somewhere special,” he said excitedly. “It’s my favorite restaurant—Greek food—and tourists don’t know about it!” Once there, I agreed to let Lornce do all the ordering for us (in secret, away from our table). I laughed in surprise when seven dishes arrived at our table. “I want you to try them all!” he said, his hands in the air, with a smile stretched equally as wide. How couldn’t I adore the gesture?
We strolled along the infamous Fisherman’s Wharf, gobbled giant chocolate ice cream cones, and visited a lesser-known museum where we wore individual headsets explaining the Marie Antoinette exhibit. And from the other side of the room, as I watched Lornce examine a painting then dip his hands in his pockets and disappear around the corner, I thought: “Zip-a Dee-Ya . . .”
The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom Page 24