I’m the Girl who’s F**king your Husband

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Despite being someone who publicly announced they once threw up on a man while sucking dick (and has routinely told that story as an ice breaker) some of you may think there’s nothing I won’t share or say. An open book, with open legs, and an open heart (read: throat) always seemed to be the concept people had of me, with backhanded “brave” comments being thrown at me since the first moment I walked into a PacSun and left with turquoise blue hoochie shorts that my balls were constantly sliding out of if I so much as briskly walked: but get this, guys — I experience shame, and there are definitely some things I sit on.

Things I don’t want people to know. Things that are hard to discuss, hard to bring up, hard to digest, because they involve my participation directly. And I always mull over saying these things, because I don’t want to be judged for them, or risk having something out there that will degrade my stock in a future scenario, with some future partner, who couldn’t possibly see themselves with someone who’d do this… But, as a writer, I owe it to myself (and the readers who endlessly validate my delusions of grandeur) to be candid. To be real. To be raw.

And in doing so, I bring you here today to say: I’m the girl who’s fucking your boyfriend. 

There are a thousand different variations of this story, different ways I can word that sentence, but the fact is, I’m a covetous whore, and in certain contexts deserve my hands cut off. And the worst part, is in these scenarios, in these terrible things I’ve done, there wasn’t much guilt. There was selfishness. There was greed — maybe even resentment, for those around me who had what seemed picturesque. Happy, and perhaps, because of the ugliness or darkness in my own withering heart, I wanted to trample upon it… and even if that wasn’t the goal, it was certainly the outcome.

My first experience with a man was exactly under that context. It was my last summer before college, and my friend’s boyfriend was getting a little too curious. And fully knowing that was someone she was involved with, I became greedy. I had never dated — I had never even touched another person, honestly, and having turned 18 I felt I had an obligation to break my loneliness and become as experienced as those around me… And after a dramatic next day (because I snitched immediately), my life followed this trend. I gained some new sense of fucked up validation, and my undiagnosed BPD was flaring way the fuck up — the concept that someone would desire someone as insignificant, as flawed, as inhuman (and dysphoric) as me, that they’d break taboos of their perceived orientation just to risk it with me? It gave me some nasty validation. It scratched an itch I didn’t know I had, a desire to be important, even if it was in such a disgusting way. 

So people’s husbands — people’s boyfriends, their fathers. It didn’t matter. I consumed them until I was full, only to be emptied again by morning and frenzied with why. Riddled with self disgust, I carried on with indifference towards my actions, myself, and what I was doing. I had been in people’s homes, beds, cars: I had been in classes with girls who’s boyfriends I had slept with, feeling terrible sensations in my stomach each day I saw them: and at some point, I tried to avoid this trend and didn’t really analyze the metrics of cheating. I only considered that I was getting what I immediately wanted, and not why that was just what was coming my way. Why was I so magnetizing to cheaters, and why did they feel safe enough to just… throw it all away?

As a transwoman, I’m marginalized. I’m not worth a lot in the society that’s built right now — i’m the first to be silenced, ridiculed, and reduced. I have to try twice as hard to be pretty, and the recognition I get is always cut in half by the fact that, no matter how hard I attempt to be other than, I was born a man. And because of my low stature, men believed that I was easy to use and discard. The less proximity I had to humanity, the easier I was to compartmentalize as a fantasy. They already had a human at home, a real person with needs and complications they were harming: but me? There was no harm in picking me. And because of my twinkling, narcissistic desire to be a flower admired by all, I ignored the fact that I was less moonflower, and more devil’s trumpet: I was fucking poisonous.

Reality hit me like a brick to the head one morning as I got an email from someone’s wife, asking about the contents of her husband’s harddrive: it was loaded with nudes of me, videos, photos — someone i had slept with prior (who’s favorite form of dehumanizing me was asking me not to talk and to immediately get on my knees) who continued to interact with me post marriage. She appealed to my sympathies, heartbroken, grief stricken. I told her what she wanted to know, and soon her husband was in my DMs, begging me not to ruin his life — and it was… Appealing to do so, but instead I just assured him it would be fine, as if it was my place to determine that. And it was! They’re still together, and he probably still cheats.

I didn’t touch another woman’s husband or boyfriend or whatever for most of my adult life after that. But obviously, if that was forever, I wouldn’t have some story like this on my mind, would I? It was the past summer, and some woman’s husband or another came to me after a lot of extensive loneliness on my end. I was dejected, fully into my BPD diagnosis (and had very creatively ostracized and harmed a person who cared for me as a result of being untreated for so long), had relapsed on self harm, alienated my friends with isolative and insane behavior, and wanted anyone, literally anyone, to pretend they cared about me. 

I began to pursue this dialogue, this idea to compartmentalize this — I wasn’t a real person, and I wasn’t meant to be, and the space I was made to exist in for long, the things that kept happening and the people who kept pursuing me, out of a sea of single people, were always partnered with someone because of the Lana del Rey-coded delusion that I was meant to be the other woman. If I could toss aside my own desires for care, for affection, for the real idea of being with another person and being of value (things that seem impossible even now), I could attain happiness. If I just tossed away the idea I was deserving of more, and kept in my place of secret affections and meetings and scheduled times of sneaking away and sneaky interactions, then I could long for nothing: and it left me in the worst state I’ve been in mentally in my life.

And I did it again to myself, and again — corrupting my mental state with concepts of inhumanity. Letting people express desire of me they have to hide, that becomes fixation, each time leaving me feeling more detached from who I thought I could be and who reality consistently tells me I am. My relationship with my body isn’t the same. My relationships with people aren’t either. I know the secret sides of people, including myself, and I know what people do when they’re desperate, when they’re selfish. 

And perhaps you, a reader, have cheated. Maybe you’ve been cheated on, maybe both. Did you stay, did you leave? What did you risk, and what was lost? Was it worth anything to begin with? I find myself wishing I didn’t exist in a space of playing with hand-me-downs, but with what I’ve done and seen, is happiness through others an actual possibility? Can you really be with another person, honestly, and not be deceived? Is it simply a part of life? As I find myself yet again pursuing the concepts of love and trust in another person, who’s arms I find myself in peacefully, what awaits me? Can we really just run and pursue love, thoughtlessly, and succeed, or must we be wary of every step, praying it’s not the one where we trip and find ourselves extending a hand to no one, or worse, finding the person you’re looking for has already taken someone else’s hand behind you? 

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