Tag: divorce

a hot night with Chi-guy (part 7)

About seven months ago…

We had just finished dinner and gone back out to the car. We had decided to go to a roof-top bar for a nightcap and view of the city. I felt so alive and energized in Chi-guy’s presence that I was turned on just by being near him!

Up on the roof, I had a glass of red wine; he chose a Perrier. We stood side-by-side, looking out at the lights of the city, our bodies close, feeling connected. The tension between us having built up all day (and for weeks before), we finally allowed ourselves to touch each other more liberally, allowing our hands to linger longer on each other. He told me his memories of the first time we met, and then leaned in, kissing my lips softly.

“You know all this flirting we’ve been doing?” he began.

“Yeah,” I answered playfully, looking directly into his eyes and smiling, “I’m interested.”

“I like you,” he said.

“I like you, too.”

After canoodling a bit longer, Chi-guy set his glass down, took mine from my hand and set it down, and led me out to the car. We kissed in the elevator, in the car, at red lights…we kissed in the elevator of my hotel after tossing the keys to the valet. In my room, we allowed our hands and lips to explore each other further, slowly undressing each other, appreciating every newly revealed part of each other’s body. He must have touched every square centimeter of my skin with his hands or lips. We took our time, allowing the tension to build, enjoying each moment and new sensation before finally, safely, moving rhythmically together toward climax. And then we held each other tightly as our breath slowed. It was cathartic, healing and magical. For months, both of us had been without loving touch, and it was a gift that we had been able to give one another.

At 3am, I woke up and felt him next to me. I gently caressed his body until he responded, pulled me on top of him and we had steamy, middle-of-the-night, barely awake hotness, such that we didn’t notice or care about our breath or anything else. Our desire for one another was intense!

In the morning, he went out and returned with coffee. We each showered and dressed, almost shyly respectful of each other’s privacy, before walking out together and going about our individual days.

We spent as much time together as possible over the weekend, talking, laughing and walking arm and arm through Millennium Park and the city by day, playfully, passionately, tenderly keeping one another up at night.

At least, that’s how I had imagined it might have happened…

More…

a day with Chi-guy (part 5)

About seven months ago…

Chi-guy picked me and the team up at the airport. After the requisite greetings, hand shakes (I got a hug) and luggage stowage, we headed into town. I rode shotgun and Chi-guy offered to share his coffee with me while he told me about the nonprofit for which he volunteers.

As we drove into the city, he pointed out landmarks. In between, we made small talk. I knew he’d been a journalist and asked if he had gone to Northwestern, which is known for its journalism program.

“I didn’t study journalism; I studied poetry at the University of Chicago,” he answered.

“Oh,” I replied, swooning. A feeling inside me was vibrating so strongly, I literally didn’t know how to respond! Later, in re-telling this nugget to my girlfriends, each cooed, “Oh my God, how perfect is that for you!” If there is one sure-fire way to my heart, it’s a man who reads or recites poetry to me. Anyway…

We turned from Lakeshore onto Jackson and Chi-guy pointed out the Hilton, where Obama stays while in town (it has a helipad). As if on cue, I touched his arm, he touched my leg just above the knee, we turned toward each other and said, in unison, “that’s where we met!”

I’m sure my colleagues in the back seat wondered how they had ended up on our first date. It felt like a promising start and, as we dropped the others at the hotel, I was eager to begin my day with Chi-guy.

His manners were beautiful. He called me out on my bad behavior, pointing out that I’d been a bit hard on a colleague (which, I have to admit, I was). As we drove through town and checked things off the “to do” list, he effortlessly took charge. I felt completely at ease, safe and — I don’t know how else to say it — utterly cared for in a way that I hadn’t felt in a long time.

We stopped for lunch, I got chilly, he brought my scarf from the car. He insisted I try his gumbo. We talked about our families. We are both the middle of three. About my Cancer son I said, “he’s going to grow into the kind of man who always takes care of his Momma.”

“Do women really think like that?” he asked.

“I think Jewish mothers do,” I answered, laughing. And then I confessed that I probably would not have ever had a thought about who will take care of me – after all, I’m too young to think about that sort of thing yet — but my son is that type of child. He is sensitive and empathetic to the feelings and needs of others, particularly me. He will get teary-eyed if I’m crying; he will try to comfort me; he offers to rub my back.

Chi-guy wondered aloud whether his mother had ever thought about such a thing.

And I proffered that I think most families have a caregiver. In mine, it’s not me – it’s my sister, the youngest.

Chi-guy said, “I think my brothers and I would all be tied for last place.”

We spent the day getting to know each other. I learned that he doesn’t drink at all any more. I told him about Max, and how he had helped me to move on. I learned about product ideas he created as projects in grad school. I watched him think on his feet. As I later told my girlfriends, “He has such a sexy brain, I want to lick it!”

We were relaxed and at ease together. We touched, but not too much. We were friendly, not too flirtatious. Soon, though, we’d be off the clock. When everything on our list was finally complete, Chi-guy dropped me at my hotel and promised to call later to make arrangements for dinner.

the divorce playlist, part 4

phase four:  freedom / victory / celebration

So maybe you’re not ready to date yet, but you’re feeling better about yourself and the direction you’re headed. You’re happy more often than not, maybe even triumphant that you’ve come this far, and you’ve found the kind of songs that make you feel like dancing in the kitchen:

Chi-guy, part 3

About eight months ago…

One Friday I went to dinner with a colleague. He has a great mind and we always have fun talking together, and that evening was no exception. After dinner, I asked him, “what next?”

“You’re inviting me to your place,” he said.

“Okay,” I said. I wasn’t 100% sure where this was going, but I had a pretty good idea, as this fellow had been a little suggestive on occasion. I was still well within the time frame I’d designated for having casual encounters, so I figured, “why not?!” I won’t bore you with the details just now (you can find them here), but…I looked at the clock after he left; it wasn’t even 10pm.

I texted Chi-guy: “Just sent my date home. Ugh. U up?”

Him:  “For what?”

Me:  “Chat?”

Him:  “Oh, sweet! I’m out tonight. Tomorrow?”

Me:  “Sounds good. Enjoy!”

The next day, well after noon, I received this:  “I definitely had more fun than u last night! Call u after I get the little one to sleep.”

Me:  “If your fun night just left, I don’t want to hear about it. Talk later.”

Was I jealous of the thought that Chi-guy might have had better sex than I had the previous night? Or was a I jealous about the thought of him with another woman? Then it occurred to me:  I wanted to be the girl to recharge his mojo, dammit!

Chi-guy called at 11:15pm and we talked about relationships, marriage, divorce, children and more. He confessed that, leading up to the dissolution of his relationship, he’d begun to drink too much, maybe been a little depressed and other admissions that eerily paralleled the demise of my own marriage. At one point, he told me how the end had begun:  his wife asked him to see a counselor with her, a safe venue in which she could ask him to move out. The counselor advised him to respect her wishes, move out, cooperate and “make things easy on her,” because she would ultimately realize that he was not the problem.

“Dude, your counselor sucks!” I teased. “Mine told me to go out and get laid before my ex had even moved out!”

“I want your counselor!” he joked.

We confided and shared, comforted and laughed for more than two hours. His voice had grown more resonant than I’d remembered from years before and, while still not terribly masculine, there was something kind of sexy about it. I had always felt some sort of energetic connection with Chi-guy, but now a genuine emotional warmth was beginning to blossom.

Late the next morning I texted him:  “Can’t remember the last time I talked on the phone for more than 2 hrs and enjoyed it!”

Him:  “I know, so high school. Now I just need to hang your picture in my locker and give you a hickey.”

I immediately updated my Facebook status:  “Was just offered a hickey…tempted, but it’s not quite turtleneck weather.” Within moments, my bawdier girlfriends had commented, “Who says it has to be on your neck?” and the like.

“Going to wear your Letterman’s jacket everywhere. p.s. ck my fb status,” I texted.

Him:  “Now I see where u get your inspiration. If you out me, I will give you a hickey next time I see you! p.s. you’re going to have to give more than a hickey for my letter jacket.”

We bantered in high school terms for the day, until I wrote: “Why, I do believe you’re flirting with me!”

“I like flirting with you,” he wrote back.

And so my crush blossomed, and I began to believe in the possibility that Chi-guy could be back in action by Labor Day.

Meanwhile, my girlfriends were asking about the men in my life. I was still texting with Max, Anthony and Brendon, who were unavailable for various reasons, but gave my ego a little boost. Add Chi-guy — who was not a match geographically or astrologically. And I had dated a guy in college with the same given name, which sullied even that. Whatever this might be, it was going nowhere…but it might be a fun romp (and just what the doctor ordered).

More…

the not-so-many splendors of man sex

About 8 – 11 months ago…

As mentioned previously, my counselor had recommended I allow myself to get out and have sex like a man. That is, sex unencumbered by any form of emotional attachment. After all, I was a libidinous nearly forty-year-old, and counting months between any sort of physical satisfaction was an awfully long time.

A mother of two, I no longer felt the need to preserve some sense of innocence — I clearly had no virginity to protect. And I didn’t have to “hold out,” as I wasn’t seeking any sort of relationship. Thus, I had given myself permission, within a certain window of time, to pick up men and sleep with them — safely, with protection — but without conscience. Not all of them were memorable, so I’m going to summarize a few here, rather than give each his own entry.

Okay, deep breath, this could get graphic:

Anthony:  My first post-marriage encounter (which I already wrote about here) was with a creative, attentive and sweet man who wanted to cuddle and talk. He was a great kisser. Our few hours together busted my myth that casual sex was impersonal, cold or awkward. He was genuinely interested in whether I was enjoying myself, took the time to prop pillows in the right places and incorporated a playful variety of techniques. Sure, there was plenty of room for improvement (after all, practice makes perfect). Yet the experience left me hopeful about new experiences to come…

Ze chef: I know a guy who cooks at a restaurant out East. We have a little history. So I felt confident that something would happen on my next trip there. He had text-book anatomy — straight, hard shaft, perfect mushroom top, and what I can only assume (based on my limited experience) was slightly above average length and girth. After minimal foreplay, he pulled me on top of him, and I was quickly satisfied. We rolled over, and he proceeded to move rhythmically, as though on a treadmill, until his eventual conclusion.

This approach is notable only because it was so surprising to me:  perhaps because my ex had always maintained such enthusiasm for it, I assumed men loved to go down and warm a girl up with a little oral action. I also assumed men loved boobs. I am generously endowed in this department, so I anticipated a little more attention to them. And then there’s the repetitious thing, as though he was on a stair climber — how about a little variety in thrust and tempo to keep it interesting? A girl is never going to achieve multiples that way! This guy had always carried a torch for me — why on earth wouldn’t he work at littler harder to impress? Ultimately, I have to say I was disappointed.

The entrepreneur:  However entrepreneurial my dinner date was in his daily work and in our fabulous conversations, he was a dud in bed. The second we were inside my door, his hands were all over me, his tongue was in my mouth and he was saying, “More tongue, more tongue…” We made it to my bed, our clothes falling piece by piece to the floor. Without further ado, he was on top of me trying to insert himself, his repeated mantra having changed to “stroke my balls, stroke my balls…” I tried to suggest, to guide, to see that my pleasure was also brought to the fore, but I was essentially a masturbatory aid. Clearly, he was most accustomed to his own handiwork (pun intended).

Thankfully, I was alone in my home by 10pm. Again, this was a guy who’d been interested for some time, so I definitely expected more from him…yet he will go down in my personal history for one thing only:  Worst. Lay. Ever. Even worse than any awkward high school or college first.

My casual experiences had only gone downhill. By this time, I couldn’t really decide whether I was more motivated than ever to seek out a great, hot younger lay or abandon the notion of casual sex altogether. At any rate, one path was clear:  I made a beeline to a boutique specializing in high-end adult toys for women and found surefire satisfaction.

reconnecting with Chi-guy, part 1

About 9 months ago…

As I was planning a work trip itinerary to Chicago, I realized that I was entirely free until 10am one day. Normally my work trips were back-to-back, fully scheduled, non-stop action so, when I had an opening, I always tried to fill it with something just for me. I thought about the people I knew in Chicago and who I hadn’t connected with in a long time:  Chi-guy.

I messaged him through Facebook to ask if he was free for coffee. He was, and we agreed to meet in my hotel lobby in the morning.

The day before I flew, intuition told me to look at his Facebook profile to see if there was something I might use for a conversation starter — after all, it had been months since we’d communicated in any form. Oddly, though I knew he was married, his relationship status was not listed. I scrolled through his friends. I had a vague recollection of what his wife’s name was and what she looked like, and I didn’t see her.

When Chi-guy bounded up the stairs toward me the next morning, we kicked off with a hug and the usual pleasantries. He had lost weight and looked better than I’d remembered. I was in a short, cap sleeve dress, just on the verge of inappropriate for business, and had been reading the Wall Street Journal. He was dressed casually, and I learned that he’d been through a layoff and was getting by on freelance projects.

Meanwhile, curiosity was killing me. I looked for an opening and then exclaimed, “Oh my gosh, your daughter must be…how old now?!”

He told me she was nearly five, and showed me a photo on his phone.

“She’s darling! Are you having more? It’s about time to get cracking!”

His expression became glum and I learned that he had moved out in March (the same month my ex had moved out), that his wife had asked for a divorce only days ago and that he was struggling with all of this. Knowing how painful the dissolution of one’s primary relationship is, I felt — and expressed — deep and genuine empathy. Yet (again) something in the back of my mind was jumping up ecstatically shouting “YES!” and it was all I could do to contain myself. What luck to find that a long-time mutual crush was becoming single! Imagine the potential!

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves…

Chi-guy accompanied me to my room and carried my luggage downstairs. He asked respectfully if he should leave before my colleagues showed up. I insisted he stay to meet Suzanne, “She has a place in your hometown — you have something in common.” Back at the front desk, I introduced them and they chatted while I checked out.

Chi-guy and I hugged good-bye, promised to keep in touch and I set about my day of work with Suzanne, who waited approximately .25 seconds before launching into, “So…tell me about this guy…I mean, he’s great looking, he bikes, no ring, he’s obviously smart and articulate, seems like a really nice guy…”

“…who lives in a different city from me, is going through a divorce and doesn’t have a steady job, despite his MBA,” I countered.

“Think about it,” she encouraged, “we’ll be back in a few months. Maybe that’ll be enough time for him to get over it. Did I mention he’s incredibly handsome?”

Suzanne loves my taste in men. Physically, at least. She thought my ex was gorgeous, too. I liked the validation that he had impressed her and that, this time, it was more than just his looks.

While we were cabbing from one appointment to the next, I posted a note on Chi-guy’s Facebook wall:  “SOOO great to see you this morning! Keep in touch!”

He later texted, “You’re quick with the fb.”

“Just trying to keep the other girls guessing,” I flirted.

Later, as I was about to fly back home, I bid farewell to Suzanne and went to catch a train to the airport. Overhead announcements indicated my train was delayed. I text Chi-guy, “What does it mean that my train is delayed? 5 min? or am I going to miss my flight?”

He replied, “Usually 5 min, but if you miss your flight, call me. I’ll come pick you up.”

As I boarded my plane I texted back, “Bad news…caught my flight. Back to reality.”

“That is too bad. LMK next time you’re in town.”

But I knew I wouldn’t wait that long to be in touch with Chi-guy…

advice from friends

Most of us could be a better friend to ourselves. By that I mean we allow our internal dialogue to run on, focused on our failures, our shortcomings, our fears and our doubts. If we actually confessed these same thoughts to a friend, he or she would say…well, probably something like the below:

From Max:

“Stop thinking about your marriage or life in terms of the failure. Instead, look at all that you’ve accomplished and gained in the past decade — you have a home and two beautiful children and more career and life experience. That’s a lot to be proud of.” He was right. Looking at my life in this way took some of the pressure off — it’s not as though I’m starting my life over from scratch, renting an apartment, my biological clock ticking as I desperately search for a mate.

Girlfriend Candy gave me this nugget:

“You are making all your dreams come true. You’re more than a writer; you’re a published author. Look at your blog and how it’s touched your readers — and you’ve made enough posts with enough content to fill a book!” That’s great perspective, too. Embarking on this blog has been cathartic emotionally, a great way to connect with some new people, and a way to discipline myself to regularly publish (which is difficult for my abstract-thinking, perfectionist side).

I am blessed to have surrounded myself with love as I go through so many challenges and changes! And, with all this support, I am learning to become a better friend to myself.

ah, memories

Occasionally I look back on the time in my late 20s when I dated a millionaire and wonder what the hell I was thinking letting him go!

We enjoyed taking his private plane (he had a pilot’s license and a small twin-engine) to his Caribbean home, being treated to meals and gifts, never having to worry about a thing. Let me paint a picture of one of my most fond remembrances for you:

I was on the phone with this wealthy older man, a friend who had not yet told me he was interested in more. He was planning a trip to New York and I asked if I might join him — I could use an escape and New York is beautiful in the autumn.

“Yeah, for sure!” he said. And then, to my surprise, he paid my airfare and gave me the address of where we’d be staying:  a tony address on the east side of the Park where some friends of his had an apartment.

I took a cab from JFK. When I told the cabbie the address, he did a double-take in the mirror and asked, “You goin’ home?” I told him I was visiting with a friend, and the apartment was owned by friends of my friend. He said, “You got the look. Someday you gonna be rich enough to buy a place like that, too.”

“From your lips to God’s ears,” I replied.

The cabbie dropped me off across from the park and I gave the doorman my name. I was the first to arrive. The doorman carried my luggage up to the 7th floor and let me in. I put some Nina Simone on the stereo, pulled out a New Yorker and relaxed on a chaise near the windows overlooking the park. I was completely relaxed and in my element. After my friend arrived, we took a walk, stopping at Bulgari so I could buy some perfume and asked that it be delivered to the doorman in “our” building, then we bought some nice bottles of wine, also having them delivered. We went out to nice restaurants, watched the US Open of Tennis and window shopped. New York in the autumn is so lovely!

I look back at this time in my life and recall how much I enjoyed the intellectual connection and conversation with this fellow, as well as the lifestyle. Early on, his friends would ask how long we’d known each other — time that could be counted in months — and remark that we seemed so comfortable and friendly as to have known each other for a decade. It was a lovely compliment. Perhaps I was just so relaxed about it all because I never took the relationship seriously.

After all, he’d had children who were then in their teens and had been “fixed.” And I was certain I wanted children of my own. His lifestyle of excess caused some discomfort with me, an eco-conscious “awakening consumer.” He drove a sports car and frequented “gentlemen’s clubs,” so I thought him a bit of a pig and teased him about it. And some control issues began to appear in the last days of our togetherness. Yet sometimes I wonder if any of those differences or issues would have been any more difficult to handle than the things I dealt with in a relationship with the man who I truly loved and with whom I ultimately shared a decade of my life.

In hindsight, what was excess to me then may now be abundance. And all those other things, if we’d really loved each other, we may have been able to communicate through. Or am I just wearing rose-colored glasses?

Actually, probably the main reason I recall this time in my life and this relationship with fondness is that I never lost myself in it. I didn’t take it too seriously, I wasn’t working (over-functioning) to get my man; he was working to woo me. And I could take him or leave him. He adored me for me being myself. And when it seemed he didn’t, I let him go…and that’s a great lesson for me to carry forward into future relationships.

reflections on the one-year milestone

My ex moved out a year ago today.

Thinking about that still hurts my heart just a little. There’s a tender spot as I reflect on the heartache and pain I suffered (and just as likely caused for another) in my marriage, as well as the failure to provide my children what I believed was so important to give them — a solid, secure and loving family environment.

(As I write this, Dusty Springfield has rotated into my iTunes playlist with I Just Don’t Know What To Do With Myself. Would you call that ironic?)

The melancholy in reflecting on this stems from two sources:  First, that I loved so much and so deeply and yet didn’t know how to love, as surely causing pain to object of my love as he did to me. Second, that I chose so poorly in the first place. It’s difficult to accept that I knew so little about myself or was blind to so many signs that I picked a partner who would draw out so much pain and anger, forcing me to deal with them and grow (while he simply pointed fingers). I can’t help but believe there had to have been a kinder, gentler way to learn these lessons.

(And now Joan Armatrading’s Willow — “I said I’m strong, straight, willing to be your shelter in the storm…”)

I still remember the first day of it being just us:  my two elementary-school-age children and me. I explained to them that, without Daddy here every day to do things for them, they would have to help out by making their own school lunches, among other things. I assured them I would step in to help when needed, and that we were all capable and would be fine taking responsibility for ourselves and helping each other.

This is when my son teared up, “I don’t know if I can do it, Mommy.” He is a tender-hearted young soul, and so generous with his empathy and feelings! He continued to stress through the evening and even as I tucked him in to bed. My daughter, on the other hand, was excited about being given more independence and responsibility.

The next morning, everyone got up just a little earlier and pushed through the morning tasks of dressing, eating breakfast, making lunch, etc. just a little more diligently. We all got out the door on time, successfully. My favorite moment was at the end of the day when my son remarked, “Mommy, I guess I didn’t even need to worry.”

These past twelve months have also brought a number of lessons and much growth. I recall feeling that taking out the trash and recycling wasn’t really adding to my workload. And I also remember discovering other areas where my ex picked up more slack than I ever realized or gave him credit for. It hasn’t always been easy, and there have been plenty of hiccups along the way — my ex appears to be declining to communicate with me right now, as an example. Yet I can’t help feeling that we’ve come a long way.

My children have gained patience, self-reliance, a greater understanding that their parents are merely human and the capacity to be more helpful and responsible than I might have thought possible for their ages. (And still I work to balance this with their need for innocence.)

As for me, I am gaining confidence in making the choices and life decisions that nurture me. I am seeing more clearly what happens when I neglect to do important things that I’d prefer to ignore (the banking, taxes and money management, for instance). I am growing stronger, more clear and determined in my life path. And I am learning how empowering it is to commit to my own happiness, even if it requires making choices that once seemed impossible.

(Citizen Cope If There’s Love)

So I keep going back to my son’s wise words:  “I guess I didn’t need to worry.”

doing it like a man

About eleven months ago…

My counsellor had recommended I go out and “have sex like a man.” But with full-time work and parenting, I couldn’t find the time or opportunity to make it happen — even if I had the skills or guts.

But there was a possibility coming up…a work trip — without any co-workers. While on this trip, I would be going to an evening event celebrating creative people. It all sounded quite promising! Among the usual toiletries and clothes, I packed a nice dress, heels and condoms.

My trip began with aircraft maintenance problems, flight delays and diversions. I was lucky to arrive at my destination city and check into the hotel with barely enough time to dress for dinner. Thus, I hit the open bar with a vengeance. I’ll spare you the dinner highlights in favor of the after party. I was excited to see some attractive men milling about; unfortunately, most were accompanied by women, gay or oh so young! The one person I knew joined me at the old-school arcade games and, after a short time, a man approached. He was unremarkable, but attentive. Meanwhile, a beverage company representative struck up a conversation and brought a steady stream of wine and bubbly.

Anyone who’s seen me around an old-school Ms. Pac-Man game can imagine the scene. I’m completely obsessed, sucked into round after round of play, meanwhile holding conversations, drinking drinks, saying goodnight to the woman I knew, etc. Finally, I had to pull myself a way. The gentleman who was playing with me joined me at the bar. It was beginning to dawn on me that I’d consumed many more drinks than I could handle (and it was way past my bed time), so I asked for water. We moved to a cocktail table. He was blathering on about some event he’d been to the previous night when I put my hand behind his neck and planted my lips on his. We must have made out, there in public, for a complete 30 to 45 seconds before I asked him if he’d like to come to my room.

Without missing a beat, he said, “yes,” and we proceeded down the elevator, through the hall and into my room, where we continued to make out while undressing each other. I discovered at this time that he had a rather big paunch. In fact, he had the type of distinctly British body that might suggest he’s never seen the inside of a gym nor donned any type of athletic gear. Even tennis shoes. No matter. We were in it now. And what the hell kind of undies were those? Not very masculine. (Marks & Spencer, I later learned.)

So this is how it went:  he was safe and attentive and creative. He took time to prop pillows in the right places. His eyes were kind. He licked my foot. We had a bit of naughty fun and then passed out. When I awoke in the middle of the night with a splitting headache and need to empty my bladder, I thought, “Oh shit. He’s still here.”

In the morning, he was a bit chatty for my pounding head. But he was charming, engaging and intelligent, and his British accent didn’t hurt. I realized I could only recall his name because when I had moaned, “Oh God!,” he had corrected me. He had lovely brown eyes.

When he enquired for the second time whether I wanted to join him in the shower, I told him that I really just wanted to go back to sleep. I rolled over and he rubbed my back. He asked if he could get my email address or phone number and I replied blandly, “Why don’t you just leave your card on the desk and I’ll reach out if I feel like it.” So he dressed and left.

For the first time in my life, I had behaved like a complete slut — and I felt powerful!

Only later did I realize how vulnerable I had been and the risks I had taken. And I found myself feeling relieved and eternally grateful for having found this particular gent for my first post-marriage romp. Luckily, the only casualty was a pearl earring, which I never recovered.

Later, as I recalled the story to girlfriends, their eyes grew wide, jaws dropped (in recognition of how completely out of character this was) and, to my utter surprise, more than one exclaimed, “Oh my God, you’re my hero!” If they thought I didn’t have it in me…well, I guess I showed them! More importantly, I showed me. I had finally had sex like a man.