Read The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom Online

Authors: Delaine Moore

Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Personal Memoirs, #Family & Relationships, #Divorce & Separation, #Parenting, #Single Parent, #Health & Fitness, #Sexuality

The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom

Table of Contents
 
 
 
To every Woman . . . and her Wild Woman
A Note from the Author
To preserve the anonymity of friends and lovers,
some names and identifying details have been changed.
However, the relationship mishaps and erotic
adventures are all mine and all true.
EXTRACT
THE DUKE SAID IT WAS time for me to “stop talking” and “start walking.” It was time to get out of his online classroom and take action in the real world. He wrote:
By the time you’re finished overanalyzing everything, not only will the cows have come home, they’ll have had babies, and their babies will have had babies. If you want to find and exert your alpha-femaleness, you need to get out there.
Think of it as having enlisted in a Sexuality Boot Camp, wherein I am your sergeant in command. Like a good little girl you will listen to your superior, and in turn, I’ll make sure you keep your men in line—not to mention deliver good strong spankings when you’re slacking off. What’s that? Was that a “Yes Sir!”?
I laughed and thought,
How about “Bite me, sir.”
I leaned back in my chair, still smiling.
He sure does have a strange sense of humor.
But for whatever reason,
I liked it.
I liked that
he caught me off guard, and I liked that he made me lighten up around the realm of dating and sex.
Shane’s proposition appealed to me, despite the fact it was totally unconventional. Not taking every date seriously seemed a pretty sensible thing for me to do right now, because it liberated me to have fun and explore. Maybe my need to “seek and replace” wasn’t as urgent as I once thought. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to delay it a month or two . . .
I hit the reply button, smirking and shaking my head.
Yes, I think I’ll play along with “Sergeant Shane.”
Temporarily, anyway. Or unless Mr. Right comes along . . .
PROLOGUE
IF YOU LOOKED AT MY life from the outside, you would never assume I was any different than most middle-class suburban women my age—a self-sacrificing wife and mother.
In my case, I have three children: two boys and one girl, who are six, five, and three. And I drive a wickedly practical minivan: a blue Honda filled with crumbs and stray toy parts.
Yes, I am rarely alone in it. And yes, I’ve driven in my pajamas (thank God for long coats).
Almost seven years ago, I willingly abandoned my just-taking-off career as a cognitive therapist to pursue a vocation as a stay-at-home mom and housewife. I’ve worked hard, and I’m proud of the job I’ve done raising my kids almost single-handedly. Their father, a land developer, was out of town 80 percent of the time.
No, it was never my big dream growing up to be a homemaker. If anything, I thought I’d be light years ahead of my mom’s generation, finding complete fulfillment in some creative, dynamic career.
But when Robert and my babies came along, I readily changed all my goals and plans; I fell hard in love with the family dream.
Motherhood shook and rocked me to the core, in ways I was
totally unprepared for. I suddenly understood the true meaning of unconditional love: not only was it a feeling, it was a verb that required twenty-four-hour attention. In my limited spare time, when I wasn’t catering to my kids or my husband, I read parenting books, organized mom groups, researched educational programs; there was
always
more to do and learn, and I eagerly applied myself. Motherhood filled me with a purpose—a higher purpose—for life wasn’t just about me anymore . . . my world, my consciousness, had expanded a hundredfold.
That’s not to say I found my job
easy—
it also drove me a little nuts—sometimes several times a day. There’s nothing like getting everyone packed up in snowsuits and strapped into the van (finally!), only to have someone pee their pants. Or to exit a shopping mall with three crying, screaming kids in tow: one refusing to walk, one in a football hold, and one in a stroller.
But I chose to focus on the blessings and rewards of my toils; I knew this stage of my life wouldn’t be forever, that there were many wonderful lessons in it for me—such as developing the virtue of patience and learning to live in the now. I knew that, overall, motherhood was molding me into a better woman.
There were only two things I consistently did for
myself
during this time: maintain close relationships with my circle of girlfriends (even if it was primarily by phone), and work out at the gym (which had great childcare). Not only did exercise briefly relieve me from mommy duty, it resurrected my pelvic floor
and
kept me relatively toned everywhere else.
I sure am glad I prioritized those two things now . . .
You see, I was hurled into singlehood again. Only this time with three kids and big responsibilities in tow. Life as I’d known it was gone—flattened by the tornado of betrayal.
But out of this wreckage, I constructed a new life of liberation—one built on the foundation of my profound, dare I say
unconventional, sexual awakening. But I kept my provocative dating and sex life deliberately secret to avoid becoming headline news among other mothers on the school playground. After all, thirty-something suburban moms did
not
go to sex clubs or meet young men for afternoon trysts. Or did they . . . ?
From online dating to domination and submission, I barely left a stone unturned in my quest to explore the boundaries not only of my sexuality but of myself. And in so doing, I experienced more than just wild adventures—I excavated my authentic and fiery self. The Delaine who had once defined herself as mother and wife rediscovered Delaine the Woman, without sacrificing motherhood.
It all began with a phone call in the night . . .
CHAPTER 1
HUSBANDS AND LOVERS
IT WAS THE NIGHT BEFORE Halloween. I was half-asleep, half-awake, nursing my six-month-old daughter, Jessa, when the phone rang. I raced to answer it, Jessa still attached to my breast.
“Is Robert there?” asked an unfamiliar voice. It was a woman, her speech slurred from drinking.
“No, he’s not, he’s away at work,” I said automatically. I wiped a long strand of hair out of my eyes and glanced at the clock: 3:25 AM. “Who
is
this?”
Husky giggles. “Just a friend.”
“Pardon?
Just a
friend?” My brain was fully alert now.
“I’m sorry,
who
are you again?”
Click
.
I held the receiver out from my ear and stared at it. My arms and fingers suddenly felt numb.
What the hell just happened? Who the hell was she?!
I laid my daughter down in her crib and called the number back, heart racing, my bloodstream prickling with ice.
“Chubbie’s Bar and Grill,” said a lively male voice, loud over the din of background music.
Gripping the phone tighter, I put on my best casual/happy voice. “Hi, I just received a call from a woman at this number. She was asking for my husband, Robert Williams. Can I speak with her please?”
“Oh . . . ummm . . . that was Natasha.” Muffled sounds followed. He had covered the mouthpiece, but I could still hear him talking to someone in the background: “Man . . . that was a really stupid move . . . ”
“Hello? Hey . . . ” I called.
“Yeah, hi. Sorry. Listen . . . ” he began to say, but I cut him off.
“Do
you
know my husband?”
More muffled sounds.
Again, more forcefully: “Do you know my husband,
Robert Williams?

His answer was immediate.
“Yes.”
“Is there something going on between her and my husband?” I felt my fear rising, mixed with panic, and the telltale flood of emotion welling up behind both. I took a deep breath, trying desperately to calm myself.
Silence.
“Please,”
I implored, softening. “Please tell me. I am his wife, we have
three children
. Is there something going on?” But he didn’t need to tell me. Instinct told me my answer. My hope was that the Chubbie’s man would prove me wrong.
Silence.

Please,”
I begged. “Are you a dad?”
Exhale. “Yes.”
“Then
please
, PLEASE, tell me. We have a newborn baby, a two-year-old, and
(choke)
a three-year-old.”
Finally: “You should look into it.”
I ran to the bathroom and threw up.
In a daze, I stumbled back to the phone and called Robert, who was at his new job site, a six hour’s drive west.
“Hello,” he answered groggy with sleep.
“So . . . your girlfriend just called,” I said matter-of-factly. My
whole body trembled and my heart raced. The moment felt surreal, like I was acting out a movie script, because how could I be asking my Robert about his
girlfriend?
He was my husband. My
love.
I swallowed back a sob as I waited for his response.
“What? What do you mean?”
But I didn’t answer. He’d heard me. He knew what I meant. I just stared at the wall in front of me, my eyes locked on a red crayon mark I hadn’t scrubbed off.
“Delaine, answer me . . . DELAINE . . . Oh fuck . . .” He sounded panicked, but I didn’t care—or feel anything. “I’m coming home right now, Delaine, okay? I’m getting in my truck
right now
and coming home,” he said, as if trying to reassure me.
Later that day when I saw his truck pull into the driveway, I was waiting at the door: I waved goodbye to the kids and the sitter, got in the front seat without looking at him, and he drove for what felt like hours, up a twisting road, both of us quiet. Occasionally, I’d look over at him, at his familiar profile, his rugged handsome jawline, and I’d feel a fresh punch to my gut, my eyes quickly pooling with tears.
Oh Robert,
I wanted to sob,
how could you do this to us?
But I couldn’t give in to emotion; I didn’t want my weakness to get in the way of knowing everything. The road gave out finally on an empty construction lot high atop a hill overlooking the city. He turned off the engine, and the truck was flooded with silence.
He shifted in the leather seat, and looked at me with a soft expression, loving, remorseful even. I looked out the window, waiting . . . bracing myself for what was to come.
“Nothing happened Delaine,” he pleaded softly. “I swear to God nothing happened. She’s just a friend, and she means absolutely nothing to me. If you don’t want me to see her again, I won’t.”
I turned and looked at him, holding his gaze. He looked away, out the front window, then down at his hands. “
Nothing
happened?” I asked beseechingly, tissues knotted in my hands. “You didn’t even kiss her?”
He didn’t speak immediately. Eyes out the window. Long exhale. Finally: “Yes. I’ll be honest. I did kiss her. But only once.” He looked at me, his face earnest. “I swear to God, Delaine. Just
once.”
Fresh tears streamed down my face; visions of Robert amorously entwined with another woman.
But I believed him—it was just a kiss. It was but one small, insignificant mistake . . .
 
“YOU KNOW THAT’S bullshit, right?” retorted my best friend, Hali, when I relayed Robert’s story to her the next day.

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