I Am So Popular: You Put Your What Where?

During this strife-riddled time in my life, a guy came on to me—pardon the pun—hard and fast. I allowed myself to be flattered into bed, desperate for the distraction from my then husband who, for the record, when I mentioned I was going on a date, responded, “Go for it.”

So I did. But it wasn’t me cheating on him—I was upfront about it and he obviously didn’t care. What I was unaware of is that the other guy had another girlfriend. Well, actually, two. This all came to light pretty quickly when one of these other women contacted me when she figured it out. Upon realizing what an utter scumbag the guy was, I confronted him loaded for bear. I wasn’t just pissed that he was not, as he claimed, free and single. I was more pissed still that I had been dragged, unwittingly, into lending an assist to his cheating ways.

Having been a player—even if I didn’t realize it—in an affair, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised whenever some celeb gets caught with his pants down, right? Nor should related headlines merit more than a yawn. But they always do. Is it because we love it when the famous get taken down? Does it make us feel better than them because we think something like this “could never happen to us”? Or do we relate because something like this has happened?

Is it my imagination though—or have we, of late, been exposed to a bigger parade than usual of men who just cannot keep their dicks in their pants (or at least in their own wives to whom, presumably, at one point they vowed til-death-do-them-part fidelity)? Let’s see, there’s Tiger Woods, Jesse James (aka Mr. Sandra Bullock), John Edwards, Mark Sanford (the guy who went “hiking on the Appalachian trail”), Elliot Spitzer, David Letterman and, (allegedly) Bruce Springsteen. Bill “Horndog” Clinton continues to rack up a list of anybody-but-Hillary bedmates. Then, beyond marital infidelity, there’s the growing number of reports of all those priests who loved fucking innocent little boys (invoking God's name while they were at it, those fuckers), a tale made more sordid by documents revealing that the now-pope went to great lengths to cover up this scandal in his pre-pope days.

I just got my latest copy of Vanity Fair in the mail and inside there’s a spread of several women Tiger couldn’t keep his wood off of. And over at People.com there’s a picture of one of Jesse James’s fuck buddies sporting a t-shirt that reads Team Sandra. All this leaves me wondering not only what the fuck the guys were thinking, but what the fuck were these women thinking?

I’m hardly a prude and, having had a string of relationships over the past thirty years, technically I’m not a monogamist in the purest sense of that word. Still, I prefer my emotional messes one at a time—call me a serial monogamist. Back in the late ‘90s my then boyfriend (who—I guess this should’ve been a clue— preferred I not refer to him by that term) loved to inform me that I was flawed for being unable to accept his “need” to keep fucking his “ex” girlfriend, as if the two of them were way more evolved.

Tangent time: polyamory. I’m not here to take on that debate, though I will say I can’t think of a single example of that particular model working for any stretch of time—anyone I know who’s tried this has wound up in some melodrama with Fifth Wheel elements aplenty. On the other hand, given divorce rates, it’s not like monogamy seems to work particularly well either. On the third hand, few people I know are genuinely interested in flying solo in this life, so whether the desire for a partnership rooted in romance is bio-instinctual, media driven, or both, it seems to be the prevalent model. Which is why even those of us in our forties, fifties, and beyond, who—you might think—would “know better” continue to engage in drama worthy of high school when it comes to partnering. I don’t observe this sitting upon some removed throne of self-righteousness. I’m down here in the trenches with everyone else and despite a seven year stretch of living quite happily with no partner I, too, prefer to take the emotional lumps that come with being part of a couple over the comparative bliss that being alone can often provide.

That said, Warren knows that I’d rather have my fingers lopped off, one-by-one, than receive notice that “there’s someone else.” I’ve made the point clear—if and when he’s done with me, I have politely requested that he say so and not subject me to the humility that comes with cheating, which some folks seem to consider the most logical way to end things, too pussy to exit if not with grace, then at least with honesty.

I know, I know, when one person cheats, the other person shouldn’t feel “humiliated”—after all it is not the cheated upon exhibiting despicable behavior. Logic like that doesn’t work with cheating though, which always leaves the jilted feeling like utter shit, and often questioning her/his self-worth.

I’m most fascinated when the cheated on stick around and take it. Again, I speak with firsthand knowledge. What in the world was I thinking when I tolerated being cheated on? That he would change? That I could prove to the other woman that I would win this contest over a narcissist who got his rocks off imagining there was a competition over him? That, I think, was the real humiliation—self-humiliation. I played the role of doormat with some sick martyr relish, hoping to prove a point that even now, a dozen years later, I cannot clearly identify.

Maybe the fascination with cheating, our collective obsession with wanting to know all the dirty details, lies in the attendant WHYS? that accompany each new breaking scandal. Why do cheaters cheat? Why do the cheated on put up with it? Why are we surprised people cheat? Why do we even pretend a lifetime of fidelity to one other is possible when a mountain of evidence seems to suggest otherwise? (Even those who don’t cheat with their bodies sometimes stray with other organs—anybody remember sweet Jimmy Carter’s admission that he had “lusted in his heart”?)

Aware of the sage wisdom suggesting we never say never, I try - only as an exercise in my ongoing, futile goal to embrace the non-judgmental life— to imagine scenarios where I might one day myself seek the company of another. I recall youthful discretions, drunken revelry that might have counted as infidelity of a sort. And this reminds me that we are often swift to justify behaviors we engage in. (Like that fuck buddy I had in the ‘80s, with that other woman who thought of herself as his girlfriend? She knew there were lots of others, right? Didn’t that make my occasional hops in the sack with him okay? Of course I liked to think so.)

And yet, the recollections of those times coupled with my role as “the other woman” just a few years ago—even if I had no idea what was up— all of this and still, stubbornly, I cannot imagine deliberately engaging in an affair. But perhaps all of the cheaters—famous and not—once thought the same thing. I’m curious—all you cheaters, all you cheated upon—do tell: what’s it all about? Like the rest of the world eager to hear of the scandals, I’m dying to know the details.

Even though it’s none of her business, Spike Gillespie hopes Elin dumps Tiger’s ass. She blogs for JetBlue, KnitBuzz, and herself.