- Share This Post
- submit
- 4
-
Sparkle (0)
The other woman. “Home wrecker” if she succeeds, “what did you expect?” if she doesn't. Everyday we are bombarded with stories of these women: former governor Mark Sanford's soulmate, John Edwards' baby momma, and Tiger Woods' menagerie of lovers. While the media will tell us all about these women, it's only ever the scintillating details – the love letters, the text messages, the alleged existence of a sex tape. The fact they are – or once were – party girls, porn stars, strippers.
These are details to make us click links and buy tabloids. Less obvious, perhaps, is that these are details to shape our opinion, to help us conclude that it takes a specific sort of woman to do such a reckless and terrible thing. But people are not one-dimensional. Just as Tiger Woods isn't just a golfer, so too is Rielle Hunter not just a former party girl.
There is a special chemistry to desire, which becomes even more complex when passion becomes love.
"It's a terrible fate to be a mistress if you love," my mother told me once.
I don't recall how we got to the conversation, but I will never forget what she said next: "A mistress will destroy a man's life if he loves her and leaves his family, but that love starts with a fracture, not a victory. Of course, if he doesn't leave, that mistress will be condemned to a life that is only a half-life.”
I'm going to tell you three stories, stripped of the prurient details. On top of that, I am going to tell the stories of women who aren't and never were party girls or strippers or porn stars – not because I think this makes a woman any more susceptible to the situation, but because I want you to look beyond the established conclusions and see that these women are all of us.
THE ACCIDENTAL MISTRESS
Mischa, 32.
It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault. I keep telling myself that. It's not making things any easier. I am a sobbing mess, feeling like a complete fool.
I've been seeing someone off and on for several months. He's a single dad, I'm not good with kids, so I was really hesitant about anything serious. He was fun to go to the movies with, and fun to fool around with, and I was content to leave things at that. He was the one that kept bringing up the "Where Do We Stand?" and "Where Is This Relationship Going?" conversations.
This morning, I was mulling over the possibility of introducing him to my family – something I rarely do, unless I'm sure someone will be around long term. That's when his wife called me. His wife?
His wife. Hysterical. Enraged. Convinced I'd given her a venereal disease.
I suggested she direct all her questions to her husband. After I stopped taking her calls, after she filled my voice mail inbox, the e-mails began. A flurry of accusatory, vile missives, mostly involving the words “whore” and “homewrecker.”
I added her to my spam folder and fired off a single note to her husband:
Kindly ask your wife to stop contacting me. While I appreciate her fury, I shouldn't be at the receiving end of it. Also, please die in a fire at your earliest convenience. It takes a special kind of asshole to not only pursue other women, but to convince them there's a future in the relationship. I sincerely hope your wife murders you in the slowest, most deeply painful manner. Should she need help hiding the body, she has my number.
I jumped in the shower, turned the water on full blast, and started sobbing. I'm not sure when I picked up the habit of crying in the shower, but for most of my adult life, that's where I've gone. I can plant my hands on the wall, let hot water beat against the top of my head, and let it out. And it was a lot of wracking, hoarse sobs.
I'm not good at relationships. I'm not beautiful the way my sisters are. I'm about 50 pounds heavier than I'd like to be. I am bipolar, self-involved, sarcastic, my IQ is in the 99th percentile, and I do not suffer fools well. It makes dating a bit of a challenge. But I am human, and like anyone else, I want to have someone to come home to. I'm 32, single, and don't have
