There, I said it.
So, um. Yeah. I cheated on my husband Harold on a number of occasions. First, I felt guilt, but was I right to feel this way? I was empathic. I was sympathetic. I was trying to figure out what was right and what was wrong. But was I affirmed? No. At the time I confessed my “sins” to him, I had engaged in extramarital affairs with four other men, and I said two dangerous words:
I felt like the bad guy, I felt like the villain – but then…something changed. I snapped out of this patriarchy-induced trance when I noticed that Harold became even more upset at the news that three of the four men I had slept with were black. Wait – what? Was he really stooping to that? Somehow this act – which the patriarchy had deemed “wrong” – was somehow more wrong because their dicks were bigger?
The activist in me took over. I grew angry. I was angry for all the women who had been made to feel like the villain because of a moment of weakness in a sea of oppression. I was angry for all the persecuted minorities who are held to stricters standards for the same crime. He had the GALL to judge me negatively while he HIMSELF was some domineering puppet of a larger power hierarchy?
And thus, I attacked. I described in detail the large, dark members that entered me from different angles, from different positions. I described every squeal of extramarital ectasy I uttered on our bed while he was at work. I just couldn’t take it, and it was during those moments that I realized the TRUTH of the situation; I was NOT sorry, and every inch of my lover’s cock that penetrated my backside signified my fortitude – my strength to assign responsibility where it was due. The strength to realize that it was not my fault that I cheated.
The strength to stand up on behalf of every woman who was made to feel marginalized because her live-in domineering monster pushed her to into the arms of another man. What followed was a microcosm of the patriarchy’s own impending crumble – Harold broke. He cried. I cried. We cried together, and in the end….there was understanding.
And then, as he cried in my arms, I took the higher ground; I forgave him.
But this is something people seldom understand. Alas, it would be the height of irresponsibility for myself – or anyone – to accumulate this kind of wisdom without making an attempt to teach.
I am a teacher. And I am affirmed. And most pertinently – I’m not sorry.
~ Desiree Meyers-Liebowitz