Today’s Universal Bullshit Translator tidbit is this Salon article: “I’m the woman you met on Ashley Madison — How the rush of infidelity led to affairs online.” (You can all stop sending it to me now, okay?)
It’s ghastly and too long to UBT in its entirety, however, all the comments seem to confirm that a) such “journalism” is clickbait, and b) the author is a whackadoodle. (“Betty Andrews” is a fake name. The bio link results in a 404 error.) But I simply couldn’t resist the lurid tease: Unable to remain faithful to my perfect husband, I turned to the site for intensity, escape — and sex.
Betty, I’m not sure you should be partnered up with “perfect.” You clearly have very little in common with Perfect.
I think Betty senses this, which is why she’s trawling for low-life kibbles on Ashley Madison. Reading this breathy sexcapade is like playing a game of Sociopath Bingo.
Glib, superficial charm? Check.
Easily bored? Check.
Risk-taking and impulsive? Check.
Without remorse? Check again! BINGO!
(What do you win at Sociopath Bingo? Cash? A luggage set of issues? Bail?)
Anyway… to the UBT.
About a year ago, I found myself overcome by ennui.
Horrors. Boredom! I can’t think of a better reason to destroy people’s lives than… ennui. What will you do next should your days be stultifying? Napalm villages? Cripple orphans?
Having been unfaithful to my (handsome, hilarious and very nearly perfect) husband in the past, I was familiar with the buzz of infidelity, and I wanted to get high again. I’d read about the Ashley Madison website in a magazine article a year or two before, filing the data away for potential future use. Not long after, I looked online to see what the website purported to deliver. As a woman, my registration was free. My interest was immediately piqued.
Right away we know we’re dealing with a freak. Who reads about Ashley Madison and “files away” this information for later?! Gee, I was reading about securities fraud the other day, and thought to myself… insider trading!.. That could be useful! I should check that out.
I surfed the profiles of men I never doubted to be real. I looked for handsome faces, some semblance of professional success, and proper grammar/punctuation.
Never cheat with someone who doesn’t use the Oxford comma.
It wasn’t quite like shopping for shoes at Nordstrom, where everything is beautifully displayed and screams “Buy me! Buy me!” — but the selection was certainly better than the Goodwill thrift shop down the road.
Because shopping for people is so like shopping for shoes.
I initiated contact with a few men I found attractive. We exchanged AM messages and then moved the conversation to our personal email accounts. Only then would I provide my real name and a photo. I continued with vague explanations of my extramarital pursuit, but was clear that my husband was the one for me, with no intention of destroying anything on anyone’s home front.
Of course you Never Intended to Hurt Your Husband. Marriages are never destroyed by multiple affairs. You can fuck around all you want! — what’s important here are your intentions.
Yet there was still a deeply addictive quality to it all.
Kibbles, kibble, kibbles…
One man once asked me if all the Internet attention “gave me high self-esteem.” I can say with confidence that non-specific, voluminous “likes” and “winks” and generic compliments had very little effect on my own self-worth.
Yeah, your self-esteem is a bulwark of grandiosity. You clearly don’t need any help on the self-worth front.
I wish it were that easy. Interestingly, men kept telling me how “normal” I seemed.
It’s called “The Mask of Sanity.” Google it.
This was the closest to flattered that I felt, a form of reassurance that despite this totally inappropriate, amoral and dishonest venture, I was still A-OK at my core. In hindsight, I recognize “normal” as code for “real” — not a sex worker, not a robot, but a regular woman.
Sex workers get paid. That’s at least rational. Being “inappropriate, amoral, and dishonest” because of ennui? That’s fucked up.
Raise children together. Grow old together. In sickness and in health. For better or worse. So we got married. And I was faithful. For almost a year.
Entire months of monogamy? Bitch cookie.
He’s married to his college sweetheart, and his wife became pregnant with their third child over the course of our friendship. Having had one extramarital relationship with a single woman he met on OkCupid, he turned to Ashley Madison in search of chemistry with an already-partnered woman. He told me that he didn’t feel like he was getting what he needed from his marriage, wanting more in the way of emotional intimacy. He was also open to more varied sexual experiences.
That poor man. Married to a woman caring for three small children who could not be 100 percent emotionally available. Nor could she be a buffet of sexual partners, possessing only one episiotomy-scarred vagina. It’s noble of you to relieve that man of his suffering.
Texas Ranger and I have been in some version of a relationship for nearly a year now. At times it has enhanced my marriage, inspiring me to go down on my husband,
Well that seems like a fair trade off. You cheat and your husband gets the occasional “inspired” blow job.
reminding me that my man is as good as it gets. And at other times this relationship totally undermines my marriage, creating resentment over my responsibilities and time constraints, making me question my chosen life path.
He’s as “good as it gets” until… you resent him. And all of this makes you question your “chosen life path”? What are you, a Jedi warrior? Who says this shit? Your “chosen life path” is serial cheater. And you seem pretty cool with it.
Technically speaking, Texas Ranger and I have no future together. He loves his girlfriend and intends to propose marriage. I love my husband and intend to become pregnant with another child.
Please don’t breed. PLEASE. Spare the innocents!
But I just can’t give him up.
Cake is so delicious.
For one, I sincerely like him, but also there’s an addictive quality to it all. I crave him, I get my fix, and then I want more. My insatiable appetite, not just for the sex, but for the whole confusing mix of physical and emotional feelings, persists.
As a sociopath, it’s hard to feel. Perhaps you need total chaos and disaster to feel even the mildest stirrings of emotion. You want a confusing mix of physical and emotional feelings? Try betrayal. Please go live with the other soulless zombies and leave your chump out of it.
Maybe it’s the escape from real life. The exploration of something new. The thrill of falling for someone else. But ironically, there’s also a very isolating quality to infidelity. There is no one to talk to about it all, to reflect on my actions, to process the big picture. I can’t talk to my lover about my husband. I can’t seek advice for marital spats or discuss fertility woes. And I can’t talk to my husband about my lover. I can’t brag to him about the amazing sex, or cry to him with the heartbreak that is being involved with a man who loves someone else.
You poor sausage. You can’t brag to your husband about the amazing sex you have with other men who aren’t him. He can’t comfort you when your fuckbuddy shares his kibbles with someone else. That must really suck.
I like how your husband would get to hear about how great the other men fuck, but the other men would just get to hear about your “marital spats.” Really sporting of you.
None of it makes any sense to me yet…
Me neither. I hope a divorce summons clears things up soon.