The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom (2 page)

“Huh?” I sat on the couch, my arms moving to wrap around my knees. “What do you mean?”

Hali’s face softened, and she reached for my hand. “Delaine,” she said gently. “Look . . . I know you want to believe him. And it’s wonderful that you want to give him the benefit of the doubt. But do you
really
think full-grown men stop at a kiss? If he was ten or twelve years old, maybe. But a horny adult male who knows how good sex feels? Hon, he’s lying.”

No.
No
. My world was crashing to the ground in slow motion. I needed answers. I needed the truth, but I knew I wouldn’t get it from him; I had to talk to
her.

 

WE SAT ACROSS from each other at Chubbie’s Bar and Grill, where she worked as a bar manager. I listened quietly, determined not to cry, while she nervously, yet openly, answered my questions. Thoughts distracted me: Robert kissing her full lips, Robert running his hands through her long dark hair, the two of them giggling and pillow-talking in the afterglow of sex.
Robert knows every inch of this woman’s body
, I thought, glancing down at her full
breasts and trim waistline, untouched by pregnancy. I felt plain and matronly in my cords and T-shirt
.

Finally, with my eyes across the room, I asked the one question that haunted me most: “Did he ever say he loved you?”

She inhaled deeply and flicked her cigarette. Finally: “No. But we spent a lot of time together. We were really good friends, and we cared
a lot
about each other.” She was nodding her head, staring down at the table. When she finally looked up into my eyes, I saw straight into her pain:
She’d
fallen in love with
him
. This young, smart, and obviously beautiful woman before me had secretly believed he would choose her over us.

I never spoke with her again.

 

IN RETROSPECT, I saw there had been signs. The new sex maneuvers he tried, which I assumed he’d read about in a magazine. Going to the tanning booth in winter. And ah yes . . . all those extra showers, which I’d assumed were out of consideration for me. Perhaps someone swifter, brighter, or not so insanely busy would’ve pounced on these clues right away. But I trusted him. Completely. I simply didn’t think he was the kind of man who would ever cheat.

Sure, I knew Robert and I had some problems in our marriage. Who doesn’t when they have a young family? I thought that Robert and I were simply going through a life phase that required a lot more energy and sacrifice, where the “us” in the equation took a backseat to the more pressing needs of newborns and toddlers. In my mind, we’d shared and built so much together—good stuff, important stuff, too meaningful to ever put at risk: a home, three precious children, a community of friends, and a partnership which was built on strong family values. Granted, we argued on occasion, he could be unkind and demanding, unyielding and insensitive. But at the time, I overlooked these failings
for the greater good of our family unit. Never once did I think he might be cheating on me.

I resolved I’d forgive him. Somehow, even though my soul was battered, I forced myself to try and understand Robert’s unhappiness, the reasons why he had made these choices. I believed my family’s future was contingent upon my ability to forgive. So I determined I would.

Over the next year, we took all the right steps to slowly rebuild: counseling, dating each other more often, exploring new common hobbies. He communicated more, drank and swore less. He participated in family time and turned off his cell phone. He tried to be present, to make amends. And I loved him for trying. I felt compassion for him, like a mother might feel for a child who’s made a bad choice. But the one thing I couldn’t do was bring myself to have sex with him, because under the surface, everything had changed.

 

BEFORE THE AFFAIR, Robert and I had had regular sex—that is, about three or four times a week when he wasn’t traveling. But I carried what I felt was a terrible secret: Just the thought of Robert’s sexual touch made me inwardly cringe. No matter what I tried, my body seemed to rebuff him. I tried watching porn and masturbating beforehand. I even tried alcohol. Still . . . baseline. I’d fill my heart with appreciation for him; I’d admire his tall, muscular body as he stepped out of the shower, glistening and wet. Still nothing.

The truth was that my body started rejecting Robert as far back as my first pregnancy. Robert would come home after working out of town for weeks, horny as a raging bull, and I would be tired, throwing up from morning sickness, feeling no desire whatsoever. But I quickly discovered that saying no to sex meant emotional retaliation: “What happened to the girl who liked to do it three times a day?” he snarled at me once. “What’s wrong with you?”

“
All
couples at the start of a relationship have loads of sex Robert,” I said beseechingly. “It’s normal for it to tone down over time.”

“Well it’s not normal to me!” he spat angrily. “It’s false representation. Christ, it really is true: As soon as you’re married and the woman has you by the balls, she cuts off sex.”

His comments stung. They were cruel and selfish, but I also felt guilty for not satisfying him. My bruised emotions notwithstanding, the loyal do-gooder wife in me wondered if he was somehow right. By marrying me, he had forsaken all other women under the faith that I would adequately meet his sexual needs. Yes, I had a responsibility to fulfill that obligation, but was my sexual disinterest par for the course in marriage, especially after having kids—or was it just me?

Confused, I asked Hali what her and her husband, Paul’s, sex life was like. They’d been married ten years at the time, so the honeymoon phase was certainly over. I figured her reality would be pretty representative of mine.

When I asked her, at first she laughed. We were sitting in my bright cluttered kitchen, our toddlers running rampant through the house. As always, she looked fresh and eye-catchingly pretty, her naturally blonde pixie cut flattering her delicate features and blue eyes. But underneath her ultrafeminine exterior lay a kind but no-bullshit woman, one who had an opinion and was more than ready to offer it up. When we’d first met ten years earlier, neither one of us much liked the other: She thought me a rather free-spirited “hippie,” and I found her uncomfortably frank, which, at the time, made her seem harsh around the edges. But we openly laughed about that now. I think our differences helped cement our friendship because we saw something in each other that we needed in ourselves.

“No, I’m serious, Hali,” I said, laughing too.

“Okay, okay, D,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Let’s see, I’d say it’s predictable, but okay. Nothing to write home about. I get into it
once I get going.” She paused, tilted her head. “Actually, whenever I have a great orgasm I think, ‘why don’t we do this more often?’ But my problem is getting to the point where I
want
to get going: I’m tired, I feel fat, he has bad breathe, whatever. Suddenly, I’ll realize we haven’t had sex in a month.”

“But what about when he approaches you and you’re not in the mood? Do you feel guilty if you say no?” I picked at a bowl of grapes, which the kids had already attacked. The few stragglers were overripe. I popped them in my mouth absentmindedly as I listened to Hali’s answer.

“Not really. I mean, if he needs it that bad he can go do his thing in the bathroom,” she said dryly.

I laughed so hard, I nearly shot grape skin out my nose.

“But is that fair?” I pressed further. “I mean, aren’t we supposed to make the extra effort out of respect to our husbands? Chances are we’re not always going to be in the mood at the same time.”

“I see what you mean,” she replied, taking a moment to think. “Actually . . . yeah, I sometimes do have sex more for him than me. But like I said, once we get going, I usually get into it.”

 

I FOUND SOLACE in knowing other people’s sex lives weren’t perfect either.
Marriage will always present us with one challenge or another
, I thought, with resignation. I just needed to hang tough, focus on my blessings, and stay true to the course.

And that’s when I made a dangerous choice: To keep the peace between Robert and me, I would simply give in. Yield. Detach. Pretend . . .

And so on.

Once I started pretending, my sex drive never came back. Even though we went on to have two more children, and even though I believed I loved Robert, I simply tolerated having sex with him.

After his affair, as we worked with a counselor, I silently, anxiously, hoped that my sexual passion would reignite, that all this would bring us closer together and be the catalyst to renewed passion. Two months passed; nothing. Then three . . . four . . . five. Still, I felt absolutely no desire. But I knew I couldn’t expect him to wait forever.
He’s trying so hard to be a better husband and dad. He deserves to have sex again,
I reasoned.
The problem really is mine.

So one night, I decided it was time. I mustered my courage, carefully dressed up in something lacy and seductive, and served myself to him like a plate of chicken.

He loved it. I felt nothing.

As we moved toward the one year mark of his affair, I resigned myself to thinking I would never enjoy sex again. For the rest of my life, it would be something to “get over with.” I told myself I didn’t
need
to enjoy sex. It was overrated and there were other, more important things, like keeping my family together. In fact, I imagined many of my foremothers had felt the same way. In my mind’s eye, I’d see a farm wife falling exhausted into bed after an eighteen-hour day of chores and caring for her ten kids . . . only to be awoken, yet again, by her husband’s calloused fingers under her bed dress. This was all just a part of marriage. A part of life. Besides, look how happy having sex made
him
—I’d literally find him whistling around the house, more than willing to do chores. And he was kinder, less harsh. Giving him my body seemed like such a small price to pay.

 

AROUND THIS TIME, a terrible pain in my hip appeared out of nowhere. It was interfering with my sleep and growing worse by the week. Thus, almost one year after Robert’s affair, I began twice-weekly treatments with a highly reputed acupuncturist named Graham, a tall, lean, Zen-looking man with unkempt dark hair and gentle eyes. From the moment I met him in the waiting room, I felt at ease by his warm smile and calm presence.

One day, as he worked on my hip in a session, I suddenly found myself crying. “My God, this is so embarrassing,” I apologized, as he quickly offered me a tissue. “Watching the leaves fall, Halloween just around the corner—they remind me of painful events from last year.”

Graham rolled his stool close to me and sat down, like he was fully prepared to listen to what I had to say. I could feel his presence, his attention, his kind brown eyes upon me. No pressure . . . no conditions. Just his powerfully gentle care.

The words poured from my mouth like blood out of a fresh wound. I told him of Robert’s betrayal, every detail. And as I told my story to Graham—who, despite all logic, felt like a trusted longtime friend—I wept like a grief-stricken child.

A dozen tissues later, I finally composed myself. “I’m really sorry to make such a scene,” I said self-consciously. “I don’t understand why this had to come out today, or here in your office.”

Graham looked upward for a moment, as if gathering his words from some otherworldly source. “The body never lies, Delaine,” he said, his soft baritone voice full of compassion. “Our bodies know and feel our truth, even when our minds aren’t there yet. You suffered tremendously
,
and your pain has manifested in your body. It needed to come out. Today’s session just triggered it.”

That night as I lay in bed, my body felt exhausted, yet lighter. It was as if I’d released something, and in its place was a serene weariness.

But then Robert came into the bedroom.

Immediately, I tensed from head to toe. I lay still, pretending to sleep. He crawled into bed and rolled over on to his side. I listened to his breathing, lying motionless, frozen, until I could tell he was asleep.

As I stared at the ceiling, Graham’s words came back to me: “
The body never lies . . .
”

 

OVER THE NEXT few months of treatment with Graham, my body began telling me something
else
: I was intensely attracted to him. No, it wasn’t just because of his lean runner’s body and dark, chiseled features; I swear I hardly even noticed his good looks when we first met. My attraction grew slowly, innocently, out of the conversations we shared. His mind, his energy, his sensitivity crept into known and unknown places within me . . . and filled them with light. He never crossed any professional lines, but sometimes, sometimes . . . during breaks in our conversations, he’d look down at me, and our eyes would meet and hold. I could swear I saw equal desire reflected back in his.

I tried to fight my feelings. I minimized them, denied them, even berated myself for them. But he was so different from Robert—a complete and total opposite. Side by side, they were like New Age Healer and an Old School Brute. Graham was expressive and attentive; he showed his strength through acts and words of gentleness. Robert, on the other hand, was crass and domineering, more apt to down a bottle of whisky or pull a wheelie on his motorcycle to prove his manhood. Mentally, I could connect with Graham with such ease; I marveled at how a thirty-minute session could pass so quickly, especially when someone was poking me with needles. And the fact that he, too, was adrift in a failing marriage with an emotionally distant wife, clinging to
the hope that it might someday turn a corner for the sake of his three kids, was yet one more thing we had in common.