The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom (27 page)

 

IN KEEPING WITH my “date more than one man at a time” decision, I also started talking to Lornce, a successful businessman and entrepreneur. His energy was the polar opposite of John’s. He was as excitable and distractible as John was calm and intense. I inevitably found myself smiling after our whirlwind phone conversations. There was never time to get “deep” with Lornce; his other line was always beeping or he was rushing to his next appointment somewhere in San Francisco. Still, his flitting, touch-base phone calls were most charming: “Hi beautiful!” he’d pipe into the line, when he’d burst briefly into my day. “Just saying a quick hello. Are you conquering the world? Shaping your kiddies into little Einsteins? Give that pretty ass of yours a pat! Ciao, gotta run!”

I felt his presence like the fleeting dance of a dragonfly: surprising, delightful, then . . . “outta here.”

Lornce sent me a picture soon after we’d made contact—just his face. I’d studied it, trying not to be judgmental. He was pushing fifty and losing his hair, laugh lines and bags decorated his
eyes, and his lips were thinning. As Hali put it, “He looks like your typical middle-aged man.”

The truth was, had I met a man like Lornce locally, I highly doubt I’d have dated him. For the role of “out-of-town friend/lover,” however, he merited consideration. More importantly, I found his intelligence very attractive (though he talked a mile a minute), and I enjoyed his silliness and the ease with which he laughed. I felt very unthreatened by him. Like he would enhance my world but not rock it.

Still, the physical attraction concerned me. I’d never been intimate with a much older man before, and I’d become accustomed to hunky younger men. What if he looked closer in age to my dad?
Ewww.
Then again, maybe his age and experience would make him a more attentive lover.
Hmm,
I’d hate to get his hopes up and fly down to San Francisco only to reject him.

For yes, he was already pushing to meet. He’d eagerly given me his personal info and I’d not only Googled him, but I’d paid for a background check on him through an online service; everything appeared fine. My next concern, however, was that I’d feel guilted or pressured into having sex with him; eventually, I came right out and told him so.

He was totally understanding. “If, when we meet, you decide you only want to be friends, I’m perfectly alright with that. I know this whole situation requires a huge leap of faith on your part and I respect that.
My
only concern is that I’ll like you too much,” he added, laughing. “You seem very real and honest. Plus, you’re smart and sexy-as-hell. So . . . if it’ll set your mind at ease, I’ll fly
there
to meet you.”

Thus it was arranged: my Dragonfly Man would be fluttering first class to Calgary ten days hence, in mid-December. Snow would be thick. Travel uncertain. Obviously, he was a man of action; a man who wasn’t afraid to take risks, not just in business,
but in life. And what wasn’t to like about a man going the extra two thousand miles for me?

 

TWO DAYS LATER, I received an urgent phone call from Hali. “Tara’s flying in tonight at seven thirty. She found out Matt’s having an affair.”

Oh dear God.
Hali and I both knew what had to be done: Tara needed to be cocooned by her best friends.

As soon as my kids were asleep in the sitter’s care, I grabbed my overnight bag and jumped in the car. Driving across the city, I thought back to the last time I’d seen Tara: We were at Black Cloud Brian’s comedy club and her beautiful blue eyes had looked so
sad.

I had expected this moment to arrive in one shape or another. Their marriage had been locked in a state of inertia for ages. I’d sensed something “big” would propel them into motion again, upward or down. I just wish she’d been the one to find a lover, not him. Now she had to deal with his betrayal—for the second time—and go through the painful divorce process. My heart wept for her, knowing the utter devastation she was feeling right now.

As I walked into Hali’s house, I saw Tara and greeted her immediately with a long tender hug. She was already in her pajamas and her long blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Her eyes were puffy from crying, her face worn and tired. Shock had done its number on her.

“Thanks for coming, Delaine,” she said in my ear, squeezing me back.

Hali came in from the kitchen. “Hey girl, thanks for getting here so fast,” she said warmly. She was carrying a bottle of wine and three glasses by their stems. “Since you’re both spending the night, let’s go get cozy upstairs. Get our jammies on, pretend we’re nine or something, kay?”

As we headed upstairs, me in the rear, Hali called back.
“Delaine, maybe you should grab another bottle from the fridge. Fuck having to leave our cozy room, right?”

Tara laughed and I obliged.

Back upstairs, I quickly donned my Super Girl attire, wondering when I’d last had a “sleepover” at a girlfriend’s house. University? That was more a case of me passing out on someone’s couch. When then? Fifth grade? My mind flashed with memories of pillow fights, sleeping bags, and ghost stories. Hardly on tonight’s agenda.

The girls were sprawled across Hail’s king-size bed, already immersed in conversation, when I rejoined them. I quickly found an open space and listened in. Hali, who’d become an overnight expert in the legalities of divorce, was answering Tara’s quick-fire questions about the nuances of separation and divorce, reassuring her of her rights.

So it’s come to this,
I thought with empathy.
Oh my dear, we’re here for you.

Finally, Tara turned to me and told me her story. She explained that a few days ago, Matt had said he was going away on business. And though he commonly traveled for work, this time her spider senses wouldn’t stop tingling. On impulse, she’d hired a private investigator and had him trailed. The evidence delivered to her was 100 percent conclusive: Matt was on romantic sojourn with a colleague from work.

Then came the dramatic confrontation. Tara, though reeling with shock and hurt, donned a brave face and calmly demanded an explanation. But none was forthcoming. Matt was furious she’d had him followed and couldn’t get over it. He went on the offensive, yelling, name-calling, lying, blaming, while Tara stood there shell-shocked and numb.

“I could feel myself withdrawing deeper and deeper into myself,” she said numbly. “I couldn’t believe
he
was attacking
me.
I couldn’t believe this selfish, angry, unselfaware man was my husband. I mean, I knew he was like that. But it was like, ‘Tara, why are you fighting for this guy?’
So what
if you’ve been married for fifteen years and have two kids together. You don’t have to spend the rest of your life being treated this way.”

Hali and I nodded somberly as Tara reached for a tissue and dabbed her eyes. Suddenly, out of the corner of her mouth she muttered, “Well, at least now I know he’s not gay!” Hali and I burst out laughing. “Seriously!” she said now grinning. “Considering how little he wanted sex, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d found out he was with a man.” And laughter relieved our heavy hearts for a moment.

All these years we’d been friends, I’d assumed our married sex lives were so different—she’d always wanted much more sex from her husband, whereas I’d wanted much less. But beneath the surface we suffered the same wound, it had just been inflicted through opposite means: her body ached from the suppression of her need, my body ached with my need to suppress. Ultimately, both of us were being disempowered by our sex lives. Even though we tried to deny it and convince ourselves otherwise, some chunk of our souls had been slowly rotting away. Rejected. Dejected. Unheard. And I wondered how long we’d have let it go on had our partners not had affairs: Would we ever have found the courage to leave on our own? Or would our sense of duty, our fears and insecurities, have held us hostage?

Isn’t every woman presented with big personal life choices at one time or another? Whether it’s to have a child, quit a job, move to a new city, get married, or even have an affair. And if she finds herself standing at the critical fork of “Stay Married or Get Divorced,” will she feel cornered by the scrum of her own fears, by the voices and opinions of other people and society? I know I was. So what do we do? Do we hang around at the crossroads for the
rest of our days, too afraid to commit to one path or another, and resign ourselves to thinking that a “full life” is never our destiny? Or, whether it’s months or years in the making, will we choose a path—make a choice and not just commit to it, but take action to either change it into what we
do
want or start anew on our own? Only we can decide when or if we’re ready to make that decision, to face the fears and pitfalls and hurtles that we’ll be confronted with. Without trying, ours souls would cease to grow.

Now, in the warm, cozy setting of Hali’s bedroom, with the bluesy music of Norah Jones playing over the stereo, Hali and I tended to our bewildered friend as she adjusted to her new surroundings: the dreaded “Wilderness.” We knew her journey ahead would be arduous and full of internal and external obstacles, but for tonight, we, her fellow warriors, would bear her weight as she took her first few shaky steps.

As our evening progressed, I inevitably found myself looking back over my shoulder to my own personal D-Day—the day the Graham Bomb exploded. And that’s when it struck me: I had come a long way. For some reason, I’d envisioned myself like an anchored boat at sea, rocking about, but not really going anywhere. But in reaching out to help Tara, I was given a new yardstick, a new perspective, on just how far I’d come. I was a survivor. A Warrior. A Woman with a History, who would one day let it flow behind her like a colorful silk scarf.

And even though I still felt bruised, even though I knew I was still a work in progress, sitting there in Hali’s room with my best friends I became aware of another feeling stirring in my body: excitement. For I was
changing.
I felt it—viscerally, emotionally, psychologically—I was becoming stronger, a bit wiser, a bit more confident; a broader, fuller me was awakening beneath the crevices left behind by the destruction. Who might she become? How will she evolve? Her field of dreams was unknown, yet vast, her
potential and possibilities still to be discovered. But one thing was clear: She was rousing.

As I looked over at Hali, I saw many of my own thoughts reflected in her eyes. This night wasn’t just about Tara: There was learning in it for us all. Hali and I weren’t meant to “save” Tara or expedite her journey. We were meant to offer her hope; we were half-lit beacons reminding her to have faith in herself and a bigger plan for her life. And as we affirmed Tara’s belief in herself, we were further reinforcing our own.

And so it was that I experienced my first sleepover in more than twenty-five years. But it was special to me in a different way than those of my childhood. For what did we do? We talked, we shared, and we learned from each other’s stories. We drank wine, read aloud passages from books, and brushed each other’s hair. We got silly, we got emotional, we got recharged.

For one full night, three grown women were as adoring and intimate as young sisters. And when we finally laid down to sleep, feet touching, on Hali’s giant king-size bed, it felt perfectly right. Our togetherness, our solidarity, made the world outside and its big, adult problems fade away.

AS WE SLID INTO OUR BOOTH at Chili’s Restaurant and Bar, Tory and her younger sister, Shiloh, pelted me with questions.

“What happened with the Dragonfly Man?” fired Tory, before I’d even removed my winter jacket.

“Yeah, fill us in, girl!” chimed Shiloh.

Less than two weeks after my cathartic girl-night at Hali’s, Lornce had followed through on his promise to visit. And I couldn’t help but laugh: I obviously wasn’t the only person who’d greatly anticipated our face-to-face meeting.

Feigning seriousness, Tory continued: “I hope you realize we’re living vicariously through your dating adventures, Delaine. We’re relying on you to educate us through your experiences. So tell us
everything.
”

“Well . . .” I began, chuckling, as I bundled my jacket over the top of my purse beside me. “We had fun. And I
do
like him. It wasn’t a love connection or anything. But yes, I do like him. So I’m going to see him again. I’m going to fly to San Francisco. Probably next month.”

The girls giggled gleefully. “That’s
so
cool.”

I looked down at my hands, smirking from ear to ear.
Yeah
, I thought.
It is.

The waitress arrived at our table and we cited off our usual order: Southwestern rolls and two quesadillas to split. Extra hot sauce and guacamole on the side.

Waitress gone, Tory quickly jumped in, elbows firmly planted on the table: “So . . . what did you do while he was here? Did you have fun? Did you have
sex
?”

My mind flashed to the Calgary arrivals gate terminal: me pacing, fidgeting, and making numerous trips to the ladies room. Oh the suspense! Every time the customs doors slid open and an unattractive older man passed through solo, I held my breath:
Please don’t be Lornce, please don’t be Lornce . . . Phew, he’s hailing a taxi,
or
Phew, he’s meeting his family.

Then:
What the hell am I doing? This is CRAZY.
Then
: Every other normal person in this room is here to pick up a friend or loved one. But no-no-no, not THIS nutcase. I’m awaiting an online stranger from another country!

Finally
,
I saw him come through the customs door. We immediately locked eyes and he smiled. So did I. He looked like his photo, only better: he stood tall, he didn’t have a big belly (phew again), and he was wearing a cashmere sweater and slacks. I could see both confidence and playfulness in his stance as he walked straight over to me and locked me in a big hug.