Now, given the law of averages, I’m sure some cheaters are, in fact, devastatingly sexy. But the majority are not. I mean, the majority of any of us cannot be perfect specimens, but for some reason cheaters — cheater who are trolls, cheaters with goiters, cheaters carrying 200 extra pounds, cheaters with back hair, limp-dick cheaters, cheaters with saggy pendulous breasts, cheaters with neck tattoos, cheaters with deformities, hunchback cheaters, clubfoot cheaters, cheaters with puss-infected sores, cheaters with gout, cheaters with male pattern baldness, cheaters with pink eye, cheaters with saddlebags, pock-marked cheaters, amputee cheaters, frizzy-haired cheaters, Stephen-Hawking-in-a-Fucking-Wheelchair cheaters — believe they are irresistibly attractive.
Catnip! Femme fatales! Ricco Suave!
How do I know this? Evidence! I’m sure all you chumps have uncovered evidence of affairs, seen the sexts, and thought “WTF?” and then “Ewwww.”
Anthony Weiner and his dick pix, case in point. What possesses a man who looks like a sunken-chested marmot to think women want to see his Y-fronts? That’s some delusional confidence you have there, Sir.
My husband does employment law and you should see the sexual harassment cases. Some skeevy guy sends pictures of his butt to a coworker — a middle-age butt, a butt with visible cellulite, a butt that is probably a butt best kept to one’s self. And yet somehow this person was brazen enough to think that some poor woman would be overcome with lust by the sight of it. WTF narcissists? What are you THINKING?!
I think they’re thinking it occasionally works. You send enough ugly butt pictures to enough women, you eventually find the weak antelope in the herd who will take you up on it, if you’re not brought up on harassment charges first.
Look, I know cheating is about ego kibbles. I know it’s about how the affair partner makes them feel. It’s fantasy and limerence. And I know I am trying to apply logic to the batshit crazy, but I’d like to think if I was bold enough to try and seduce strangers that I’d have something to work with. That I was, actually, in fact, devastatingly attractive.
Because for ordinary mortals, seduction is an awkward dance of getting to know one another. Fun, exciting, absolutely. But, if you have any sense at all, fraught with some insecurities. Does this dress make my ass look fat? Will he like me? Do I have something stuck in my teeth?
But narcissists? God DAMN. No adaptive anxiety whatsoever! Consider Newt Gingrich. Multiple affairs! How can there be enough weak antelopes in the herd to EVER countenance even touching Newt Gingrich with a barge pole? (If antelopes had barge poles or higher thoughts… I am mixing my metaphors…) But my point is — he is ODIOUS.
And yet Newt Gingrich gets laid. Go figure.
I’ve only ever seen my husband’s serial cheating ex-wife once. (Thank you, Jesus.) I don’t know what I was expecting, but I guess I thought she’d be more than she was — a pudgy, redneck-looking woman in magenta pedal pushers. Yes, pedal pushers. Magenta. A look no one should try and pull off. Especially a short, fat woman whose thighs are probably not her best feature. However, they did match her henna-ed hair.
It wasn’t a pretty picture. And if she was an ordinary person of good character, it would be vicious of me to attack her drunken gypsy dress sense. It would be totally un-Christian of me to think “mutton dressed as lamb” and wonder why the plus-sizes come in magenta. (Misogyny? Color-blindness? Spite?)
But she isn’t a good person, she’s a serial cheater utterly lacking in shame. (Clearly. Pedal pushers.) So hey, meow. I’m sure she’d probably have a few choice words for me. (I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. I’m too busy enjoying this wonderful man you chucked for a troll priest you met on World of Warcraft.)
Anyway, doesn’t it blow your mind the way cheaters see each other through drunk goggles of narcissism? Why yes you are the most clever, ravishing, brilliant, sexy beast I’ve ever had the pleasure of blowing in a Walmart parking lot!
This phenomena is best summed up in the exchange on the Soulmate Schmoopie video series:
“Your dick is perfect.”
“Yes, my dick is perfect.”
And here is the sad, chumpy thing — we would have loved them imperfections and all. We looked past the stretch marks, the halitosis, and the socks with sandals. We loved with our whole hearts. No drunk narcissist goggles for chumps. At least physically anyway. (We have other chump goggles — we see goodness and best intentions where they don’t exist.)
And the sad flip side. We thought we were enough. We thought raising their children, bringing home our paychecks, nursing their sick mothers, sublimating our needs, and living side by side with them each day bonded us. That they could look past our human faults and aging bits and love us back whole heartedly.
But we were traded for the delusional sensation of feeling devastatingly sexy.