Read Online The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom by Delaine Moore - Free Book Online
Authors: Delaine Moore
Tags: Family & Relationships, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, Health & Fitness, Divorce & Separation, Parenting, Sexuality, Single Parent
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toward me, a moment frozen in time. All that mattered was right now.
Suddenly, his lips were on my ear: “You are so hot,” he whispered, his breath tickling my skin. Desire shot through me—ferocious, yearning. I placed my arms around his neck and felt his big hands slide under my housecoat across my naked back. I opened my body to him . . . and kissed him passionately.
Down the hall he carried me, my legs wrapped around his hips, our lips never parting. As we stood at the foot of my bed, I looked up into his unfamiliar face and thought, Oh, he has a crooked nose. But as he pulled off his shirt, my eyes beheld such yumminess that all conscious thinking was decimated by lust.
I have to admit, Yummy Stranger’s sexual skills were pretty novice. I had to take control and show him what to do, especially to achieve the orgasm I desperately wanted. He knew where to find my clit with his fingers, but the motion, the pressure he applied, was way off. I reached down and began guiding his hand with my own, whispering and directing him with my words and moans. Moreover, not to dwell on this point—or this part of a man’s anatomy—but his penis was on the small size, too. Does penis size and shape matter? Ask ten different women and you might get ten different answers, including: “What a shallow thing to ask.” My honest answer is, “Maybe . . . still under investigation!” I’d never realized before how different men are in terms of size and aesthetics. I’d experienced numerous partners before getting married, but back then, I was so preoccupied with the emotional side of sex, that I didn’t dare analyze the merits or shortcomings of my partner’s tackle. All I knew was that today, had Yummy Stranger been well- and beautifully-endowed, I would have been delighted. Morally right or wrong, I think I had a new appreciation developing.
Once Yummy Stranger and I finished and we lay in my joyfully disheveled bed, catching our breaths, I felt rather awkward. I’d just gotten naked with someone I knew nothing about. Now what? Good manners prompted me to start making casual conversation,
but then I stopped. Truly, why bother? Instead, I laughed and said, “Thanks, that was fun. Hope you enjoy the rest of your day.” He quickly took his cue to get up, get dressed, and get out. I didn’t even walk him to the door.
I wondered: Did I just treat him disrespectfully? Was that rude? Mean? Degrading?
No, I decided. I had been honest from the get-go about what I wanted. We had fulfilled our deal and then it was over. Like I tell my kids at a playdate, “Every playdate has a beginning and an end. When the end comes, put on your jacket, say thank you, and go home.” My afternoon rendezvous was an “adult playdate”—I expected no tantrums or upset feelings, thanks very much.
Still, I marveled at how I felt no need to cuddle or get to know him. He was just a scrumptious, young body. I felt and wanted no mental or emotional connection with him. I didn’t want to talk to him and explain why I had invited him over. I didn’t want to justify or explain anything to him. Why should I? He would never know or understand me. He was simply the character in my fantasy. Yes, this was a fantasy. And really, I thought with relish, smiling , he was lucky to have been a part of it. How many young men only dream of spending an impromptu afternoon of uninhibited sex with a sexy, older woman?
I rolled over on my side and closed my eyes. My pillow felt so comfy . . . I was glad to be cuddling with it and not him. Postorgasm fatigue descended on me.
THE NEXT DAY, I felt downright giddy about my illicit afternoon. Maybe too great. Was my behavior slutty? Was it but one more sign that my life, my character, was spiraling hellward fast? Did I need to be slapped, thrashed, or verbally dragged back across the border to Good Girl Land?
These were questions for the girlfriends. But select girlfriends. Only the most nonjudgmental and
Suddenly, his lips were on my ear: “You are so hot,” he whispered, his breath tickling my skin. Desire shot through me—ferocious, yearning. I placed my arms around his neck and felt his big hands slide under my housecoat across my naked back. I opened my body to him . . . and kissed him passionately.
Down the hall he carried me, my legs wrapped around his hips, our lips never parting. As we stood at the foot of my bed, I looked up into his unfamiliar face and thought, Oh, he has a crooked nose. But as he pulled off his shirt, my eyes beheld such yumminess that all conscious thinking was decimated by lust.
I have to admit, Yummy Stranger’s sexual skills were pretty novice. I had to take control and show him what to do, especially to achieve the orgasm I desperately wanted. He knew where to find my clit with his fingers, but the motion, the pressure he applied, was way off. I reached down and began guiding his hand with my own, whispering and directing him with my words and moans. Moreover, not to dwell on this point—or this part of a man’s anatomy—but his penis was on the small size, too. Does penis size and shape matter? Ask ten different women and you might get ten different answers, including: “What a shallow thing to ask.” My honest answer is, “Maybe . . . still under investigation!” I’d never realized before how different men are in terms of size and aesthetics. I’d experienced numerous partners before getting married, but back then, I was so preoccupied with the emotional side of sex, that I didn’t dare analyze the merits or shortcomings of my partner’s tackle. All I knew was that today, had Yummy Stranger been well- and beautifully-endowed, I would have been delighted. Morally right or wrong, I think I had a new appreciation developing.
Once Yummy Stranger and I finished and we lay in my joyfully disheveled bed, catching our breaths, I felt rather awkward. I’d just gotten naked with someone I knew nothing about. Now what? Good manners prompted me to start making casual conversation,
but then I stopped. Truly, why bother? Instead, I laughed and said, “Thanks, that was fun. Hope you enjoy the rest of your day.” He quickly took his cue to get up, get dressed, and get out. I didn’t even walk him to the door.
I wondered: Did I just treat him disrespectfully? Was that rude? Mean? Degrading?
No, I decided. I had been honest from the get-go about what I wanted. We had fulfilled our deal and then it was over. Like I tell my kids at a playdate, “Every playdate has a beginning and an end. When the end comes, put on your jacket, say thank you, and go home.” My afternoon rendezvous was an “adult playdate”—I expected no tantrums or upset feelings, thanks very much.
Still, I marveled at how I felt no need to cuddle or get to know him. He was just a scrumptious, young body. I felt and wanted no mental or emotional connection with him. I didn’t want to talk to him and explain why I had invited him over. I didn’t want to justify or explain anything to him. Why should I? He would never know or understand me. He was simply the character in my fantasy. Yes, this was a fantasy. And really, I thought with relish, smiling , he was lucky to have been a part of it. How many young men only dream of spending an impromptu afternoon of uninhibited sex with a sexy, older woman?
I rolled over on my side and closed my eyes. My pillow felt so comfy . . . I was glad to be cuddling with it and not him. Postorgasm fatigue descended on me.
THE NEXT DAY, I felt downright giddy about my illicit afternoon. Maybe too great. Was my behavior slutty? Was it but one more sign that my life, my character, was spiraling hellward fast? Did I need to be slapped, thrashed, or verbally dragged back across the border to Good Girl Land?
These were questions for the girlfriends. But select girlfriends. Only the most nonjudgmental and
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