“Why didn’t you wake me up?” I yelled at her.
“You were sleeping so good, I didn’t want to bother you,” she said trying to sound convincing.
I quickly put on my clothes and shot out the door. She knew damn well I usually left no later than midnight. I drove home at one hundred miles an hour, all the while checking myself for signs of my night out. I tried to fix my wrinkled clothes and comb my hair but I still had that fresh fuck look.
By the time I made it home, it was 2:30 a.m. The smell of sex was all over me, and my hair was looking crazy. Right away, I knew what I had to do. The bathroom in the basement was my only chance of washing up without being busted. So, I walked around to the back door, and quietly slipped my key into the lock. As I pushed open the door, it began to squeak like hell. And the slower I tried to push it open, the louder it squeaked. Why is that?
Once I finally managed to make it downstairs, I quickly stuffed my clothes into the bottom of the hamper and jumped in the shower. For the next 20 minutes I thoroughly washed myself from head to toe. I had to make sure the sex smell was completely gone. It’s amazing how women can detect the scent of another woman, not just the smell of her perfume, but also the aroma of her body juices on your penis. How do they do that? I damn near scrubbed the skin off my dick trying to wash Alise’s scent off me.
After toweling off and finding a clean pair of underwear in the laundry room, I heard my wife Debra rattling pots and pans around in the kitchen. She was up for her late night inspection, but once again it was too late. All of the evidence had already been washed down the drain. I threw on my robe and confidently headed upstairs for a snack. When I got to the refrigerator, guess who was looking over my shoulder? No, not my wife, but Angela Lansbury of “Murder She Wrote.”
“Where have you been all night?”
“I was out, what’s with the interrogation?”
“You said you were going to be out with David, but he called here at 10:00 p.m. looking for you!”
“We did plan to get together, “I said confidently, “but I wasn’t able to catch up with him.”
“You two should do a better job of getting your lies straight.”
At that moment, I couldn’t have agreed with her more. I had told his dumb ass I had a date that night and needed him to cover for me. I had to come up with a diversion, and fast.
“Wait one damn minute!” I demanded. “What about this filthy kitchen?”
“What are you talking about?” she said with a stunned look on her face.
It’s your week to wipe down the counters and wax the floor. But judging by all the crumbs lying around here, I can see you haven’t done shit all day.”
“What in the hell does that have to do with you coming in late?”
To be perfectly honest with you I really didn’t know. My intention was to divert the issue, I was reaching for whatever I could find. And believe it or not, it worked. Before you know it, we were arguing over who washed the dishes and who emptied the garbage last. By 3:30 a.m. I was exhausted. My head was spinning and my eyelids were getting heavy.
“This is pointless,” I said while yawning. “You can stay up and argue by yourself. I’m going to bed.”
She stayed downstairs pouting for another 30 minutes or so, then came to bed. No doubt frustrated by the fact that she couldn’t break me down.
When I woke up the next morning, she was already downstairs doing laundry. I decided to vacuum the living room carpet and clean the kitchen. Ordinarily this was a full-proof way of getting back on her good side, but not this time. As I began running the water for the dishes, I heard Debra shout from downstairs, “I’ll be damned!” About ten minutes later, she called for me to come down. As I approached the basement stairs, it dawned on me that I had forgotten to take my clothes out of the bottom of the hamper. “Oh well, it’s too late for that now.” I said to myself. When I opened the door to the laundry room, she had all my clothes from the night before laid out neatly on the folding table.
First there was exhibit A, the lipstick stain on my collar. Exhibit B, the smell of woman’s perfume all over my sweater. Now, I could have probably come up with a quick believable lie to explain those two items, but when she pointed out exhibits C, the condoms from out of my pants pocket, all I could do was throw myself on the mercy of the court. She was upset for weeks, but we managed to work things out. But why does it seem that no matter how hard you try to remember all of the tricks, something always seem to find a way to slip by? Oh well, I’ll have to be much more careful, next time.
Second Chances
Yes, he did say, next time. The reality is that if a man cheats once, he will more then likely cheat again. Getting caught is merely a temporary set back and an opportunity to sharpen his skills. Let’s not forget that the wives and girlfriends are tolerating this disrespectful behavior, in some cases for years. Even when she finds out that the cheating man has a baby outside the relationship or brings home an STD, the majority of women don’t leave! They’re either blinded by love and believe he will eventually settle down and change, or they’re afraid to be alone. We’ll address those issues in a later chapter. As for now, let the games continue.
More Games
Not every cheating man is fortunate enough to get away with sneaking in through back doors and jumping into basement showers. To the contrary, most men have to prepare themselves for an immediate inspection the second they hit the door. There is little or no time to suppress evidence. The wife or girlfriend, who is on constant alert, is waiting for the sound of his car to pull into the driveway to leap out of bed to deliver her opening statement. She has a bionic ear and can hear everything. A slow turning key in the door lock may as well be a noisy police siren. Alex, who is 37 years old, understands exactly what I’m talking about. He has been shacking for the past two years, and his girlfriend Sonya is prepared for battle at all times. She is a hair roller-wearing super sleuth with a keen eye for lipstick and foreign hairs. And because she is so perceptive, he was forced to raise his game to another level. As he put it, “If you’ve got a woman at home like mine, you better have your shit together when you walk in the door.” I wonder what he meant by that.
The Late Night Interrogation
Sonya, The Restless Girlfriend
Plaintiff
-Vs-
Alex, The Composed Boyfriend
Defendant
As I pulled into the driveway, I prayed Sonya would be asleep. But after taking a deep breath and slowly pushing open the door, I could see my prayer had gone unanswered. There she was at 1:00 a.m. in the morning with a pot of coffee brewing on the stove and an empty box of No Doze on the counter. “Boy, I’m in for it tonight.” I thought to myself. I played it cool and acted as if I had nothing to hide. Which of course, I did.
“Hi baby, what are you doing up so late?” I reluctantly asked.
“I heard a loud noise out back, and couldn’t go back to sleep.”
“Yeah, right,” I said under my breath.
The only noise she heard was the sound of my car pulling into the driveway. I hung my jacket in the closet and headed for the stairs.
“Well, I’m going to take a shower and get ready for bed.”
Wait a second, sweetheart, I haven’t seen you all day. Can I at least get a quick hug?”
I knew what she was up to. This was her sly way of getting a sniff of my clothes and a close look at my collar. But of course, she was wasting her time. There was no evidence to be found.
When I made it into the bathroom, I turned on the shower and slowly began unbuttoning my shirt. And just as I was about to take off my pants, my wife abruptly walks in.
“Excuse me baby, I forgot to take my pill,” she said while casually looking me over.
“Do what you have to do,” I said trying not to laugh.
I knew she kept her birth control pills inside her purse. This was just another one of her surprise inspections to uncover evidence. Maybe she was looking for lip
stick on my underwear, who knows. Whatever the reason was for her unlawful entry, she came up empty handed once again. My body was odor free and my back was without scars. I make it clear to any woman I’m seeing that fingernails on the back and strong perfumes are prohibited. Sexy lingerie is fine, but if we’re having sex they must shower first and don’t put on any make-up or scents. That’s just creating another opportunity to get busted.
After unnecessarily going through the medicine cabinet for five minutes, Sonya suddenly remembered that her birth control pills were in the bedroom. “No kidding,” I thought. But instead of leaving the room to give me some privacy, she stood there in the doorway observing my every move. I looked straight into her eyes and busted out laughing.
“What are you giggling about?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing.”
What I was laughing at was this detective role she was trying to play with me, and a bad one at that. I remember staring at her thinking to myself, “Ms. Sherlock Holmes really thinks she has her man tonight.” But little did she know who she was dealing with.
You see, unlike most men, I don’t worry about being inspected when I get home. I am extremely careful about concealing the evidence of my affairs. I was having sex with two other women at that time, one happened to be our baby sitter and the other was a woman I work with; both ladies were married. That’s rule number one in the cheating handbook, never cheat with someone who doesn’t have just as much to lose as you do. And another mistake is ejaculating inside of the other woman. First of all, I’m not trying to contract a STD or have a baby. And second, having unprotected sex creates a chemical bond; I only want that kind of connection with my wife. My affairs are strictly for entertainment purposes. When men cross that line they are sending a mixed message and that’s when all hell breaks loose.
Anyway, back to Ms. Columbo. When I went back downstairs to grab a snack, she began questioning me about where I had been all night. Of course I had an airtight alibi. But then she threw me a curve by bringing up events from months long past.
“Remember when you came home back in April and I found that woman’s business card in your pocket with her personal cell number written on the back?” she asked. “And what about three months ago when you told me you were going out with Derrick and he called here looking for you that same night?”
I was stunned. My confident grin turned into a look of complete confusion. All of a sudden the kitchen counter she was sitting behind started to resemble a judge’s bench. I had to retaliate.
“What in the hell are you talking about?” I shouted.
“You know what I’m talking about!” You and Derrick are always up to something. I just haven’t caught you yet!”
“That is totally unfair Sonya, and you know it!”
Of course, what I really wanted to say was, “I object!” But what was the point? She would overrule me anyway. I was clearly being railroaded with no jury of my peers to hear my case. The accusations and cross-examination continued.
“And what about the Saturday night back in June when you said you had to work? Not more than an hour after you left, your job called asking if you wanted to work overtime. Explain that one, Mr. Gigolo?”
Now I was really starting to get pissed. Not because of her aggressive questioning, but because I knew I had perfectly good lies to explain those charges… at the time. Isn’t there some kind of statute of limitations? I was thinking. I fired back fiercely, determined to turn the case in my favor.
“Ok, wait one damn minute!” I insisted. “You can’t pull up shit from a two years ago just because you suspect me of cheating. Either you have proof or you don’t. Otherwise, get off my back!”
Women know damn well a man can’t keep up with his lies if they’re more than a week old. This was simply her way of getting back at me for not being able to come up with concrete evidence. I had a solid defense and she couldn’t stand it.
After two hours of this nonstop Spanish Inquisition, she finally retired to her chambers. I mean the bedroom. When I woke up the next morning, the case had been dismissed. No doubt due to the lack of proof. She apologized for her paranoid behavior and we left it at that. Now, let this be a lesson to cheating men everywhere, Stand firm on your lies, and never, I repeat, never, confess to anything!
Do Women Really Want the Truth?
Do women want the truth? And if so, how much of the truth? Do they want details or just an overview? Do they want to know how long the affair has been going on, with whom, and how good the sex was? And do they want to know if you love the other woman more than her? I honestly believe that most women do want the truth, unless it’s something they don’t want to hear!” Sometimes the truth can be overrated when it’s being told to a woman who loves you and has invested in you. If she had made up her mind that she has found “The One!” the truth is often the last thing she wants to hear. Of course, there are exceptions.
If the man is marginal sexually, struggling financially, and lacks charisma and confidence, by all means she wants the truth. She’s probably looking for a reason to dump him anyway. But in the case where the woman is in love, financially secure, having great sex, or if kids are involved, why in the world would she allow something as painful as the truth to get in the way of her fantasy life?
Ask any woman who has tried to alert her sister or girlfriend that her man was cheating and they will advise you to mind your own business! Most women have learned the hard way that the majority of women already know or suspect their men are cheating; confronting them with the evidence will only destroy the relationship between the two women because most often the man is not going anywhere. Not until she gets sick and tired of being sick and tired.
However, there are some women who do want the truth, not only about how men cheat but what motivates us as men to tell the lie about being monogamous in the first place. Remember, cheating is not defined as men who have multiple partners; it’s telling the lie to be committed to just one woman that makes it cheating. So, why do men lie?
3
A MAN IS GONNA BE A MAN … REALLY?
Like any other negative behavior, infidelity is learned from watching and imitating bad examples. Show me a cheating father and I can probably show you a cheating son. However, infidelity is not simply a reaction to negative influences; it is also a choice, a choice that has more to do with low morals than complex psychology. But regardless of what the reasons are for this deceitful conduct, one thing is absolutely certain, there is no such thing as a born cheater. The question then is, “How was he created?”
It Starts at Home
If women are serious about trying to understand why men cheat, they should begin by examining men’s upbringing; it’s possible he was raised by parents who have accidentally or purposely planted negative impressions in his mind concerning the way in which women are to be treated. And with the help of ignorant relatives and narrow-minded friends of the family, he could very well be ruined for life.
The mis-education of the young male usually begins with the so-called Men of the family. They are usually the first to offer their pessimistic views on today’s woman. First there’s good old Uncle Charlie, “All women are good for is cooking, cleaning and making babies. You can’t trust them either. They’re natural born liars, every one of them!” Then Cousin Jesse adds his two cents, “Women only want you for your money,” he warns. “When it’s gone, they’re gone!” Of course much of this worldly advice is based on nothing more than chauvinism and their own failed relationships. Nevertheless, they pump the impressionable young man full of this garbage and send him out into the world with a “Get them before they get you,” mentality towards women. It doesn’t help that the men he’s taking advice from are listening to the same music and wearing the same clothes as he is. Our young men should see and hear distinct differences in the way adult men communicate and act. Unfortunately, we live in a country where forty plus year-old men walk, talk, dress, and behave no differently than a 19-year-old
boy. Back in the day boys wanted to act and dress like our fathers and the older men in the neighborhood; now it seems that the older men are trying to act and dress like the teenagers. What’s up with that?
And if that’s not bad enough, the women of the family also add to this brainwashing. Aunt Betty, who always has her nose in other people’s business, comments about the neighbors, “I can’t believe the woman downstairs had another baby. I’ll bet you a million dollars it’s not her husband’s.” Cousin Barbara responds, “At least she’s not screwing her boss trying to get a promotion like some one I know.” Now, if this type of dialogue doesn’t strengthen a young man’s belief in the virtue of women, I don’t know what will.
Never Satisfied: Do Men Know What They Want? Page 6