Almost sorta counts: a cheater's story

This week, everyone I know is on a “cheetah” kick, talking about Tiger and Kobe and Shaq and all the other Black athletes who stepped out on their wives (Yeah, TW is a Black man, just ask anyone but him).  And once we start taking about some creeping men, the conversation turns to why Black men ain’t no damn good, and whether women actually cheat.  For my answer to the first part of that discussion, please see my Twitter feed, since I’ve gone on at great lengths regarding the topic.  If you agree with me, use the hashtag #iluvblackmen so we can displace the man-hating with some positivity.  As for the second inevitable outcropping of male celebrity infidelity, I offer my personal testimony.  That’s right kids, it’s confession time again.

I almost cheated on a boyfriend.

We’ll deal with the “almost” part later, it’s the part before the “almost” that’s the most important.  I was seeing a guy that I really liked, or so I thought.  He was smart, successful, funny and cute in a geeky kinda way.  Geeks are definitely hot; on our first date we had brunch at Odeon, a visit to the SoHo Apple store, and coffee in the West Village.  Then he talked about how programming was like writing music and he had me.  Looks-wise, a 6’4″ cross between Carlton Banks and Adam Sandler.  Don’t judge me!  Anyway, we were very much alike in ways I thought were important:  smart Black folks, only children, from Ivy-League schools with decent parents and extra large ambitions.  He was an Internet entrepreneur, which I admired.  My dad always had a side hustle when I was growing up, which I know has shaped my perception of men and work.  So I was pretty happy dating a fella who’d made some pretty good money never having worked for someone else.  Initially.

In spite of my boyfriend’s admirable qualities, he had some traits that were unacceptable to me.  He’s got no EQ, which is common among tech nerds who spend their entire day alone behind a computer screen.  And if your office is your house, you’ve no reason to tune into others for the sake of workplace dynamics.  So if I cried in front of the brother (it happened once, when my best friend died), he’d look around uncomfortably like he wanted to disappear through the floorboards.  Plus he worked all the time, would hop out of the bed and head right to the computer.  Ever see a man writing code in tighty-whiteys and socks?  It’s a look, and not entirely a bad one either, but annoying nonetheless.  Then there began the not spending time together because he was testing, or meeting with funders, or hadn’t left the house in a week because he was on some kind of adrenaline-inspired programming roll.

You probably know that when you’re seeing someone you want to actually see them, and I’m no exception.  I knew something was wrong with the relationship but I made excuses.  I talked to my dad, who dispatched the sage wisdom that if a man wants to see you, he’ll make time no matter how busy he is.  That’s real talk, but I hemmed and hawed.  And the following Saturday night when my boy didn’t want to get together, I decided to tie one on with my best girlfriend.  We drank.  And drank some more.  And I challenged guys to arm-wrestle me in my special, flirtatious way.  As they say in professional poker, I was on tilt; having lost a really big emotional pot with my steady, I was betting some pretty big stakes on a barful of strangers.  I was feeling alone and neglected, and tried to smooth the rough spots by sticking my tongue down some guy’s throat.  Then we went back to my place, he vomited on the rug, and the incident became yet another story for the book.  But I still feel guilty because I know what I wanted to happen, and it wasn’t mopping some stranger’s regurgitated dinner off the floor.

Now lots of people would say “it didn’t mean anything” because I was drunk, we “only” kissed or whatever. Then there’s the ever-popular sex vs. love justification for a dalliance.  But the actions aren’t as meaningful as the feelings behind them.  My boyfriend wasn’t giving me something that I needed (attention, companionship on Saturday night), and I went looking for it somewhere else.  Maybe I had so much beer because I didn’t want to be responsible – I’m smart enough to know that drinking lowers one’s inhibitions, and low inhibitions means doing something you want to do anyway.  And I could’ve stopped drinking at any time, or stayed at home that night, or seen a movie with my girlfriend instead of venturing into an Upper East Side watering hole known for its cute bartenders and single male clientele. What I really should’ve done is called old dude and told him that I needed to see him, I felt neglected, I wasn’t happy, I needed some lovin’.  Bottom line:  I wasn’t happy, I was too much of a punk to talk about it with my man, and I decided to be all passive-aggressive instead.

My experience is why I’m pretty critical of cheating, and why I believe people know what they’re doing before they get into anything.  I’m not saying folks intend to cheat, but they intend to ignore the voice inside them that says, “this isn’t the best idea” so they don’t have to take responsibility for their actions.   We’re really good at lying to ourselves, especially when the truth would make us feel guilty or wrong or just plain stupid.  So if you find yourself on the brink of doing some shady relationship nonsense, listen for a voice.  And definitely avoid that next beer.