Every Girl Should Cheat (At Least Once)

As a woman who values healthy adult relationships, I can’t stress enough that I abhor infidelity. I think a man cheating on a woman is just an emotional version of upper decking her toilet. When a man fucks a girl, he’s taking a dump in her pussy. But when a man cheats on a girl, he’s taking a dump in the top part of her pussy – her heart.

For these reasons, I despise men who cheat. But, I also feel that cheating, at least from a woman’s perspective, is somewhat necessary. Men and women cheat for different reasons. Sexuality for men is basic and shallow. They just love to have sex, and when they cheat, it’s only because they want to have sex with more women. Women cheat because they were wronged – because they are missing something in their lives. When a woman cheats, there’s a nobility to it.

About a year ago, I was in a relationship with a man I will call Dave. His real name is Steve Havermeyer, but to protect his identity, we will call him Dave. (So just to be clear, I’m going to use the name Dave, but really I mean Steve Havermeyer.)

So anyhow, I was dating Steve “Dave” Havermeyer, and when we first started hooking up, it was like the world was covered in a magic pixie dust that made everything better. Colors seemed brighter, emotions more impactful, and even the weather itself seemed to improve. It was those early stages of love, in which the feelings are so potent that it becomes hard to tell how much of it is your heart and how much of it is the ketamine.

I really thought Dave (Steve Havermeyer) was my soulmate. We liked the same music, we had identical taste in sports teams, and we even went to the same bar near my work. It was a match made in heaven, or one of those dating sites that uses math to tell you who to fuck. I’m not a young girl anymore, I thought this kind of connection only existed in movies, but here I was, in love, with a man named Steve Havermeyer. I mean Dave.

But, like all good things, our love atrophied. After about six months, I had moved in with Dave and suddenly the conversations ran dry. We started having arguments. I began to worry that he didn’t really respect my theories on the Breaking Bad finale. I began to suspect that Dave didn’t really think I was as beautiful as I thought I was. I began to suspect Dave of cheating.

And isn’t the suspicion of cheating just as bad as cheating itself? A man doesn’t actually have to go out and fuck another woman to be a cheater – after all, what if he can’t find someone else? Men don’t have the access to sex that women do. If he could have cheated – if the option was available to him – that’s just as bad as actually cheating. Dave basically cheated on me by not respecting me.

So one night, I told Dave I was having a girl’s night out with some friends, and I went out with a man I had met on the bus a week prior. He was tall and handsome, and a little pudgy, but he made up for it with his sense of humor. He loved racist jokes as much as I did, and he could quote Airplane as if it were scripture. I was in love. We went back to his place and I made a decision to live an experience. I made a decision to open my heart to another man, and dispatch with patriarchal conventions of fidelity. I made a decision to fully live my life. We fucked on his couch in front of his dog – a little bull terrier named Miles who was chewing on the wet spot when we woke up in each other’s arms.

Through bated beer breath, we pantomimed regret, and chose our words carefully.

“Look, last night was a mistake,” he said.

“Yeah, I agree,” I joked back.

“I don’t think we should see each other again,” he said, staring through the floor, off into the distance. I nodded and packed up my stuff. I held back my smile until I was out the door. I played along, but I knew we were in love. I knew I would one day marry this man. It’s these fun little games that make cheating (for women) so beautiful and fun. It’s the mixed messages and nuance. It’s the subtlety and the poetic indirectness of the whole thing.

It’s art.

I went home, back to Dave, and I continued my act. The art of lying to a spouse is something inherently feminine and beautiful.

“Where were you last night?”

“I told you, I went out with some gal pals. Where were you, Steve?”

“I was here. I didn’t think you’d be gone the whole night,” whimpered the defeated man. His head hung low, revealing his thinning hair and everything I hated about him.

“Ah, so you didn’t think! That’s new,” I said with more than a hint of sarcasm. Dave’s eyed welled with tears. There was sex written all over my face. Well, cum, really. It was cum, not sex.

“Why do you do this to me? I don’t understand. Have I not been good to you?”

The pathetic idiot collapsed on the couch, into his paunch, and his tears fell on his swollen hands. I could tell from his complexion that he hadn’t slept the entire night. He had waited up for me. He had waited for my return. Despite my agitation and disgust, I felt I had a responsibility to console him. I had to make sure Dave was still in love with me, for his sake, and also so rent would be covered next month. I sat down next to him and put my arm around his meek and doughy shoulders. He returned my embrace.

“Steve, I didn’t cheat on you.”

“Nicole, there’s cum all over your face. Your face is literally covered in semen. It’s like you didn’t even try to cover it up! How stupid do you think I am?”

“Steve, honey. It’s not cum, it’s Jello!” I laughed. “We were doing Jello shots all night and I missed my mouth like six or seven times. And then again a couple hours later. And once more this morning before I left his house.”

“It doesn’t taste like Jello!” cried Dave, kissing my cheek.

“What, you’re fucking Bill Cosby now? You’re the expert on Jello? Why won’t you just trust me? This is why we’re having problems.”

Something in Dave changed. He swallowed his pride and his reasoning. In that moment, I saw Dave take a chance on love. He swallowed his mistrust, he swallowed all the evidence contrary to my assertions, and he believed me.

“Okay,” he said, feigning a smile and wiping his eyes and lips.

“It’s okay, Steve,” I said to the giant baby. “I forgive you.”

Seeing Dave in that state of vulnerability, and impassioned by my own ability to manipulate and deceive him, our love was somehow renewed. The small things didn’t matter anymore, we connected on a deeper level that was only possible through my infidelity. We fell back in love, on that couch, covered in tears and semen.

We eventually broke up. But to this day, Dave still doesn’t know the real story. A woman’s pussy is filled with secrets, and with those secrets we craft a narrative of our lives. A girl should never limit her horizons. A girl should never rob herself of experience. And for these reasons, every girl should cheat. Cheat out of love. Cheat out of hate. Cheat because if you don’t cheat, you’re still cheating, but you’re cheating yourself – you’re cheating yourself out of life.