Hooker! Hooker! Hooker! If I had yelled “bitch” out loud in an ex’s face when I realized that the horn I wore wasn’t my “imagination” or “crazy,” I might have saved myself a few years of therapy.
What did I do when I found out that my project husband was dating a coworker naked? I made the final. I played mature and analyzed, when it was time to be really crazy, the way he described me when I confronted him with the signs of smut.
I don’t follow the soap opera “Um Lugar ao Sol”, but I’ve been reading a lot about the character of Andrea Beltrão, of whom I’ve been a fan since the time of Armação Ilimitada. In the scene where Rebeca finds out about her husband’s affair, she screams “that piranha! Piranha!”, with the breath of someone who has never had Covid.
Inside here, in my heart and straight from my liver, I screamed piranha piranha piranha. What a delight not to be civilized when the feeling is one of humiliation, contempt and fear of catching STDs. Why didn’t I?
More than 10 years ago, in another administration, my ex, with whom I shared a bed, bills and H1N1, decided to live with polyamory without telling me. After spending months with a cloud full of infidelity watering the antlers growing on my head, I confirmed my betrayal.
Half a dozen screams would have prevented gastritis that narrowly missed turning into “love” anorexia, something I diagnosed myself. First, I didn’t eat, out of sadness, then out of anger. Had I screamed slut, slut, scoundrel, scoundrel, I wouldn’t have felt so poor and such an idiot.
Being made a fool of has gnawed at me much more than the end of the dream of romantic love. The problem was not getting back to the market, which never suffered from shortages. The pain came from torn pride. And I thought I was great for having been very balanced in resolving everything without raising my voice, without making a fuss, without telling the family, without mistreating the minx. The piranha!
The miscreant’s commitment was to me. The piranha wasn’t part of the deal that involved wedding plans, travel plans, a sofa divided into 12. The horn came already in the second installment.
The world pats men who cheat on the back, but the women involved in these stories are always crucified. The whores, the bitches, the homewreckers. I didn’t want to fall into this trap of blaming our failure on a third party.
What I didn’t know is that the inevitable was then to feel guilty. She’s more beautiful? More intelligent? More fun? More horny? As if the problem was me. I almost swallowed the eerie cliché that that’s how life is and men can’t control their dicks in their pants.
Cheating is not part of the masculine essence, any more than leaving the toilet seat up is. Everything is a matter of choice. Polyamory, open relationship, threesome, suruba. Each one each one. I was unhappy in a boring monogamous relationship, but that was the deal, cazzo.
I should have understood at the time that it wasn’t my fault, that he was an asshole and she, despite having no commitment to me, was a bitch. I would have saved money on therapy, on tarot cards, on spiritist sessions. And the hot stone massages that promised to vent all the anger and self-pity I felt.
Rebeca/Andréa Beltrão freed me. Today, I would trade dignity for immediate peace of mind. Even if I had screamed for only myself to hear. Hooker! Hooker! Tramp! Scoundrel! Small dick! Horn! Okay, it’s gone.
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