Whether we were shopping, taking photos, basking in the sunshine, or exploring the gay district, I took it all in with the curiosity and wonderment of a child. I felt so appreciative of everything—the sites, the people, the weather, the man next to me. I am so lucky to be here! I thought countless times.
I felt myself stretching out, emotionally and physically. I literally found myself twirling in the streets with my arms outstretched, while Lornce stood by grinning. It didn’t matter that this was only a holiday. I was here and the moment was real, so there was no reason to close down the feelings. I felt free, vibrant, unrestrained by my past, my “titles”—ex-spouse, mother, lover, friend, everything, even my sex life and what anyone else thought of me. I felt beautiful, confident, and for the first time in ages, truly joyful. I allowed that joy to surface, I allowed myself to feel it, radiate it, be it. It wasn’t just circumstantial, it wasn’t just because I was with a man or because I was in a new city. It was my True Self, my true and right way of being, shining through. She wasn’t dead after all, I thought elated. She’d just needed time for her rebirth.
Late in the evening of my last night there, Lornce and I playfully fell into bed, and I voraciously devoured every ounce of his incredible stamina. The experience was so different from John, and I marveled that my sensuality, desire, and pleasure could flower under such varied conditions. Where sex with John was serious and intense, sex with Lornce was passionate yet sweet; both “flavors” bore remarkable resemblance to the men themselves. It wasn’t a matter of one flavor being “better” than the other: each was pleasurable and satisfying in its own way. But without a doubt, my experience with D/s had freed me, emotionally and physically, to enjoy more conventional sex with abandon. Not that sex with Lornce went beyond standard foreplay and a mix of regular sexual positions, but I flirted, teased, took and gave with ease; I’d ridden a dildo on a coffee table wearing cuffs after all; Wild Woman had been embodied and set free . . .
Afterward, as I stood brushing my hair in the bathroom, Lornce leaned in the doorway watching me with a big grin on his face. “Wow, you were so different this time, Delaine.”
“What?” I laughed, stopping midstroke.
“No. Really. The sex we just had was unbelievable. I mean it was great the last time we were together, but this time you were—” He mock wiped his forehead with his hand. “Phew. Absolutely incredible.”
I laughed again. “Thanks, Lornce,” I said lightly, offering no attempt at explanation. A woman’s entitled to her own secrets, after all.
Later in bed, I curled up naked on my side with Lornce spooned tightly around me. What a long but glorious day, I thought, nestling into my pillow. I quickly began drifting off to sleep, but the sound of Lornce’s soft voice in my ear pulled me back: “You are truly a special woman, Delaine. I’ve never met anyone like you before. You’re just so many things: smart, fun, great in bed, warm, loving, open-minded. You’re so . . . multidimensional.”
Shocked, I laid there with my eyes open, tasting, digesting his words.
From behind me, he continued: “You’re really an amazing woman.”
I squeezed his arms and words around me, their warmth filling my soul. “Thank you Lornce,” I whispered. “Thank you.”
The next day on my flight home, as I replayed our time together, smiling, I wondered if Lornce and I would ever see each other again. My sense was no; it was better if we didn’t. He was open to having a love affair, and friendship was as far as I wanted it to go.
But it was more than that. It was a feeling under my skin that my time with Lornce was done. Sharing this weekend away with him was what I had needed to finally stand in and embrace my joy. I wasn’t a “boring old lady” like Robert used to say to me when the kids were young. I was fun, I was dynamic and interesting, and not only could men enjoy my company, I could, too. And to my amazed delight, the propensity of my joy seemed greater now than before my life had exploded. Maybe it felt that way because it was a long time coming; or maybe the intense suffering I’d endured magnified it. All I know for sure was that I welcomed it with an open heart. And no more trips were required.
If I had had this kind of romantic experience at any other time of my life, my heart would have whisked me away. I’d have daydreamed about my lover and yearned for him in his absence. Heck, when I was younger, I’d pine over men after just one date. I wondered: How is it that I’ve become so grounded and, in a way, detached? Fear of intimacy? But I knew that wasn’t completely true, because I was warm and caring with Lornce, and I opened myself to John the Dom on more levels than I had with any man in my life, leaving myself fully vulnerable—physically, emotionally, psychologically. True intimacy requires absolute trust, and I gave that to John and Lornce. No, this sense of emotional liberation, I realized, came from finally knowing that I could be with a man, be my real self, and not lose myself in him. I could welcome and appreciate each unique man who entered my life without assuming he was a love connection. It was like a new window had opened inside my brain, one that reminded me to be practical—sensible—when it came to relationships; that I shouldn’t label something a masterpiece just because its brushstrokes appealed to me.
As I sat on the plane flying home from San Francisco, I felt enlightened; like I was finally starting to make sense of how and why I’d loved . . . and lost. In many ways, my heart had been doomed from the start. And though I recognized that my romantic idealism and neediness were still a part of me, I knew they would no longer automatically dictate my choices.
I’ve become the primary shareholder of my heart, I thought, as I stared out the plane’s window. And I felt my True North, in every way.
EPILOGUE
I STOOD BRUSHING MY TEETH in the bathroom mirror, wearing a fuchsia push-up bra and matching silk panties. Robert had unexpectedly taken the kids for the night and I was beautifying for a last-minute drink date.
With Hali.
The lingerie was just for me.
Smiling, I flicked on my blow-dryer, and my thoughts floated back over the last few weeks and what it had brought. Spring had once again exploded around me, yet instead of feeling frostbitten by the shock and aloneness, like last year, I welcomed her with an already warm heart. The one-year anniversary of my D-Day had already passed, and I didn’t fall apart or wallow in glorified memories or burn sage to exorcise the spirits of old love. Nope. It wasn’t as emotionally monumental as I’d expected it to be, but it was certainly cathartic. I am an absolute believer in Karma, and the universe pulled no punches in delivering up an ironic end to my year of heartbreak and ultimate liberation.
Though I’d often seen my friend Sara at school during the school year, we never discussed Graham, his lover Melissa, or their baby. Bringing them up felt inappropriate to me; uncomfortable . Melissa was her friend, after all, and I didn’t want Sara to feel like my “spy.” No, I felt it better to avoid one-on-one luncheons altogether and keep whatever conversation we did share focused on our kids and school. Squashing my curiosity wasn’t too hard—my dating life had well-trained me to bite my tongue and keep things “private.”
But on a windy night near the end of March, we ran into each other at community soccer tryouts. I found myself standing on the sidelines alone with her, watching our seven-year-olds vie for team placement. And it was there, as we stood shoulder to shoulder, the wind whipping our hair, that I suddenly heard her say: “I talked to Melissa the other day.”
My body froze. There it was. I kept my eyes glued to the field, hidden behind sunglasses. “How’s she doing?” I asked politely.
“Not good.” She looked down and paused as she kicked her heel hard into the grass. “She wanted me to come over and see her and Graham’s daughter. She’s almost one year old now.”
My eyes remained on the field, my entire body motionless. “But I didn’t go over,” she continued. “Frankly, it’s just too messy a situation for me.”
The sound of her sigh suddenly reminded me to move. I turned t
oward her, slowly nodding my head, encouraging her to continue. Go on, I thought. I need to hear this. Please keep talking . . .
The story was worse than I could have imagined. Graham’s ex-wife found out about the affair, told Melissa’s husband, who then discovered the baby wasn’t his, they split up, and Melissa and her five children were now living in a boarding house. And Graham? He abandoned Melissa in her hour of need as well—like he had done with me when Robert and I had separated. Yet he had the audacity to ask for half custody of his daughter. Still no balls . . . or a conscience.
But what did I feel? Morbid satisfaction, perhaps. Certainly, empathy for the kids, the baby, the betrayed spouses. But I couldn’t dig out even a crumb of sympathy or longing or affection for this man. Just pity, relief even, for not ending up a greater part of his world. And proud for not having stooped to revenge. I’d attracted him into my life briefly, and it had purpose. For that I was grateful.
The chaos of kids exiting the field broke up further conversation with Melissa, but I’d heard all I needed. I had already relegated Graham to a storage box in the attic of my heart; now I could label it “the past.”
Then, just days later—one day before my D-Dayanniversary—my separation agreement with Robert was finalized. Crazy, the way the Universe works. I couldn’t help but think it was winking in my direction. Sure, they’re just “papers,” and Robert and I had been emotionally and physically separated for a long time. But up until those papers were signed, I’d lived in constant fear of his threats: yanking spousal payments or demanding more custody of the kids. With the terms now clearly laid out, he could no longer threaten and bully me. I was now free to call the financial shots in my life, which was another huge step in my independence. My emotional energy could be channeled into my children and me; not the Passive Delaine who Robert thought I was, but the Empowered Delaine I had become.
Thus, my D-Day anniversary was not marked by nostalgia and loss, but by liberation and closure instead. Reaching that place hadn’t been easy, but that Hellish journey was never meant to be my final destination: It was but a detour, a school of much-needed tough self-love, designed to bring me home—to myself.
By life throwing me flat on my face into an uncharted wilderness, I was tested to move beyond being a victim of circumstance to becoming the heroine of my own life and finding my way out the other side. I was stripped of my well-made excuses for remaining the deferential wife in an abusive marriage, and forced to look inward and outward for my real truth as a woman. My body became a catalyst for change, my sexual awakening a conduit for trust, liberation, and self-love. I was becoming whole again.
Hair and makeup done, I stood at my closet wearing my bright pink undergarments. What should I wear on my date with Miss Hali? My eyes suddenly stopped on the fuchsia pink wrap-shirt I’d worn on my first date with Hockey Player Cal. I smiled. Despite his small penis, how lucky was I to have met such a nice guy on my first date in ten years? Or any of the other men I’d dated this past year. In each of their ways—from the simple to the profound—they had all helped me to heal, learn, and grow.
Take my twelve “serial dates” from my first summer as a single mother. Though I only met each of them for one coffee date, collectively they helped boost my confidence and self-image as I adjusted to singlehood again.
Yummy Stranger followed. My spontaneous foray into young-man territory on a sunny afternoon wasn’t just a step outside my boundaries, it was a leap: Body in the Red Zone, I boldly and aggressively took action, called the shots sexually, and satisfied my body’s demands like a Woman Entitled. And in the aftermath, I didn’t feel guilty or feel compelled to explain myself and justify my actions to Yummy Stranger; that alone felt empowering! My memories of that afternoon will always make me giggle; I never thought this stay-at-home could be so mischievous!
But the real shift in my life trajectory came when I met Shane, a.k.a., The Duke. Sure, he was extreme and unconventional, but his freaky mentorship helped me give myself permission to explore outside my comfort zone—sexually, psychologically, and emotionally. He helped me realize that there was a place in my sex life for my brain, not just my heart. That I could choose to either get swept away emotionally or embrace the experience as an opportunity for self-expression and physical pleasure alone. If it weren’t for Shane, I probably would never have allowed myself to enjoy two different lovers in one weekend, surrender to an erotic night of passion in Vegas, or attempt to live out a hotel fantasy—all experiences that required me to shed oppressive mores that prevented me from exploring a deeper side of my sexual self—and ultimately, my deeper identity as a woman. Nor would I have tried to dominate my “service boys,” Adonis-Boy Daniel and Minotaur Brent. These young men, in turn, not only warned me to my chameleon-like tendencies, they taught me about sex without attachment, sex for pleasure and play, and the importance of sex with good intentions.
Trust and self-awareness was further fostered by gentle hunky Football Coach Chad, whose G-spot “maneuvers” showed me just how far my body could go in expressing pleasure and abandon. Who knew I was a squirter?! Besides getting honorable mention in my personal history book, our soaking-hot nights reminded me that there’s always more to learn: about my body, myself, and life.
Then, of course, there was zippity Dragonfly Lornce, whose playful joie de vivre came at a perfect time, when I was just on the cusp of feeling whole enough to simply be me and savor spontaneous moments with authentic joy in my heart instead of romantic idealism.
But no one had a greater impact on my efflorescence than Sir John the Dom, who helped me excavate the deeper me, allowing me to finally open up and trust again. He made me feel again—body, mind, and soul. And ultimately, through dominance and sexual submission, he helped me find and own more of my inner power, a dynamic I sense I’m not yet done exploring.
If you pull the lens far back on my life this past year and view the bigger picture, the entire journey was ultimately about submission: I had to “surrender” all of my old beliefs about who I was, and fully explore myself through my sexuality, sensuality, and “promiscuity” to begin rousing and claiming my personal power—not just as a woman, but as an individual. Not just Delaine the Stay-at-Home Mom or Delaine the Dutiful Wife, or even Delaine the Lover. Just me.
Through freeing my sexual energy, I also freed the other powerful energies of my sex chakra: creativity, enthusiasm, awe, passion, and pleasure. No, this wasn’t just about sex or the physical, it was about full personal expression. I found myself experiencing a creative renaissance as I began channeling those energies into writing and blogging, and coaching other divorced women. I was living passionately: I was transmuting my sexual energy into purpose.
And it all started with my body. This beautiful, wise body of mine that I’ve spent a lifetime ignoring, suppressing, and physically trying to alter. My sexuality was the launch pad, the catalyst, that spurred growth in virtually every area of my life. It not only rescued me, it became my master spiritual teacher.
Thanks, Wild Woman, I thought, smiling, as I slid on a long black skirt and my red wrap-shirt. She’d guided me out of the wilderness, after all. But I believe she still had a thing or two to teach me.
HAVING ARRIVED AT the bar before Hali, I sat alone at my table, waiting for the server to return with my diet coke. It’s busy in here for a Wednesday, I thought, as I leaned back in my chair and scanned the room. Immediately, I sensed being watched. Three thirty-something men had put their drinks down and were looking my way. Perhaps it was the energy I exuded, because I felt wonderful: fully alive, attractive, confident, and independent. I smiled and looked away. I was not at all interested in men tonight.
It feels good to be me, I thought, after the waitress dropped off my drink. I’m sitting in a bar all by myself, a thirty-eight-year-old single mother of three. And it feels good to be in my skin.
Suddenly, I glimpsed Hali at the bar’s front entrance looking around. I stood and waved.
“Wow,
hot stuff. You look great,” she said, giving me a sly smile as she removed her coat. “Do you have a date after this or something?”
“No,” I laughed. “But thanks! I just felt like fixing myself up a bit.”
“So,” she said, after ordering a glass of red wine. “How’s dating life? Any interesting men or great lovers on the go?”
I leaned in and placed my glass on the table. “I really don’t know where my dating life is heading these days, but I feel great. Grounded and happy. I’m not looking for anyone, you know? That said, it’s been three months since I’ve had sex—”
“What!” she interrupted. “That’s a shocker.”
We both laughed.
“Honestly, Hali, men aside, the most important thing to me right now—beyond my kids—is establishing my career. I want to channel my passion and energy into something for me instead of a man. Don’t get me wrong, I still want sex. And I want to date. But kids, my work, those are my priorities.”
Hali smiled, and I could see in her eyes how happy and proud she was of me. Just as I was for her. She was still with Too-Good-to-Be-True Bobby, happy in the moment. And that’s what counted. Sure, neither of was sure where our lives were headed, but the bottom line was that we’d made it through “Year One.”
Spontaneously, I held up my glass. Without question, Hali raised hers up to mine, her blue eyes filled with warmth.
“To us,” I said, “And our ‘way better’ life.”
“To us . . .”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AS I PUT TOGETHER THIS acknowledgment’s page, I find myself wiping away tears. It has been an exciting yet tumultuous road getting here, and I often wondered if this book wouldn’t have been better off buried on a memory stick and forgotten.
The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom Page 25