The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom (32 page)

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 me. 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.

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 . . .”

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
.
”