The Diary of a Sugar Mom: Don't Tell the Kids!

By Robin Marshall

"The Diary of a Sugar Mom: Don't Tell the Kids!" by Robin Marshall, chronicles one middle-aged woman's inner strength, as she journeys through the world of sex, wealth, infidelity and emotional compartmentalization in order to pay the bills, feed her family and provide for her kids' futures. This is a story of a strong woman who raised her children

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marshall Arts Communications, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9780991338122

Book preview

Chapter One

Looking Back, Looking Forward

I’ve got a story to tell, and no, this is not some crazy advertisement and certainly not a coffee-table book! It’s just what’s gone through my head, and what I’ve gone through in the past, and how I’ve made it to my present, while life has maintained itself through a nucleus of sex.

It’s something I want to share with you, but at the same time, I need you to know that I’m insecure with telling it to you, because I’m leaving myself vulnerable and wide open, and that, to me, is very scary, but I feel the need to talk, to sort things out, and the exhibitionist in me, wants to include you in all the sordid affairs.

And so it begins…

Where to ma’am? With a slight crack in my voice I said, Take me to the airport. With a press of the meter button, the fare started to count up in dollars and cents, as he put the taxi in gear and pulled away from the only life I have known, trying to make my own sense of what I was leaving behind. Twenty five years, of memories, and I’m thinking my second favorite saying, "Can’t we just get in the car, and go?" No one does that without trepidation, it seems. Why not just risk the destination! If life is so practical where we are, then how can we ever get somewhere new, if we can’t just step on the gas! I can’t exactly say I’m heading in an aimless direction, but I have been for what feels like an eternity. How can a woman be so focused and yet so distracted?

After a lifetime of pleasing everyone around me, my kids, husband, parents, friends, dogs—I’m finally on my own. The meter ticks… I used to care… Even cab fare, was a luxury to me, then. Now… it’s the way out as I head to Nashville.

Vignettes playing out in my mind, some involving sex, some involving motherhood, and friendship- but I’m thinking to myself as I’m riding, Girl? You gotta book in here somewhere, because half of those that know you closely, wouldn’t believe the story, the life, the passion, the inner world that you’ve really been a part of, the other half thinks you’re crazy already, so pick up a pen."

The cab driver is chatting at me, about uncaring issues…I want to let him know that I don’t chat so I’d like to know the polite way of saying, Shut the hell up… instead I’ve decided to utter, at the appropriate times, bless your heart, with a shake of my head. I’m half listening to him ramble, but I’m hearing my heartbeat in my throat, ears, wrists, chest… hearing a pulse, hearing it quicken, glad that I’m hearing it at all. My pulse is drowning him out while heading to Tennessee, of all places. If you’d have asked me a year ago if I knew where Nashville was, I would have said, it’s somewhere south of the Equator. Really. I think it’s a northeast thing, having spent over 25 years working in and out of the city while living in suburbia; It’s my entitlement to own a bit of northern attitude.

As I watch his lips jabber, feel my pulse again, look out the window, wave a mental goodbye to five kids, a couple of dogs, and an ex-husband,… I feel fear, I’m headed towards a new life, alone. It’s my life to make, my life to keep, and my life to lose, if I mess it up.

I’ve been offered a career change. A real career, with benefits, corporate surroundings, a 401K, I even get a two-week paid vacation! I’ll become a force to contend with again, but just in a different aspect of life. All while having to give up the joy of seeing my children on a daily basis. I love them, but I think something happened to me. I think… I learned that I love me more. Maybe it’s a temporary condition. Wouldn’t you give up your life for any one of your own kids, even at their worst moments in time? Getting calls from the police, Ma’am? Your son, broke into a home and stole some money,… Wha? Ma’am, did you hear me? He’s at the station being questioned,… Ma’am? Ma’am? How dare that cop ruin the perfect image my child has burned in my brain? Trespassing, stealing, overdosing from some stupid drug… We’d still have taken the deal if the officer said, Ma’am…if you’d like to trade your life with your child’s there’ll be no record of any mishap here…. or Ma’am if you’d accept this gunshot to the head we’ll make sure your child lives a long and prosperous life. We would do both; as all good moms should, from the bottoms of our hearts,… our pulsing hearts, but God Damn it? He didn’t offer!

The cab passes another car with a woman driving with kids in every crevice and I remember, my kids and me were in our car driving to Myrtle Beach as Don’t Stop Believing came on the radio! We were all singing, lungs full, musical notes jangling all over the windshield, bouncing back into our throats, sounding so full that we didn’t even hear the sirens of the police car. There came the flashing lights as he pulled us over!

$280 later, after he got me for speeding, passing on the left, no blinker, an out of state license, and no insurance card on me, and then went to check out the status of my license, which turned out to be suspended, which of course I was totally unaware of, my girls all chimed in saying, "MOM! Why didn’t you flirt your way out of that one! I shook my head, cursing the fact that I had them in the back seat, knowing that if I’d been alone I most definitely would have hiked my skirt up, hell, with all of those offenses, I may have offered him a blow job-but I needed to teach them that it was wrong and I had to own up to the consequence! Every time we hear the song now, we laugh like idiots! The ultimate mommy-daughters" moment.

Again, the cab driver seems to be talking to me, but I’m lost in memories; can’t he read my face in the rear view mirror? I look in that same mirror, and see my past fading behind me. Now I know why the windshield is such a bigger piece of glass, it offers much more room to look toward the future. For once I shut my mouth. I hear my Dad in my head, Damn it, that mouth of yours is gonna’ get you in trouble forever!

This is probably what the driver was dreaming about?

Chapter Two

Me and Mom and Me

I’m an attractive woman, late 40’s, a mom with what most consider, a million kids. Anything more than three feels like a million, and the fact that I haven’t killed them all by now, is a miracle.

I’m smart, creative, seductive, edgy, maybe even as my Mom says, too big for my britches! After all these years, I can’t believe she gets a starring role in this autobiography of sorts! I denied her credit for so long, but now she’s way overdue the merits. Funny that we have to grow up to finally give credit, where credit is due.

I was 11 years old, and my mom was yelling,"You’re too God damned big for your britches, that’s your problem! Mom… I can hear you, who are you really screaming at, me or you? Do you wish you were me, so that you could start all over again? Mom continued, "You try being married to him! He never touches me! This is obviously information to heavy a load to carry for a young teen, but I inhaled it as it was tossed into my breathing space, unwantedly. It’s ok Mom, I’m giving you a starring role in my book. You deserve it after all you went through. I was only daddy’s girl, because it was easier to manipulate him, than you. I apologize if I never let you know it before. It’s all part of that sexual power play that I’ve become so good at. You were both so messed up, I think I must have been a shake and bake kinda’ deal. A little shake from you, and a little bake from him."

Continuing on, I digress.

I felt the first darkness the day I saw you and Daddy fighting outside your bedroom door. I was six. I saw you kick him and he pushed you down. You never knew I was standing there, and I never told you. That’s when I decided, to be a good girl," so that daddy would love me enough to not hurt me, as he did you. I didn’t feel as safe with you, because if he was able to hurt you, whether physically or emotionally, he could certainly hurt me, right mom?" I guess, only from the eyes of a child.

I’m emotionally stable enough to make those around me believe I’m living a normal life. My mom will be the first to say, You’ve had a normal life!" What mother wouldn’t be in fear of what their offspring might divulge? It’s like having your daughter be a centerfold, which I’d been asked to do more than once and didn’t, sort of.

The meter continues to run, helping me to escape my current life. I think, "Keep running, the more it runs, the farther I travel away. Distance is beckoning in it’s own voice, ‘you must support your family. Otherwise they’ll starve. Try the corporate life, you’re way over due for a feeling of financial freedom, for you and the kids. Don’t look back! Just pray it works and compartmentalize. Don’t allow yourself to miss the kids, do you really believe they’ll miss you?’"

Chapter Three

Pay the Piper

When I met him through the website, I considered that I’d never see him again. I’m thinking about last night. He was so not my type, and he had no idea I was faking lust. Poor Danny! It was just a mercy fuck but he paid the piper. Ahhh! That’s what my parents should have called me, Piper! I’ve always loved that name!

My mom was right. I have had normalcy in my life, but most of it is preceded or followed by abnormal circumstances. My name is Dora, short for Pandora, because of the box I began to open at birth.

Sorry Mom…

I wonder what she’d think about men associating me as cougar-ish. I also find it to be amusing that for my entire life I avoided sugar, and now I look for it in alternate ways. I work hard at keeping myself looking pretty, shapely and most believe I’ve never even had kids. Problem with that is I rely on this sexuality, maybe for too much. Sex has become a control mechanism with which I can tease, taunt, haunt, and get what I want. In most cases it leaves me in the driver’s seat while at the same time enjoying myself! Occasionally I get burned, as it can be a double-edged sword. I’m happy to know though, where some can’t find the dividing line between sex for use, and sex for love, I can.

I did tell her I was going to write this book. She asked me two questions: are you going to use your real name, and are you going to tell the truth? I found both questions to be very telling; I’m still pondering the answer.

Chapter Four

The Red Herring

I’m leaving my family. Oddly, I’m ok with it, almost giddy! I love them, I know who I’m leaving behind, but they may not be the same when I return. I wonder how much of me has been embedded in them through my teachings, or genetics. Is it enough to stick? Will there be at least something recognizable when I return? They think they know the me that is leaving, but they haven’t a clue as to what I’ve become. I wonder how much of them will stay inside of me, to keep a part of me, as the mom they know, preserved like jam in a jar.

I put my head back, and feel the car’s vibrations, just for a self-analyzing moment…yes, I was sexually manipulative when it served me my whole life, I still am. Many tricks had been learned at a very young age, tricks that have served me well.

I’ve heard it’s a proven fact that every one of us has a homosexual encounter of some sort as a child. We explore with someone our own age, or close to it, just to see what it feels like. It’s called playing doctor. I bring this up because of the bed, not those beds, …my girlfriend’s parent’s bed.

When I was a preteen, I had a girlfriend, with what she felt were her own set of handicaps. She was a redhead with very pale skin, a little overweight and had the most gorgeous mother in the world. In her mind, she could never live up to her mother’s image, so she’d occasionally do things or suggest things to do with me that might have been nontraditional in the mind of a 10 year old. For instance, exploring each other sexually at such a young age, we didn’t really know if it was a normal occurrence, she didn’t care and encouraged the same from me. I don’t think we ever felt it was wrong.

Her parents went out, and left us behind. At age 11 back then we were considered old enough to be on our own. We’d even have permission to sleep in her parents’ bedroom, since she only had a twin bed, and they had a king. We got in bed with the premise of watching a movie, and then I felt her hand brushing against my hip, my waist, as I knew it would be sliding up higher to find my breast. I laid there secretly enjoying it, wanting her to never stop. She’d massage my breast and play with my nipple, and finally whispering, "do you like it?" Reluctantly, I did, and told her so. I remember wishing I didn’t like it, knowing it was wrong but wanting more. She reached over and did the same to both nipples with both hands, saying she liked the way they felt. I could almost feel her bravery stepping up notches as she moved closer and leaned over me, while holding my breasts together and tasting my nipples with her tongue. Seeing my girlfriend licking and sucking on my nipples should have been frightening, but once again, at an early age I found it to feel erotic. She asked if I’d do the same to her, a question I’d been fearing would come up, but I found myself willing and switched positions. I remember the feel of her skin on my fingers, being soft and unexpected. We were both well endowed at an early age, so I also remember the feeling of her fullness in my hands. I too, took her in my mouth and copied what she had done to me. It was very stimulating as I enjoyed the fairness of the color of her skin compared to the pink of her nipples, and I told her so! I think it was one of the few times in her life, that she appreciated the red hair syndrome, as she’d call it. A sign of things to come? How old do we have to be, in order for something to stop being an experiment?

I’m dancing as fast as I can.

Chapter Five

The Student

My boyfriend taught me just what to do to make a boy happy. We were 14 years old; he taught me how to say each dirty word, and make them sound absolutely filthy. He’d make me practice them over and over again. He’d teach me phrases that men liked to hear in English, and Spanish. He was Spanish-American, chupa me pinga, eat me, fuck me, were just a few examples. He broke my barrier of being embarrassed by such talk. He taught me how to tell stories that were sexually engaging, enticing, and alluring. I’d say to him while sounding fully believable, Imagine me sucking on your dick, while you’d be eating her pussy, who would you want to come first? He was the second one to teach me that a woman must do certain things in order to be acceptable, sexually to a man. If I didn’t perform, he’d make me fear that there’d always be someone else who would. A blow job was without question, a necessity to a man. He showed me exactly how, would shove himself further and further down my throat, until he’d explode, and would make me feel terrible if I ever tried to say no. As a result I mastered the art, but not by choice. He also taught me to dance for him. If there had been a pole in my bedroom there would have been grooves in the metal from my finger impressions, and the backs of my knees holding tightly to it. It would have gotten quite the workout. Gyrating, hips moving in time to the music, Jimi Hendrix’s Foxy Lady, had such a build up, I could start at the top and depending upon how excited he’d get me, I could slide all the way down without sticking. He taught me to play with myself in front of him, openly without shame, and be comfortable while doing it. My fingers would roam my clit, the other hand reaching for my tits, all of this being learned at the age of 14, a very impressionable age, emotionally and hormonally. I grabbed on and inhaled every word and suggestion he’d offer, as if it were gospel.

My first teacher had been my Dad. Often, I’d listened to him offering unwanted information regarding things my Mom wouldn’t/didn’t/hadn’t done to make him happy. My dad and boyfriend were the beginning of an entrepreneurial course on becoming a sexually manipulative woman that must be better than her mom, and quite a contender to every other woman out there.

Years later I learned, with the right man anything and everything can feel intoxicating, in spite of his male domination of sort.

Chapter Six

Meter’s Running

Cab driver wants to know why I’m heading to Nashville. Am I a recording artist? I look at his eyes in that mirror and think inwardly, "is he fucking blind? Does he not see that I’m over 40? What label would sign me, the mother of a million kids, to a label at my age? But with my strong sexual beginnings, and being taught all the right things to do; why wouldn’t I be able to have a record deal, even at my age? As it is right now, I can make a man beg for more or open a wallet that may contain the glue to keep me? So maybe the driver isn’t as far off as I’m thinking? Maybe he recognizes the potential of what’s sitting in his back seat? Maybe, just maybe he’s thinking is it possible that dreams really do come true?" No. I bet he’s wondering if I’m wearing panties or not.

Let’s be real. Nashville offers me the chance of legitimacy. The chance to reinvent myself yet again, with a career within my legitimate career. My kids will think highly of me, while I protect their father’s lack of working image, plus all of those benefits and potential. I can bring home the bacon, on the books. The pages might get a little sloppy with the sugar on the side, because I have a strong suspicion I won’t be able to afford to give it up, but I’ve never really been the domestic type. If there’s a mess coming, I’ll see it ahead of time and clean it up. No one ever sees my messes. No one. I’m clean as a whistle for an undomesticated woman! Squeaky clean.

I remember David with that incredible Porsche, who flat out opened his wallet and told me to take anything I wanted, based on only one night with him. At my age? I had his head spinning. Maybe the cabbie is right, I should look for a record deal! David fell in lust with a 40 plus year old woman? The art for me is not letting someone like him know how much I enjoy doing what I do to him. If he knew, he’d expect a headspin every time. It can never be expected… it must always be a treat; period. Even funnier is how particular I’ve become! I need to love that part of his anatomy in order to to enjoy it, because it’s become my favorite toy! Giggling in the back seat, thinking to myself, a Slinky used to be my favorite toy because you could bend it, stretch it, and it would always go back to it’s original shape. I’d say both toys of delight share very similar characteristics. Only difference is, one can go down a flight of steps and the other can’t. I’m being silly in my own head while I catch the driver staring at me in the mirror; surely by now he’s thinking of a blow-job.

I think what fascinates certain men is that I’m willing to tell them that I love a part of them, then they try to reel me in so that I might love all parts of them. It’s the caveman-like syndrome in men like David. It’s the tease, in someone like me!