Our first time going all the way was outdoors, under the moon with the earth against my back.
A dog barked at us from afar, but it felt like wolves in my head—the howl of a distant danger, a single woodwind playing in minor.
We shook the dirt off our clothes and walked along the street to somewhere more like normal life. Headlights painted us white for seconds before releasing us back into the night. We were hand-in-hand when I called him out.
“After tonight, you’re going to go back to your life, the birthdays and holidays and anniversaries, like none of this ever happened.”
I hated how he could have his cake and eat it under the table, too. Society entertains two versions of reality: the one on social media and the one that actually exists.
***
I was involved with a handful of other men as another woman. I felt like I had discovered a portal to a hyper realistic dating scene—one where rampant infidelity plagued relationships and I was one of the few who was granted access to this Unpleasant Truths club.
My negativity reached a point where I believed every couple who had been dating longer than a few years was guilty of infidelity at one time or another. I played a twisted game in my head, where I gauged the people in the relationship and guessed which one had once cheated or was currently cheating. If there were so many incidents from my personal sample size, then I could only imagine how many others there were.
I felt so certain about this infidelity epidemic that if someone didn’t think their partner was capable of that kind of betrayal, then I assumed they were the ones being fooled. The wool was so far over their eyes it covered the rest of their body, and it felt warm and fuzzy and something a lot like love.
And it wasn’t just men who had wandering eyes and bodies. I was at a birthday dinner among extended friends, where two of the women spoke casually about slip-ups in their relationships—make out sessions in foreign zip codes that didn’t mean anything, just a set of lips that never came to light.
Without an ounce of faith left, I believed there were only two kinds of people in relationships: the cheaters and the blissfully unaware. I couldn’t decide who I felt sorry for, or who I’d rather be.
As another woman, I had a unique vantage point where I could see how a relationship was portrayed online vs. how it really was.
I was sick of seeing photos of #relationshipgoals and #wcw, when not long ago, I knew for a fact these men had different priorities in the flesh.
No matter how picturesque the occasions were, I dismissed them all: postcard snapshots of weekend getaways, festive holiday gatherings, candlelit dinners, and doe-eyed pets caught in the middle of pseudo-family portraits. Just another scrapbook moment for the Bullshit Shrine of Monogamy.
Yet, I was voluntarily digesting this perfectly plated crap on social media. And it was both baffling and understandable. Like how I’m aware of how McDonald’s chicken nuggets are made, but I still eat them.
I would like and double-tap couple pictures to show solidarity with friends who weren’t apart of the Unpleasant Truths club yet—either from ignorance or from tearing up their notice when it arrived unsolicited in the mail.
It’s not a fun thing to admit: that the person who is suppose to be your #1, your support system, and your most trusted companion could not afford you the most basic form of respect: honesty.
I wanted to be positive. I wanted to have hope. But how could I possibly believe in monogamy and loyalty in relationships, when I knew what it looked like from the unedited side?
Every time I saw a picture of someone I was involved with in a sappy couples photo, I felt like Kristen Wiig in the bridal shower meltdown scene in Bridesmaids, where she launches into an epic rant with the words:
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
She storms into the backyard and punches a hole through a 4-foot heart-shaped cookie, wrestling the giant baked good until it falls off its easel and crumbles on top of her.
That is how I felt about social media as a false reinforcement in relationships.
I imagined another reality, one where I could easily bridge the discrepancy between perception and truth.
Step 1: Click on the comment box below the offending photo.
Step 2: Type “You cheated on her with me. #honestygoals”
Step 3: Repeat with every man who thought a picture could solve his problems.
***
When I was done being angry at Instagram, for making me feel ugly or unwanted or alone, I reflected on why I chose to enable such a heartbreaking violation of trust.
I wondered if my involvement as another woman had more to do with actually being with someone or dismantling an ideal of romance—one I secretly longed for, but couldn’t actualize: a long-term relationship with a person who cared about me, and wanted to be with me exclusively.
I wondered if I could be so small of a person that I would intentionally ruin for others what I couldn’t find myself. It was easier to live without beautiful love if I assumed the couples I envied probably didn’t have it either. It was easier to cope with loneliness if I convinced myself a happy and healthy relationship did not and could not truly exist.
Maybe monogamy was just a product of superficial demand, created and marketed to us like a trendy commodity, one the masses never truly owned yet bragged about having anyway.
Empty yet enlightened, I kept seeing these men who, on some level, did love other women to the best of their ability. They documented and polished those moments for the world to see, and adjusted the saturation and warmth to fit the mood. I felt these relationships grow in my hands with the haptic feedback of every like I gave.
Outside my phone screen, I lived the photos men chose not to post.
The dark drives to my apartment.
The grainy noise of being quiet behind thin walls.
The low resolution nights of blurring her to focus on me.
***
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