Don’t mothers, aunts, and sisters realize the impact their conversation and conduct has on our young men? Every negative comment about other women and men is another brick piled on to a wall of ignorance that society perpetrates. Your sons are processing all those conversations you’re having over the phone with your girlfriends about who’s screwing who, how you can’t stand another woman, and how man ain’t shit! Well guess what? You’re raising the future husband of another woman. If he turns out not to be shit either, then maybe you raised shit!
It’s hard to believe that not long ago the family home was the primary school of respect and good manners. Learning the proper way to talk to and date young ladies was a required course for graduation into manhood. But all that seems to have changed. Today’s parents, much like our school systems, no longer appear interested in properly educating their young males. They set horrible examples and throw up their hands, surrendering them to the streets. As a result, boys are growing into men who are emotionally malnourished and morally bankrupt. How in the world can we expect these misguided souls to handle the day-to-day workings of an adult relationship? It’s virtually impossible! The lazy and irresponsible parent then has the nerve to ask, “Where did I go wrong?” Well, as the saying goes, “The fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
Who’s to Blame?
Most men would prefer to leave their family history out of it when it comes to explaining why they cheat on women. No one wants to blame good old Mom and Dad for doing an ineffective job of raising the perfect gentleman. And besides, they know that using their upbringing as an excuse for infidelity will not wash well with today’s woman. She is sick and tired of hearing these lame excuses about the lack of role models. Her attitude is, “Damn, you’re thirty five, when does maturity kick in?” Therefore, let me make it perfectly clear that neither of the men whom I interviewed is expecting women to sympathize with their experience. The whole idea is to establish a starting point from which to begin examining why men are so unfaithful. As Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz would say, “There’s no place like home.”
Raymond, who is 32 years old, comes from a long line of unfaithful men. His grandfather was a cheater, as was his father and uncles. And like so many other young men raised in this environment, he became a cheater too. “After so many years watching the men in your family get away with it, you begin to see it as normal,” he says, “and then you see the women in your family putting up with it. That just made it seem even more acceptable.” Well, normal or not, he has successfully fulfilled the family legacy of infidelity. And with two sons of his own, it appears there will be heirs to the cheating throne. The question is, when will it ever end?
Raymond’s Story
My father was a very intelligent and charismatic man who taught me everything I know about women, how to talk to them and unintentionally, how to cheat on them. At the age of twelve, I began taking notes. First, there were the secret phone calls in the basement. My father always made sure he got as far away as possible from my mother’s ultra-sensitive ears. The conversations were always brief and coded. He would say five or ten words and hang up. Within an hour after every call he was out the door. When my mother asked him where he was going, his excuse was always the same, “I’m going to play cards.” To make his alibi appear more authentic, one of his brothers would call to confirm that he was playing poker or bid whist. But he became annoyed with being questioned every week, so he decided to sneak out the back door to avoid being interrogated. It was funny watching a grown man tiptoeing out the house like a kid who was on punishment. Everybody knew where he was going, but nothing was ever said.
As the years passed, my father’s unfaithfulness became more apparent. I found all kinds of evidence such as condoms, secret telephone books, and pictures of him with other women hidden behind old albums and underneath the bar. Parents are so stupid. Don’t they know you can’t hide anything from a kid? But his most daring feat of all was seducing the next-door neighbor’s wife. I believe it was the fall of ninety-one when Bridgette and Steve Jenkins moved in next door. They were a real odd couple. She was five foot nine, full figured, with dark brown hair that came down to the middle of her back. Whereas Steve was short, slightly overweight, and going bald. My father wasted no time in trying to cozy up to Steve. Twice a week they watched football and drank beers together. He even helped paint his living room. But all this buddy buddy business was only a front. My father was using him to get next to Bridgette. I knew it was only a matter of time before he succeeded. And sure enough, his opportunity came when Steve went on graveyard shift midnight to 8:00 a.m. working bus supervisor at the Chicago Transit Authority.
Within a week of this new schedule my father had him timed perfectly. At 11:30 p.m. Steve walked out of the front door, and at 11:31 p.m. you know who came in through the back. From my bedroom window, which looked out into their back yard. I watched the whole thing like a bad reality show. He would creep out of the back door like a cat burglar, through the fence, and into the back door. One time he was so horny, he leaped over the fence instead of walking around to the gate. While all this excitement was going on, my mother never suspected a thing. If she did, she never showed any signs of it. She was accustomed to my father staying up late drinking beer and listening to music. And on the few occasions when she happened to wake up and catch him coming in, he would give her the old line about checking for prowlers. Of course, the only prowler who needed to be checked was him. This went on for six months before Steve became suspicious. And whom do you think he came to for advice? That’s right, my dad. I could have died laughing as I listened in from the kitchen while they talked outside on the porch.
“Gary, I just don’t know what to do,” he said sounding depressed. “I know something is going on but I can’t put my finger on it.”
“Are you sure it’s not just your imagination, Steve?”
“I’m not sure about anything these days. This midnight schedule has me walking around like a damned zombie!”
“If I were you, I’d stop worrying so much and try to get some rest. Bridgette loves you and would never do anything to jeopardize your marriage.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“I know I’m right!” my father said convincingly. “You have got a good woman there, trust me.”
“I’m glad we had a chance to talk, Gary. I was ready to pack up and take a job offer in Seattle.”
“No, don’t do that!” my father slipped. “I mean, why would you want to leave all your friends and family behind? This is your home.”
What a masterful job he did of securing his next-door piece. Steve seemed completely fooled by his speech. Nevertheless, my father backed off for a few weeks, just in case. What a smart decision that turned out to be. I watched Steve drive off to work then double back several times trying to catch her in the act. But a few weeks later, when things cooled down, my father was leaping over the fence and into Bridgette’s bed once again. This affair went on for two years until Steve decided to take the job in Seattle. On a cool autumn Saturday afternoon he packed up his moving truck and drove off into the sunset with his furnishings and my father’s mistress.
Those incidents all took place many years ago and today I have a family of my own. A beautiful wife and two handsome boys ages 6 and 4. When I decided to get married, I promised myself to be the perfect husband. No lies, no tricks, and no women on the side. However, old habits and family traditions die hard. Two years after saying “I do,” I was out there doing the exact same things my father did to my mother. Whispering on the telephone, sneaking out of the house, and fooling around with married women. For years I didn’t want to admit it, but I guess it’s true. I’m a chip off the old block.
Father’s Day Cards for Mothers, Just Stop It!
For an increasing number of young boys there are no positive male role models at home to imitate. As a result, women have been left to the difficult task of trying to mold their sons into respectable men with l
ittle or no help. And try they do, often times with great results, thank God. But no matter how hard women try to raise boys to men, they cannot be examples of men. Boys learn from observing. Ask any musician who has never taken a lesson and he will tell you, he learned from watching. The same principle applies to myself; I learned how to do radio, TV, and writing books from mimicking others. I’ve never taken a class to do any of those things. Young boys need to see men to be men. Women cannot show men how to be men because they are not men, period! No more than a man can teach a girl how to be a woman or a mother; it’s impossible! Yes, ladies you can teach your son how to be a good person, have manners, and all the other important principles. But boys need to see good men in action so that they can emulate them.
Recently, I had a debate on my radio show about children giving their mothers father’s day cards on Father’s Day, and although I understand the message they were trying to send, it’s this notion that women can play the role of a man that is adding to the problem. Women need to focus more on being a good example of what a woman’s role and conduct should be. Too many women are getting caught in the middle and leaving our boys with an incomplete vision of what either sex’s role is. Sometimes the best lesson a woman can give her son is how she allows other men to treat her. For starters, stop allowing your sons to see you date married men. Stop exposing your sons to men who don’t care about you and don’t have their best welfare at heart. And please stop introducing men whom you just met to your children. Having men bouncing in and out of your life sends the wrong message about the value of a woman. And lastly, stop accepting father’s day cards on Father’s Day and focus your energies on being the best role model of what a woman is. That’s more valuable to our sons then bragging about how you are the mother and the father, because you’re not, you’re just a great mom!
Are Mothers Creating Cheaters?
Cedric, who is 29 years old, grew up in an environment where his mother was responsible for his negative attitude about women and relationships. Throughout his childhood he listened and watched as she used and abused men to get what she wanted. These bad examples contributed significantly to his cheating mentality. And like most men who’ve had bad memories of their mother’s behavior, he remembers every detail like it was yesterday.
Cedric’s Story
Watching my parents split as a 10-year-old was bad enough without the added burden of dealing with all the bitter feelings floating around. The divorce was supposedly mutually agreed upon, but you never would have known it by the way my mother verbally attacked my father. She talked to him on the phone like a dog, calling him all kinds of MF’s and SOB’s. I hated the way she treated him, and I told her so on numerous occasions. Shortly after the divorce was final, my mother’s lifestyle began to change. She started smoking, drinking, and hanging out with a new set of friends. They were loud and obnoxious women who pried into our family business every chance they got. Her two nosiest girlfriends were Bertha and Agnes, names that fit them perfectly.
Bertha was 5’3” and weighed about two hundred pounds. She had a habit of taking off her shoes exposing her crusty feet whenever she came to visit. And I’ll never forget her bad breath; it smelled like a combination of spoiled cheese and hot garbage. Agnes was even worse. She had very bad skin and always smelled like cigarette smoke. When she tried to give me a kiss, I would run out the back door. But their appearance had nothing to do with why I despised them. It was their constant degrading of my father. Their conversations about him were mean and unjustified. The one I remember most took place a week after the divorce. Fat ass Bertha instigated the whole thing.
“So, Valerie, how much alimony and child support did you get from that cheap bastard?”
“Not as much as I asked for,” my mother responded.
“Just make sure you keep track of his raises, you can always take him back to court for an increase! When he gets paid you get paid!” Then they gave one another a high five.
“Don’t worry, he’s not getting away with one thin dime if I can help it.”
“What about visitation?” Agnes asked.
“Well, the judge said every other weekend, and two months during the summer. But I’ll decide when and if he can see Cedric. I don’t give a damn what the courts say!”
I like your attitude girl,” Bertha said. “He doesn’t deserve to see his son after the way he treated you.”
That statement upset me for two reasons. One, she didn’t know my family well enough to make that judgment. And two, my father treated my mother like a queen. She was the one neglecting her responsibilities at home and running the streets. Besides, I was taught that family business should stay within the family. She was violating her own rules. But the really painful part was watching her torture my father over the years by cancelling visitation at the last minute, or not being home when he was supposed to pick me up. I could see the frustration in my dad’s eyes while my mother cursed him nearly every time he picked me up. He never retaliated because he didn’t want to risk not spending time with me. And that look in his eyes of being so powerless, that memory was burned into my mind forever. Women have no idea of the impact of talking negatively about the father of a child has on you at that age. It feels like you’re being attacked right along with that man. My perception of women was never the same after that.
Two years and a thousand bitter conversations later, my mother finally met someone who could put up with her hostile attitude. I’ll call him John. He was a nice man who was never too busy to talk or toss around a baseball. What I liked about him most was that he didn’t try to take my father’s place and he never once said anything negative about him. My mother acted completely different around him. Dressing up in sexy outfits, talking politely, and cooking meals like Betty Crocker. She never went through all of this trouble for my father, I thought. Maybe they would still be together. As long as she was happy, I was happy. And besides, with John in her life she was allowing me to spend more time with my father. It was the best time of my life; unfortunately it turned out to be the calm before the storm.
About six months into my wonder years, my mother became pregnant. John wanted to get married, but my mother was dead set against it. The decision was made to keep the babies and address the issue of marriage at a later date. Oh yeah, I did say babies. My mother delivered twins, two girls. A year or so after the girls were born, my mother broke up with John. She said he was smothering her, but I knew this was only an excuse to get rid of him. Her mood turned gloomy, and her patience thinned. The whole situation exploded. My father was back in the doghouse and now John was right there with him. This was the point in my life where I specifically recall thinking of my mother as a bitch. Not in a disrespectful way, mind you, but she was giving these guys hell. And low and behold, guess who reappeared again, my mother’s nosy instigating girlfriends. I guess it’s true what they say, “Misery loves company.”
By the time I turned sixteen, my mother had become a ruthless gold digger. She was determined to get what she wanted no matter how many men she had to go through. When the basement needed remodeling, she dated a carpenter. When her car broke down and needed major repairs, the carpenter was dumped for a mechanic. And when she wanted to spend the rent money to get her hair and nails done, she dated the landlord. Meanwhile, I’m sitting back watching and listening to everything, the lies over the phone, the late night booty calls, and the negative comments about John and my dad. She may not have been sexually involved with all of them, but she was definitely having sex if she had to get what she wanted. Witnessing all these lies and games caused me to lose what little respect I had for my mother. Deep down inside, I thought of her as an irresponsible parent and materialistic whore.
The day of my 18th birthday was the most dramatic of all the negative sights I had seen of my mother’s loose behavior. I chose to spend the night at my father’s house for the weekend to celebrate. We went bowling, to the movies and out to dinner. My mother wasn’t expecting me back unti
l Monday morning. But because of a power outage on Sunday night, our visit was cut short. I tried calling home to let my mother know I was on my way home, but there was no answer. When I arrived home at 7:30 p.m., I understood why no one could hear the phone ringing. There was a wild party going on. The music was loud and strange people were all over the house drinking and smoking marijuana. The only familiar face in the room was big Bertha. I tapped her on the shoulder to get her attention.
“What are you doing here!” she said with a shocked look on her face. “What do you mean, what am I doing here? I live here. Where is my mother and where are the twins?”
“Your sisters are with the next door neighbor.”
“And what about my mother?”
“I think she’s upstairs, I’ll go get her.”
“I don’t need you to play messenger,” I said with an attitude. “This is my house.”
“Wait Cedric, don’t go up there.”
When I made it to the top of the stairs, I could hear voices coming from my mother’s bedroom. When I knocked on the door, a strange man’s voice forcefully asked, “Who is it?” That’s when I put my broad shoulder to the door and pushed it open. What I saw was disgraceful. There, lying on the bed buck-naked was my mother. She had a joint in one hand and the man’s penis in the other. And no, this man was neither the carpenter, the plumber, nor the landlord. This was a guy I had never laid eyes on. My first reaction was to swing the door back shut. I just stood there in shock while my mother excused herself to put something on.
Never Satisfied: Do Men Know What They Want? Page 7