The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom (3 page)

I struggled with my feelings constantly, torn between fantasy and reality, truth and deceit, right and wrong. I knew I should stop seeing him as my therapist and firmly walk away, but I simply couldn’t fight it; I didn’t
want
to fight it. And in a flash, I understood the roots of Robert’s indiscretion.

We arranged our first rendezvous at a hotel close by. I was drunk on two glasses of wine when he arrived, and he looked around so conspicuously, that I was sure the front desk clerk must have known. We knew we were crossing a formidable moral line, one that carried a dangerous price tag if we were caught. Still, we proceeded. We had no future expectations of one another, no promises, only the mutual need to be together this one time.

Ah, but to finally be alone together—to finally allow the flesh to express the connection that had grown between us for months. We stood before one another kissing long and tenderly. God how I’d ached for this. How I’d longed to feel his arms around me, his lean chest pressing against mine.

Yet he was trembling; his entire six-foot-three frame was visibly shaking. “I’m sorry,” he offered softy, his dark eyes beseeching mine. “I want to do this, I really want you, Delaine. It’s just
such
a big step.”

“Shhh, it’s okay,” I replied, looking up at him. “I’m really nervous too . . .” And with our admissions came laughter: “Boy, aren’t we the most pathetic pair of cheaters,” he grinned. And with laughter, the pressure seemingly disappeared; for when he reached down to kiss me again, there was no more shaking, only the undeniable presence of his passion.

And I allowed him to take the lead. I allowed him to bring me across that line with him. Because I wanted him; my body wanted him.

One night would never be enough.

 

MY SEX DRIVE exploded back like a neutron hitting plutonium.
Who
is
this woman?
I laughed at myself. My body craved sex so intensely and frequently it baffled me. Just the mere thought of Graham filled me with longing, an ache that surged deep inside my pelvis and stretched up to my heart.

Not only was I enjoying sex again, all the creative energies associated with my sex chakra were streaming throughout my being: Vibrancy! Effervescence! Passion! I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d felt such things! I mean, it wasn’t that my life as Robert’s wife didn’t make me feel “happy.” It just felt more along the lines of . . . contentedness. Not bad, not good. Just “content.” Or was it complacency?

However I labeled it, I believed my feelings were par for the marriage course—that as the banality of life settled in, as I assumed it did in most marriages, the arc of passion and magic fell away. This was all part of the natural order of things. I’d developed such beliefs in order to normalize what I was experiencing—or maybe endure it, I don’t know. But I thought my ultimate job, my marital duty, was to appreciate what I
did
have, put honor and society’s morality code above all else, and trust that over time mine and my husband’s virtuous behavior would translate into “happily ever after.” I bought the marriage sacrament hook, line, and sinker. It didn’t occur to me that it could be any different.

But now, my passion was back. My dull, mediocre existence was dancing in color, a full-blown sensory experience painted with pleasure and beauty. And that’s when my inspired energy met opportunity: Out of the blue, I decided to create my own Internet business. “Pregnant Soul,” in how I dreamed it, would be unlike any other pregnancy site: it would take the emphasis off the physical journey of pregnancy and focus on nurturing the mother in the making.

My new business venture meant the world to me—not just for the creative outlet it provided, but for the new self-image it was
birthing. I’d been out of the workforce for seven years, and my self-confidence was shaky at best. Maybe there was a smart, dynamic business woman lurking beneath my Supermom attire. My creative energies, now channeled into a goal, fuelled me with a new purpose in life.

As months slowly folded into a year, there came the day when I knew I was in love with Graham. I was peacefully snuggled up on his chest after having made love. The room was completely silent beside the sound of his heartbeat. Then he spoke.

“You are like a beautiful butterfly, Delaine,” he said softly. “One that was trapped in her cocoon for a very long time . . .” He was stroking my hair as we talked, and I felt such tenderness, something I hadn’t ever truly felt with Robert. “I’ve watched you transform these past months we’ve been together... I’ve watched you grow these exquisite, colorful wings. All you needed was a bit more time and someone to
really
love you.”

My throat closed. I pressed my face deeper into his chest, as my heart absorbed the beauty of his words. Gently, he continued: “
Now
the question is:
Does she believe she can fly?
She can, you know. She just needs to trust and believe . . . in
herself
.”

He lifted my face to his and kissed me.

In that brief moment, I realized I never wanted to be apart from this man; that we connected—mind, body, and soul—in a way Robert and I never had and never would. This was not some foolhardy, childish romance, I told myself. Nor was it just a sexually driven affair. To me, it was the real thing—kindred love; yin and yang, on all levels. And I believed Graham felt the same.

But of course, things couldn’t go on as they were forever. The bottom line was that Graham and I were still married to other people. I was doing what Robert had done, even though I justified it by love. We were committing adultery, and choices inevitably had to be made. But first I needed to stop running. I needed to face off
with two scary questions that had chased me for years; questions that were being posed by a most mistrusted source: my body.
Why do you dislike having sex with your husband, Delaine? And could it ever change for the better?

I’d always tried to blame our sexual disconnection on me—
my
hormones, my feeling fat, my being pregnant, my being selfish. But now my body was standing firm and calling bullshit.

Flashback:
I am on my knees in front of the toilet bowl, three months pregnant with our first child. I have just thrown up for the sixth time that day. Suddenly, movement at the bathroom door catches my eye.

My body boiled with rage at the memory. How dare he have demanded sex when I was sick as a dog from carrying his child? Then my anger surged back at me
: Why didn’t you just damn well say no? You enabled it, Delaine! Not just once but over and over and over again!

Flashback:
We’d just finished having sex and I am lying in bed, watching him dress. An “aha” question suddenly hits me: “Robert,” I ask, sitting up. “Do you enjoy having so much sex because it makes you feel close to me?”

There it was. In his own words: “I just need to get off.” But did I hear him? Did I listen? No. Instead I chose to psychoanalyze him, me, us: “It’s a Mars/Venus thing” or “It’s just a stage in marriage” or “It’s a case of mismatched sex drives.” How about, “Your husband doesn’t respect you, Delaine . . . and neither do you.”

I’d always tried to have a positive outlook and focus on the good things about Robert and our relationship beyond the bedroom. But they didn’t erase his Dark Side—a side I’d chosen to make excuses for in the name of love, and family.

I maintained that his criticisms never hurt me, even though virtually nothing was off-limits to his attacks: my cooking, my friends, my family, my competence, my parenting skills, my appearance.
I can take it,
I would tell myself.
I’m just more self-aware than he is, but he’ll get there.

Of course, I was lying to myself. Over time, the negative bombardment had silently chipped away at my soul
and
my body—those restless dreams, the unexplained muscle pains, the heaviness in my chest, and yes, the absence of sexual desire. Underneath my skin I felt squashed. Belittled. Unheard. At some point or another, I’d started convincing myself I was happy, instead of facing the truth: I was living in denial and subsisting off of self-told lies.

The body never lies
. Such poignancy in those words now. My sexual self had literally closed to Robert as a means of self-protection. My body had learned long ago what my mind and heart had been unprepared to acknowledge: My marriage was severely broken. And Robert’s infidelity had yielded the final blow.

Even though I had forgiven him, even though I could still
laugh and carry on a conversation with him, that was as far as I could extend it. My body had had
enough
. I knew I would never feel special with him, a feeling I wanted, needed, and deserved. Moreover, I knew such a feeling was possible because I believed in soul mates, and the universe had reunited me with Graham.

 

“I TOLD ROBERT I want a divorce,” I said to Graham the day after it happened. It was a cold December day and we’d snuck away to share tea at a coffee shop.

“You
did
?” He was surprised.

“I did
.
It was hard. And he was very sad. But I know it’s the right decision.”

“Wow. Good for you, Delaine. That’s such a big step to take. You’re a very courageous woman.” He looked away. “Let’s hope your separation goes better than mine.” Graham was already deep in the throes of his, and it had turned nasty because of money matters.

“Can I come over to your new condo tonight? I still haven’t seen it since you moved out.”

“Actually, I’ve been thinking . . .” He took a deep breath. “I think you and I need to take some time apart. Not forever, just for now. Things are becoming so complicated at home. And if Maria catches wind of us, she will make my life even more of a living hell.”

His words caught me off guard.

“Delaine,” he said, gathering my hands in his own. “You know I love you. But because of that, I don’t want you to hear about all the ugliness going on between me and Maria. I don’t want it to taint us.”

I was nodding because his words made sense, but they still hurt. I had to absorb them.

Graham continued, his jaw set: “This is such a major life transition—for both of us. And I need to be able to stand on my own two feet and work things out for myself, as do you. The easy
thing to do is to run for shelter in a lover’s arms where it all feels good. But against such an ugly backdrop? It might ruin us before we have a real chance to be together.”

“So you don’t want any physical contact either?” I asked.
Yearning.

“I think it’s best if we don’t, Delaine. I want to honey, God, I
want
to. But it’s dangerous. And at this stage of things, we need to be so careful.”

I was upset. But at the time, I believed in his devotion, so I saw the wisdom in his words. We needed to be strong and close these chapters of our lives on our own.

Over the next four months our communication was very limited—only a couple of phone calls per month and a few coffee dates with whispered I love you’s. I coped by filling my daydreams and nights with memories and hope-filled visions of our future. I also made certain there was room in my heart to welcome and love his three children as my own.

I focused my attention on dismantling my own marriage. The whole separation process felt surreal, like a drawn-out death. It’s a time when hostility and anger can flare at the drop of a hat, fear takes over, and anxiety prevails. To curtail my own, I avoided talking to people who had already gone through a messy divorce. I alone had chosen to arrive at this major crossroads in my life. And despite my many fears, I trusted in myself to find my own way.

Sometimes though, my grief at what was transpiring completely overwhelmed me. I had to give in to it and find a quiet time and place to release it. I looked around me to the rhythms of nature, knowing that every moment, the cycle of birth, death, and renewal was ongoing; and I drew comfort from it. I knew that our relationship was not so much ending as transforming. From the ashes of our marriage, our new roles as coparents, and hopefully friends, would emerge.

I finally knew which direction my life was heading; I’d made a choice. At some not-too-far juncture, I foresaw reuniting with Graham and the merging of our families. I sent Graham my prayers and loving thoughts, and I patiently awaited his freedom.

OF ALL THE MOTHERS I’D met at my sons’ school that year, Sara was the only one I’d become close enough with to call a real friend.

It was over lunch with her one day in March that I confided that Robert and I had separated. I was selective about who I told at that point, mostly because I was afraid of being judged and seen as a failure; I couldn’t handle that extra burden. I needed time and space to process my grief. Sometimes it completely overwhelmed me, and I’d be flooded with all the good memories of us as a family—the teary look on Robert’s face as he held our first child, family snuggles in our bed, all of us linked hand-in-hand as we walked, Robert looking at me with love in his eyes—my younger self loving him with such abandon. But harder still was mourning the death of the “dream,” to have believed and worked so hard and for so long at something, only to be letting it go.