Ring to Worm: A Journey In Cheating
As one authority said in an article I read recently, there is but a single animal in existence that is known to practice strict monogamy all of the time: a sort of tapeworm which lives inside a fish’s intestines. Funnily enough, it refrains from fucking other worms only because the males and females are fused together at the abdomen (talk about the ol’ ball and chain). They don’t cheat because they can’t; but cut one in half, and I’m betting dollars to donuts that it will be wriggling toward some strange worm ass in its final moments inside that cavernous trout gut. And that’s pretty fucked up. So are we. We who love to cheat. So let’s peel the onion of infidelity and take a little glimpse at why that is. Many men spend their formative years fine-tuning their minds, bodies, and bank accounts for the purpose of creating an image that, in essence, women will want to date, marry and fuck (hopefully not in that order). Men are visual creatures who lust after aesthetically pleasing women who will provide them with something to show off to other men, regular sex, and children who look better than they do. Women are different only in motive. They dedicate their time to trying to discover which style of makeup, color of dress, and manner of hair will come together in such a way that men will be willing to pay them for sex (first) and buy them a house (later). Depending on where a woman stands in the looks/brains departments, she is able to select from a vast array of fellas who can provide her with varying degrees of luxury and the ability to self-indulge. The prettier/smarter the woman, the greater selection she is afforded. In other words, dumb, ugly chicks get loser types, and pretty and/or smart women get guys like me. Of course, there are A) Modern, “I have to prove it’s no longer 1955!” sort of women who make their own way via emulating alpha males while simultaneously marrying a beta who will keep quiet while changing diapers, and B) Average-looking women who work 8-5 like their husbands do (these same women gossip at the water cooler over the latest “Real Housewives of New Jersey”), but those are topics for another article. Now, let’s fast-forward some years. The married man has put on 20 pounds of fat; the woman, 10-15. She subconsciously welcomes his weight gain because, in her eyes, it’s insurance against other women finding him attractive. But she despises her own fatness, which serves as a constant reminder of how she’s slipped from the tight n’ toned “Fuck me and marry me and buy me a house” state of condition. And he hates it too, because a lackluster trophy no longer validates his manhood. He’s on the road or in the office a lot, providing her with the life she thought she wanted, and this time away is more than enough to remove from his brain the last remnants of the silly chemical cocktail we call love. And when that occurs, he – as if on autopilot – taps into his biological hardwiring, which says this: “Fuck whatever you can, while you can, however you can. Monogamy is just an extension of human morality. Made up shit. It’s unnatural. Spread your seed far and wide.” So he does. He fucks. Meanwhile, wifey, who does not have the same inherent need to spread large amounts of life (if she did, the birthing process wouldn’t take nine months), looks for something to fill the emotional and psychological void which has manifested out of her inability or unwillingness to deal with the undesirable phenomenon her life has become. Initially, she’ll escape into daytime T.V., various anti-depressants, and more than a few vodka tonics. But those are THINGS. And things are never enough. Inevitably, she’ll fall into the arms of the fifth or sixth half-handsome, semi-smooth-talking guy who makes her feel less horrible about the drudgery of her mundane existence. This both gives her a glimpse into her former self, and makes her feel less dead – which is precisely how she has come to feel with her husband. So she fucks. And thus we find ourselves. Knowing all of this, do we yield to our true natures, discard our misbegotten notions of monogamy, and start fucking like the animals we are? Or do we choose to live as worms?
By Jon Neralich