Why Hooking Up With Girls Who Have Boyfriends Never Pays Off
There have been many instances where a man has had some sort of sexual encounter with a spoken-for woman that resulted in the woman breaking off her relationship to go on and live happily ever after with “the other guy.” I’m sure it will continue to happen again and again until the world ends next year, and that kids will be born who will never have any idea that their Daddy, using his cock, snagged his wife from an unassuming dude who had no idea it was happening.
Of course this happens, but it has never been my experience. I really don’t want it to be. I’m (probably) never going to make a homewrecking attempt again.
I didn’t write those prior sentences because I want you to think I’m a good person who is against homewrecking in any moral sense, because I’m not. The way I see it is like this: If I don’t know you, and your perfectly adequate (at least physically) girlfriend is willing to engage in a pleasurable physical experience with me, then I’m not going to defer just because she has a boyfriend. Unless you’re much larger than me and I think you’re going to find out, the mere fact that you’re her significant other isn’t enough for me to miss an opportunity to put my tongue in an attractive female’s mouth. I’ve found that most guys will do, and have done, the same thing to me. Everyone wants to be wanted, and being wanted by someone who previously wanted another person is the narcissistic icing on the cake. Just because there’s a goalie in the net doesn’t mean you can’t score, right?
My reasoning for no longer homewrecking is two-fold — three-fold if you take into consideration that I no longer have any game. Statistically speaking, I am really inept at homewrecking. I’ve seen success only with my most recent attempt, but the rest have all been misses, meaning the girl did not break up with the guy because of me. One of the girls is still with her boyfriend years later, and he hasn’t got any idea she was ever unfaithful. I would bet my pog collection — including slammers — that he never will. (After I wrote that sentence, I thought, “Oh well. Ignorance is bliss,” which is a really scary thought because now I’m wondering how many times I’ve been dicked over that I don’t even know about.)
The outcome of homewrecking is negative whether it’s successful or unsuccessful. In either scenario, you’re dealing with a cheating woman. That’s always going to be somewhat dicey.
There are few things in life that feel shittier than coming to the realization that — for whatever reason — you are not good enough. This is how you’re probably going to feel after a failed attempted at a homewreck if you become emotionally invested. It’s like if you play for a basketball team and you’re sitting on the bench, just fucking around and seeing which of your fellow bench buddies can drink the most water before halftime when your coach summons you.
“Scott,” he says. “I know Bill has been playing every single minute for us for the past year-and-a-half, since right after that fall formal, you know, when he came up to me at the punch bowl and started rubbing my back and said, ‘Why don’t you give me a shot at the title, coach?’ But you know what? You’re going in there the second half. Thing is, though, you can’t tell Bill. I’m going to make some sort of excuse so he thinks there isn’t going to be a second half, and he goes home or goes to see the 68th installment of the Final Destination franchise. You can’t ever tell him that we played the second half of that game, though, okay?”
“Well, that’s not fair to Bill, but like I give a fuck. I have one thing on my mind now, and that’s getting in the game, coach,” is what you say, even though in the back of your mind you know coach is a trollop.
Then, halfway through the third quarter (when all you’ve gotten in is some lousy foreplay, not even a proper chance to prove yourself), he decides that even though Bill’s not that great at basketball and he’s always getting called for five-second violations (premature ejaculation), he’s going to go running back to him. Because he has something you don’t. He wants to get him back in the game before any more damage is done.
So that’s what it’s like when you give it a shot and it doesn’t work. You go home with nothing except, at best, a few orgasms you could’ve drummed up yourself if things got dire. This is precisely what you had before, except now you know somebody tried you out and you weren’t good enough. You had your shot, and you were inadequate.
When you succeed, however, it can be even worse.
This girl and I used to mess around at my friends’ apartment on nights when I would visit them in my old college town. She had a boyfriend. I didn’t and still don’t know him. It was fun. At the end of the sessions though, I wasn’t allowed to sleep with her. She was afraid somebody would come waltzing out of one of the bedrooms and see that she was spending her Friday night hooking up with some dude who hours before was belting out every lyric from Toto’s “Africa” with a bunch of dudes on a dance floor at a sketchy bar. I’d be clandestine about that shit, too. And she was really very good at keeping it a secret, seeing as her best friend in the world didn’t even know about it until months later when I accidentally dropped the dime.
This was fine with me, though. Getting to mess around with someone on a weekly basis and end up sleeping by yourself instead of with another person on a tiny couch? Sign me up, I thought at the time.
But then she and her beau broke up, things escalated a little bit and I developed feelings for her. Ones I hadn’t had in a while. We began spending more time together, but I began distancing myself, and here is why: Once somebody cheats on their significant other, you can never trust that they won’t do it again. For me, that information is unforgettable. As far as love crimes go, cheating is pretty high up there, right? And as far as real crimes go, murder is pretty high up there, isn’t it? Tell me: Are you going to sleep in bed with O.J. Simpson every single night for the rest of your life and never, ever have it in the back of your head that he might fucking kill you? And that guy wasn’t even convicted!
We had a conversation, and she assured me she wasn’t looking for anything serious.
“I really want to be single for a while,” she’d said.
Fast forward to a few months later, and she tells me she is spoken for again. Natch, this conversation took place through text messages, even though she used to be all about Skyping and talking on the phone. Better I find out that way than in a video chat, because she would’ve seen me starting to manufacture the voodoo doll and have some inkling where all those pricking pains have been coming from.
“That ‘I want to be single’ thing really lasted long, huh?” I sent.
She told me if she is honest with herself, she is a “relationship person who fears commitment.” In other news: Michael Vick is a dog lover and God decided to brew an earthquake near D.C. specifically so all those politicians will decide to get their heads out of their asses (because God is from Amurica, and don’t you fuckin’ forget it).
She may never cheat again. I hope she doesn’t. I agree that people change, but how is there any way to ever really know she’s not going to do the same thing to you she did to her last boyfriend? Some of you may be all about giving people second chances in regard to this. That’s where all those stories about Daddy using his wrecking balls to steal Mom come from. Just make sure you bring your A-game, Dad, because nobody is going to want to hear you whining if someday you discover you’re no longer good enough.
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Even as I write this now I am debating whether or not to erase it all together.
When I say I’m in love with you, I mean I love the story I can tell to my next lover, about my ex-lover, about how beautiful things were, how intense, how storybook, what a couple we were, and how you gradually, inexplicably, painfully, bit by bit, disappeared.
“I used to be afraid of failing at something that really mattered to me, but now I’m more afraid of succeeding at things that don’t matter.”
I was 24 and, while not gay, ever since college I had been getting more attention from gay men than from heterosexual women.