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liberated. But Hali, my first
choice, was busy with her kids. Who else might be free for a weekend powwow lunch?
    As I mentally scanned through my “mom friends”—the ones I saw regularly in my community—my mind drifted to a recent gathering we’d shared at a local pub. That night, all the ladies had expressed both concern and curiosity over my transition to single life. I didn’t tell them very much. I did tell them about Cal, the hockey defenseman, minus all the (small penis) details, of course. And I told them about the wacky world of online dating and how I’d met “a few” men off there for coffee. My mom friends listened very attentively. And whenever I stopped talking, someone would quickly insert another dating question. When the questions finally stopped, an intense dead air loomed above the table.
    “I just don’t know what else to talk about,” my friend Diane finally exhaled. “Our lives just sound so boring.”
    I realized that night that I was experiencing something beyond these ladies’ reference frame. They were all still married and focused on their careers and families. The entire time I spoke at our table, a voice kept whispering in my ear, Be careful what you say. They care about you, but they don’t understand, and they are JUDGING you.
    Ultimately, I believed the scope of people’s empathy and support did, in large part, stem from their own personal experiences. And let’s face it, experience—a casual, afternoon romp with a yummy young stranger—wasn’t one many women my age would relate to. Especially my married mom friends. They’d probably downright disapprove. Yet I totally understood why: My current escapades simply did not blend with their family-oriented looking glass on life; they contradicted it. Insulted it. Maybe even tested it. I just knew I had to be careful who I told about my experiences. One wrong set of ears, and I’d be headline news on the school playground.

    Luckily, my close and longtime non-mom friends, Tory and her sister, Shiloh, were free for an impromptu tête-à-tête. I blurted out my entire story, no censorship required, before the waitress even served our drinks.
    “I think your rendezvous sounds empowering,” Tory said, matter-of-factly.
    “Honestly? You don’t think I should feel guilty?”
    “Delaine, you had sex on your terms,” she said firmly. “You’re a grown woman and you’re entitled to some fun. Your story actually reminds me of the wild things I did when I was dating years ago.”
    I watched as Tory dropped her chin and giggled, blue eyes peering up through her bob-cut blond hair. She continued: “I remember once, when I was twenty, I went to pick up my boyfriend at the train station wearing nothing but a trench coat and high heels. It was so exciting to walk around at the train station knowing I was naked underneath, knowing I would blow his mind. But then his train was two hours late. And it was minus-thirty outside. I darn near froze my butt off!”
    As we laughed, I could easily picture Tory doing such a thing. We’d lived together for a while back in our twenties, and let’s just say the wall between our bedrooms was a little thin. On the outside, she came across as being sweet and innocent, and I’d watched men flock to her like bears on honey. But behind closed doors, a hungry tigress was unleashed. Guys must have thought they’d died and gone to heaven. Now, at thirty-eight, successful in her career, comfortable in her own skin and happily married, I trusted and respected her deeply.
    “I did some pretty wild sexy things when I was younger too,” I reflected. “But there’s a big difference between what I did back then versus what I did yesterday.” Tory looked at me attentively. “Those sexy scenarios from my younger days were mainly designed to please the man . On some level, sure, I was having fun
too. But ultimately, I was using my sexual prowess as a weapon: to win him, to keep him, to make him love me. It