Prologue
I am not entirely clear why my friends call me Big Richard. Inscribed across my birth certificate was “Richard Roman Head,” Roman as a middle name because my mother somehow knew, she had said, that I would grow up to have a “Romanesque” nose; which heartened her, I guess, because she had held that too small of a schnoz on a guy was not only unmanly, it also gave off intimations of a rat—that devious, elusive vermin with a twitchy little sniffer. And of course, one could never trust a rat. How she deduced this from my tiny pink infant face I have yet to figure out. All I knew was that my middle name, when I thought about it, reminded me of Roman Gabriel, number eighteen, the all-star quarterback who played for the LA Rams in the ’60s and ’70s.
But Big Richard from my friends? I suppose my six-one frame wasn’t small, exactly, but I wouldn’t consider myself “big.” Long and lean, maybe, but certainly not big. So I preferred to imagine the nebulous descriptor to be hinting at another appendage I carried—imagine being the operative word. But let’s not, shall we, get bogged down with my arbitrary physical attributes; they are beside the point. I am likely only stalling. The real issue at stake here is that I have a secret to share; or more precisely, a confession to make. That’s right, I am finally ready to pull the trigger, spill the beans, to let the proverbial cat out of the bag (or whatever other tired clichéd metaphor you can think of). Do you think you can be okay with that?
Things may get dicey. So consider yourself forewarned.
All right, good, I figured you’d be interested. Because everyone loves a good old-fashioned bearing of the soul, don’t they? As long as it’s not their soul being laid bare.
Let’s get to it then.
My confession is that I love making love to women. Or I should say, more succinctly, I take great pleasure in fucking them—drilling them any which way they dare let me. Sure, admittedly, love would be a nice perquisite. But love is another matter. Because love is by nature more complicated then fucking. Still, the fact remains: I dig the rush a woman’s euphoria can give me. Their distinctive ways of ecstasy. The clamor generated when they come. Each orgasm, real or fake, a reply to the thrust of me in them: a girlish whimper, a desperate moan, a greedy groan, or, my personal favorite, a howling screamer—whatever brand, a victorious trumpeting of the gods.
Yes people, yes God, I dig fucking women! There, I said it again—shouted from my hallowed suburban rooftop. I’ve finally decided to come clean, to put pen to paper for the world to see, to judge. For better or for worse.
Okay...? you say, So what! What heterosexual worldly man doesn’t enjoy having sex with women, even multiple partners? Hooray for you, dude!
Fair question. So here’s the catch, a despicable one at that: I’m married. That’s right, hitched already to a beautiful woman named Mary. Yes, I think I’ll call her Mary, because my wife is more like a saint to me. Hell, compared to me, Mary is Christ incarnate. Mary also knows that I enjoy fucking other women. She knows because she’s busted my ass doing it. At least two times over the last ten years. This is the more complicated part.
Understandably, my actions have threatened the very foundation of our relationship; have propelled us to the precipice of divorce, nearly killing our belief in the sanctity of marriage, our hope in humanity, and ultimately our faith in any acceptable notion of a good God.
Yet, oddly, paradoxically, Mary’s ability to forgive me, to punish me, her efforts to purge me of my matrimonial recklessness, have proven more to me the existence of a give-a-shit deity than all the volumes of theology I’ve inhaled, or any of the thousands of sermons I’ve heard preached over the last three decades.
Even more bizarre, Mary has told me that God has told her that I’m to be busy at the task of writing it all down—my infidelities!
What? Create a permanent record about not keeping my pecker in my pants?! Are you crazy? This would doom us for sure, doom my professional career, and doom hers, too. Her life in ministry.
Yes, that’s correct. Mary is clergy, a pastor, a bona fide woman of the cloth—shit, maybe I’m telling you too much already! The thing is, even St. Mary was clueless as to why the Divine Stocker would want me to put it all down—hard evidence forever encrypted onto a memory drive—to send out to would-be publishers to disseminate to the masses, heralding that her husband likes to slip his sausage into other women besides his wife. Are you fucking nuts? She had to be delusional, right? What purpose could it possibly serve?
You can easily imagine why I’ve put off the assignment for years. And, of course, I’ve asked her, myself, and God Almighty a thousand times: would you like it written as fiction? Non-fiction? Memoir, perhaps? Cream with your coffee, Lord? No such answer was forthcoming.
Hence, if I am to be obedient to the assumed call, I guess the dirty deed has been left to me, yours truly, Richard R. Head; how I’m forced to decide for you, most cherished reader, what genre my confession will employ, what manner and mode my sin will spew forth. Would you like to know? Curious? Drum roll, please... my decision... is to let you decide. For you to determine what of my tale is true, what is fact or fiction, or if it is something in between. Sorry. No foreknowledge before I get into the meat of things. But think about it: isn’t it more intriguing this way? More exciting? The possibility of telling lies to reveal truth? Or offering only bits and pieces of the facts to disguise what’s real? Yes, I think it’s more appealing this way, more like real life. I guess you could say I have chosen to play God, trusting the Real One will use it any way He or She deems worthy. That part is not my problem, and I thank God this is so. Because I would rather not bear the burden of omniscience.
I realize that for some of you this cloak and dagger shtick comes off as a cop out, that you believe ambiguity can only cripple the power of narrative. To you, readers of this ilk, I can only say—tough shit. Because no matter how you slice it, I am still the one putting my ass on the line. Because a writer must, at least on some level, lug around the baggage for what he or she “puts out there,” must bear the literary baby born of it. Because if, as a consequence, legions rise up to accuse me of being a misogynistic pig or run-of-the-mill sex addict, they accuse me simply on the grounds of producing such material. Just ask Oscar Wilde, D.H. Lawrence, or Gustav Flaubert how well they, in their day, were received.
Similarly, for many, it matters not one whit whether a story is fact or fiction. “Obscenity” is obscenity, “prurient,” prurient. They would crucify me for whatever genre was utilized. Thus, it matters not for me as well, if you think my words are utter fabrications or the true confessions of a skirt chaser. Come what may of the indictments. I could never control them anyway. Yet, this tale, if God is indeed driving it, needs to be told. Even if I, the author, remain in the dark about why.
Plus, as I have already suggested, does not my playing fast and loose with the narrative give me a helluva lot more leeway, allow me the freedom of a severe and ruthless disclosure of my alleged tawdry journey as a sleaze ball? The liberty to reveal all the juicy details? In fact, isn’t that, despite your initial hesitation, why you purchased this book? How perhaps the subtitle grabbed you by the collar and pulled you to it, at least to read the jacket copy—as you glimpsed side to side making sure no one saw you pick me up? Not to mention the balls it took for you to slide—no doubt, upside down—this title across the check-out counter, hoping the cashier wouldn’t flip it over? Chances are, if you’ve read this far already, your balls have remained intact and you’ve safely escaped the book store and are now in the privacy of your car, or have a flashlight in hand as you hunker down inside your walk-in closet at home for some special “me time” reading.
Okay, now that you are good and cozy, let’s keep this thing moving. I am at least trusting that telling this tale will have a cathartic effect, possibly even offer me a higher state of consciousness—if it doesn’t kill me first. Therefore, if further enlightenment awaits me, maybe this confession can be something of a gift for you as well—though there is no guarantee one will present itself. Nevertheless, grab hold, get a good grip, because I’ve finally decided to toss a sizable shit-ball into a fan set on High. Things will get graphic (sorry, Mother), but I hope you, loyal reader, will see my efforts as non-gratuitous and therefore non-salacious, but rather necessary, for the full impact to be felt. Because, if a man plunges headlong into adultery, he usually isn’t seeking banality, is he? In fact, he’s likely warring against it. Thus, all the psycho-erotic details, every hard-hitting particular, their full and relentless purveying, are demanded of me. Because why bother writing sugarcoated bullshit about the excruciating pleasure of breaking one’s marriage vows, vows made before the Almighty and everyone else dearest to both bride and groom? Has not the bloated self-help industry offered such drivel, ad nauseam? Therefore, I reject doing it any other way if I’m going to do it at all.
All right then. Just what can a cheating married guy possibly tell you that will be worth the time it takes to trudge through these pages, especially for you men, you who are far less likely to read anything besides the sports pages or stock reports? First, let’s be honest, shall we, about how countless numbers of you—again, mostly likely the dudes—are seeking some kind of rush, a vicarious thrill about a sexual ride you’ve never taken but have one time or another fantasized about. A ride, to date, you have pussed out on. Come on. Fess up. Am I right? Because you have to admit, it takes a good measure of courage and ingenuity to “successfully” pull off cheating, even for a brief period. Okay, maybe it’s not the kind of courage it takes to, say, defend your country or jump in front of a moving bus for your kid, but courage nonetheless. Call it reckless risk-taking if you want; it still does not negate the force of willpower a guy first needs to muster in the pursuit of a strange woman—that is, if your conscience still remains intact (We’ll talk more about my “conscience” later).
So, for you ghost cheaters, you just might get your jollies off by reading further, but it won’t be because I want you to. Because if that’s all you’re really looking for, that’s all your throbbing loins are going to find. Trust me, I know of where I speak on this one. I can only hope any vicarious thrill ride you do experience will save you from the real deal, the real agony that’s sure to follow the earthquaking orgasm of a first fuck with a woman other than your spouse.
There’ll also no doubt be readers (again, mostly you guys) who are, or who have been, in the same boat as me. You who’ll say: “Holy shit! That’s exactly how I felt, what I thought, what I conspired, how my groin ached the next day...”
You folks will read and not be alone. Come, learn with me.
In fact, I suspect a goodly portion of you fellow cheaters might be the types who would like to track me down, then, upon finding me, invite me to go camping to hunker down around the fire to regale your own of tales of conquest, or to bemoan your shame-induced impotency (otherwise known as “guilt-wilt”); or maybe to at least buy me a cup of coffee; or to get me absolutely shit-faced at a local trendy tavern out of relieved appreciation for my confession—because of this, you’ll want to be my new best buddy. Somehow, you will believe I have freed you from the shackles of your shame, that I’ve equalized the acid seething in the pit of your guilty gut. That I have justified your continued existence on the planet. You may even ask me, if you found me, to be your leader, the guru pointing to your absolution, insisting I start a male revolution by gathering by the thousands men from all walks of debauchery into sports arenas across the country, holding hands in universal acknowledgement of the pathetic way we’ve treated our wives. Call the ecclesial movement “Promise Breakers” if you’d like.
Three things you need to know: 1. I won’t be your pal. 2. Nor your leader. 3. So don’t even bother trying to find me. I possess no sure-fire answers, no forgiveness for your sins. But read on, and maybe together we’ll discover something very important, something necessary.
Next, there’ll be a handful of you tighter-assed boys. You self-righteous repressed bastards who are not even conscious of the fact that you’ve cheated on your partner in your minds a bazillion times already. You types, if you’ve read this far, who’ll suddenly feel busted for doing so, knowing you were only jonesin’ to find a quick line or two issuing words and phrases such as cock, cunt, titties, dripping pussy, suck, jizz, blow job, or yes, I beg you please, fuck me now, fuck me hard and from behind. Well, there you go; you got what you were looking for. So go, put the book down right now and skulk your way out of Barnes & Noble, or wherever your sorry ass happens to be, with your tail (and fading hard-on) between your legs, back to your loving spouse who’s probably more aware of your roving lust than you are. You’re simply not ready for me—yet.
And ladies, ah yes, ladies, dear sweet sockets to our plugs, I shan’t forget you! I might imagine you to be my biggest fans. Well, maybe not “fans,” but my most curious readers?—especially if you’ve been burned by the similar corruption I fried my Mary with. Quite possibly, you’re in the fire right now, with your man (or woman), or just suspecting something has gone awry.
I deduce also your self-consciousness in plopping down this title, one blazoned in capital font, onto the checkout counter. I understand your shame would be huge. Shame like that of the male purchaser, but of a wholly different sort than his—one more palpably laced with confusion about what to do. Rage too, coupled with the desire to cut off your partner’s balls one at a time, then pitch them into the sea as bait to the underwater world, as cast-off fleshly spheres once feeling like power in his pants or as god-like oracles in a new lover’s mouth, now merely casual swallows of a lumbering sea turtle—one, preferably, from the snapper species.
For you ladies, warriors against wayward penises, my hope is that you can divine the chasm between your man’s merely wandering wounded humanity and the possibility of his being a hardened sociopath beyond repair. Please, read on.
I would be remiss, too, to forget the other precious feminine souls out there who are themselves the cheaters. Is it not true, at least fifty percent of the time, that a straying husband is banging, or being banged by, a straying wife? If so (and I’ve no idea of the stats on this), I hope whatever insight can be gained by the guys will throttle you, dear sister, as well.
Still, I must also add, for what it’s worth, that I’m inclined to believe a wife is more likely to cheat for far more “legitimate” reasons than the roving married male. Simply put, more men cheat on good women, whereas a woman is more likely to step out on a buffoon or asshole, or an effete inept at producing any shred of sexual intimacy. Of course, this doesn’t help marital matters either, but it’s a worthwhile statement nonetheless, if only to argue that fewer women commit such trespasses for a simple fuck. Not often so with males—not often so with me.
