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  • Writer's picturecocodensmore

I am also "that kind of woman".

September 20, 2018

Joe and I are becoming good friends. He is in the process of ending his marriage, or so it appears that will be the outcome. As always, I’m the “pal”, the girl that isn’t really the girl. The girl that is the logical, sensible, loving, caring friend. The one you rely on for meaningful and useful advice. But she’s not a lover. Just a friend. I’m most comfortable in this role. And, oddly enough, I’m most helpful in this role. I bring value in this role. I like who I am in this role. I’m at my very best in this role.

We talked about wives playing games with sex, withholding sex. I told him how angry I get, when I end up sleeping with a married man because his wife is fucking with their physical relationship. He asked me if the married men I’ve slept with are not having sex with their wives. I told him that all the research I’ve done says men don’t have affairs for sex, that there’s something bigger missing in their relationships. Well, that may very well be true. But all the married men I’ve slept with aren’t having sex with their wives. I’m sure not all of them are honest with me, but I tend to believe that’s the most common reason why the married men I’ve been with have been with me.

I told him that if wives allow their husbands access to their bodies, men wouldn’t be out looking for me. And I’m so needy and so empty, that I find sexual attention from men irresistible. If the wives were honoring their commitments, their marriage vows, I wouldn’t be put in a position of sinning with the husbands. I wouldn’t be put in a position of betraying a sister. It infuriates me. I hold the blame inside me, but I hold the wives ultimately responsible. Strangely, I see the husbands as victims. I see their infidelity as inevitable and justified.

I told him it’s unhealthy that I nearly always respond to married men’s advances by entering into illicit relationships. That it’s not in my best interest, that it’s damaging emotionally. And I would do best not to sleep with married men.

Furthermore, I would do best not to sleep with any man without whom I have a relationship, a committed relationship. So, in general, I’m not acting in my best interest. I’m hurting myself, immeasurably. I have no idea how much damage I’m causing to me. But it’s significant. Every action has a reaction. And in this case, the reaction is far more detrimental that the action.

I’ve carried on in this way quite cavalierly the last two and a half years. I’ve slept with 26 men. Only Joe in the last six months. I’ve slowed down, or come to my senses, or I’m avoiding the behavior for reasons that haven’t fully percolated into my conscious mind. But they’re starting to. Denial isn’t sustainable for me. I’m too smart. I know myself too well. The truth always surfaces.

We talked about how manipulative women can be. He told me his first wife said she was pregnant when she wasn’t. “That’s what kind of a women she was,” he said. I shared with him I’d told Jeff I’d die, inferred I’d end my life, if he stopped communication with me. Then I was immediately sorry I shared. Because I am also “that kind of a woman”. I have the capacity to be every bit as manipulative and dangerous as any woman. I don’t mean to be, I don’t intend to be, I just am, sometimes. Not often, but sometimes. I hate that about myself. I despise the behavior in other women. I despise the behavior in me.

I sent a package to Jeff at work. I sent him several pieces of jewelry I'd made, ostensibly for his girls. This is a very dangerous thing I did. Very dangerous. He knows now I’ll cross that line and act in a tangible way, putting him at risk. You get a package at work, your mates are going to gather round as you open it. Or at least ask you what was in it. How would you explain someone sending you a package of earrings and necklaces? Jeff is no good at lying. He’ll be shocked, then embarrassed. He won’t have a ready explanation. People will see the surprise on his face. People will know something is awry.

It’s a message I’ve sent him. The message is what? Quit fucking with me? I can go further than I have already gone? I know your home address. I can send you a package there. I know the names of the women in your family. I could send them anonymous packages. I could do a great deal to raise suspicions and put you at risk. And I’ve already started down that path.

Strangely, I feel quite justified and smugly satisfied with myself for having done this. If this doesn’t elicit a response from him, nothing will. It will make him fear me. It might make him appease me by resuming communication. If fear is the basis of his interacting with me, is that good enough for me? Sadly, yes. It is. I want him in my life at any cost, on any terms. If he’s afraid of me, all the better. That means I have control. And he will hate me. And he should hate me. I am despicable.

Is this about control? Do I want dominion over Jeff? Not truly, no. That’s not it. That’s not all of it. It’s more about emptiness and need and depravity and loneliness. It’s about sickness. It’s about being a woman, too. A woman scorned. There’s a taste of vengeance. These are all things I don’t want to admit. But here, I’ve admitted them.

I’d like to say that I’ll never do anything of this sort again. I’d like to say this is unlike me. And it is unlike me. But so is promiscuity. And I’ve been able to quash my conscience and act out on that front. It’s not like me, it’s not in line with my true character, but I’m capable of depraved and dangerous acts. I lie to men. To control them. To manipulate them. To fuck with them. It’s payback. I’m sick. I’m twisted. I’m good but I’ve got the badness inside me. I don’t like that about myself. Not one bit.

I’m horrified. And then, after horrified, I’m ashamed.



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