Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Think of the word “cheat”. What images appear in your mind? A student peeping over his classmate’s test. Carlton Football Club. Secret rendezvous between a woman and a man.
And then there is the emotional cheater. There is no physical side involved in this form of infidelity, unless you think that touching yourself to fantasies of “the other person” is cheating. I don’t.
The emotional cheater may end up acting out those fantasies one day, if they’re lucky. Or unlucky – you be the judge.
I have never been involved with P. At least, not outside of my imagination. But there is still so much guilt associated with my thoughts of him. I find myself thinking of P when my boyfriend nuzzles my neck, or when he strokes my chest. I hate it when I have to fight the urge to push him away. I loathe myself when I pretend to be consumed in our intimate time. And the thought of breaking his heart breaks my heart.
No one ever thinks well of the cheater. Well let me tell you that it’s not easy, and I’m not even acting on my feelings! You think I enjoy the crippling guilt? I can’t even eat when I lunch with P, and I’m the type who polishes off whatever is put on their plate. Thinking of him makes me happy and sad at the same time – I smile and giggle to myself as I reminisce on what little time we’ve spent together, yet my heart is heavy and weighs me down like cement in water.
You think I don’t want to love my boyfriend as much as he loves me? Of course I do. But I can’t control these things, and this infatuation hasn’t faded like the little crush I had on a friend earlier on in this relationship. And to be quite honest, I don't think I want it to either.
It’s so incredibly difficult when you sit across the man you have been dreaming of, fantasizing about, running through your head over and over… And all you want to do is break that sexual tension, breaching those few inches between you and touch those beautiful, masculine, talented hands. You know you shouldn’t see him. You know you should stay far, far away, instead of trying to sneakily stand that little bit closer to him at the traffic light. But you just can’t resist.
I know that I will never make the first move. P won’t either. He assumes that I am happy, and he’s too much of a gentleman to come between a girl and her beau.
Maybe some things read better on paper. Maybe a relationship between P and I would never work out. That’s what I try to tell myself anyway.
I’m writing this on my way home from a lazy three hour lunch with P. I’ll be going to my boyfriend’s apartment tomorrow. I know that he’ll expect me to sleep with him. And I will. But I won’t be seeing my boyfriend’s face in my mind’s eye, and I’ll hate myself for it.