The Unremorseful Other Woman

I found this old email that I sent my husband’s other woman after I left my him for serval months in 2006.  My husband was abusive during his affair. We had just found out we were expecting a baby (funny how mistress’ believe their married lover is not having sex with their wife – it’s in the manual).  I caught my husband lying to me about contact with his dirty secret, TOW (The Other Woman).  Anyone that has been cheated on knows this sorry excuse.  I moved from Kennesaw, Georgia to Clinton Township, MI.  My daughter and pregnant me stayed at my brother’s with his wife and family.   While staying with my brother’s in Michigan I received our cell bill and found incoming calls from his dirty secret – she is pursuing my husband.  Well I decided since she cares less about staying away from my husband – the wife (me) proceeded to send his dirty secret an article about mistress’.  My husband denied her calling him (then why is her number incoming on your cell bill. hahaha)  and wanted us to come home – no way was I going home to a lying cheating abusive husband.  He had just transferred to another hospital to get away from his paramour.   He would drive up there to schmooze me to come home once or twice a month.  I was gone for most of my pregnacy.  Below is the email I sent her and below that is her reponse.  I guess she did not like the truth.  How many times did my husband tell you to get lost?  He must have because I alway found you calling him first on our phone bills.  He told me how you called him crying.  The damsel in distress arn’t you – deperate to get married!  Some damsel when you had other guys you were messing around with.  It is a matter of time before you cheat on your new husband.

The Times January 17, 2006 Times2
Memo to all mistresses (stop fooling yourself: he’ll never leave his wife)
Single, older women spell trouble for a man. In an extract from his new book, times2’s Microwave Man explains why
It’s true that I always seem to end up with women much younger than me, but women of my age are either married or mad. What drives them mad? What comes first? The bleak aura of bitter martyrdom? Or the bleak odour of cats? The chances are that if a reasonably attractive woman is single by her late thirties/early forties, then it is because at some point in the past she has hitched herself to a married man. It is quite amazing just how many otherwise sane, intelligent and self-aware women fall into this trap. What’s even more amazing is that they are then capable of maintaining the most extreme self-deception for years and years on end. (Of course, once you have the cats, you really are in trouble, caught in a Catch-22. You can’t get rid of them just because your love life picks up, but your love life is never going to pick up if you smell of cat wee. And, trust me, you will smell of cat wee.) Women who go through this process are ruined. No other man will want them
because it will have reduced them to pitiful, bitter, angry, depressed, shrunken versions of the woman they once were, and could still have been. Besides, they won’t want other men: some part of them never quite lets go of the hope — the belief — that, one day, he will come back to her (and stay longer than one night and some of the next morning). The fact that this happens to so many women surely gives the lie to all that bullshit about women being the superior, smarter, multi-tasking version of men. And the smarter the woman, the more likely she is to fall into the trap. It’s not just women’s sensitivity and innate romantic inclination that is their undoing. She believes in herself so firmly that she finds it impossible to see how any man in his right mind couldn’t fall for her. And it’s about competition. Women, by and large, don’t have football, or darts, or video games to help them to blow off steam. As a result, they can’t just shag somebody else’s husband; they
have to try to take him away from her. How many men do you know who have put their lives on hold in the hope that a married woman they are shagging will give up her hearth and home to be with them? That’s right, none. Because men, generally, have PlayStations. Men will never do this. They don’t have the patience, or the attention span (except for video games). A woman, on the other hand, is prepared to wait it out, to lay siege. She knows it won’t happen overnight so she gets in emotional supplies, a pile of weepy movies and microwave popcorn (and perhaps a self-help book or two) and digs in on the perimeter of the chosen man’s life. She has her friends to support her, but soon they get put off by the whiff of self-pity and the endless self-deception — not to mention the tedious, one-track conversations. The man’s not innocent, of course. He leads her on, of course; throws her scraps to feed the fantasy. He likes that when he turns up she is never up to her elbows in
dirty dishes, never exhausted after a hard day and half asleep on the sofa, never in the middle of changing the bag in the Hoover or helping one of the kids with their bloody homework and never handing him the dog’s lead as he walks in. He likes that he can walk in and, if he feels like it (and he almost always does feel like it, because, let’s face it, that’s why he is there in the first place), lift her dress, pull her sexy panties to one side and do it hard and fast right there in the hallway, up against the wall, without any libido-sapping bikes or school bags or bloody dogs in his line of sight to put him off his stroke. And then, if he wants to rush away immediately afterwards, leaving her flushed and panting, to run back, wracked by guilt and self-loathing, to his wife and family, he can. He likes that too. And she, refusing to understand or recognise the guilt and self-loathing that rises in him even faster than the sap he has just expended, likes it too, because
this is what she insists — to her own ruin — on mistakenly identifying as his unrestrainedly animal passion for her. And if you are one of these women, here’s a flash that (who knows?) might even be vivid enough to shock you out of your sleep-walking state. Are you ready? Are you sitting down? Got enough biscuits? Okay, here it is: he will happily screw you but that doesn’t mean that he likes you very much. Physically, he probably doesn’t even find you that attractive (this won’t stop him wanting to shag you). He might even be embarrassed to be seen in public with you. Mentally, ditto. Personality, likewise. Well, I’m sorry, but I thought it best that you knew. For such a man, almost the worst aspect of his fear of being found out is the moment his wife claps eyes on her non-rival — and the extreme, weird depth of his perverse extramarital excursion is exposed in all its plain-Jane entirety. Most women would breathe a sigh of relief if they could see their “competitors”,
and realise they are no more a rival than a blow-up doll would be. Perhaps less. But, actually, they wouldn’t. Like the women who are being screwed and who convince themselves that they are irresistible, the cheated-upon wives insist, perversely, on being convinced that there is something about the other woman that sets her above them, something that she has or does that makes her more attractive to their man than them. There isn’t. If there was, he would leave his wife for her. All the other woman has that the wife can never have is that she isn ’t his wife, his symbol of containment and of a closed-off, finished life. The other woman is, simply and crudely, a door left ajar, through which he almost certainly has no intention of passing. She is somebody different to shag, where the need to do so is driven not by an uncontrollably rampant libido but by a deeply located fear that This Is All There Is, the end of the line, and that the next stop can be only death. A
woman has childbirth to sustain her. This, or even the notion of this, links her, mentally and physically, to the future. The child in her mind, in her womb, at her breast, at her feet, blocks the very possibility of the one question that sets men and women apart: what’s it all for? For a man committed emotionally and intellectually to one woman, that single question starts to bang away like a drum — softly at first but gradually louder and louder. Sex with other women, he comes to feel, is all that stands between him and the grave and the general and widely ignored futility of the human condition. Men see this futility clearer than women because their lives are more obviously futile. That’s why so many of them top themselves, for no apparent reason. For a man, an affair is, almost always, nothing to do with the woman involved. It’s not really anything to do with sex, either. It ’s about life and death. And that’s it, nothing more or less. I do hope we’re buying this.
It’s regarded as a terribly empty and insulting platitude, but when a man utters the cliche “it meant nothing to me”, he means it, completely.. Women refuse to accept this, perhaps because they can’t imagine being in that situation themselves without some form of emotional attachment, but a man is more than capable of having repeated, regular, illicit sex — risking losing the woman he loves and the family they have spawned — with someone he can, quite possibly, barely stand to be around. And you, sitting at home waiting for the call, keeping your weekends free in case he manages to escape one Saturday like he always promises he will but never quite manages to, you should know this: that it is quite probable that he doesn’t even like you very much. I mean, would you treat a friend the way he’s treated you? What turns him on is the power he has over you, the illicit nature of the relationship and the way it has of stopping him thinking about tomorrow.
What sustains you through all those long, lonely, anxious, jealousy-riddled nights is the thought of the future you might, one day, have together. But can’t you see now how that’s never going to work? If he really cared about you, do you think he could bear to see you suffer? That’s why he always goes back to his wife. He loves her, and he couldn’t bear to see her suffer. Your suffering, however — no problem. He doesn’t set out to be cruel, but sooner or later he will tell her he loves her (because, after a while, it just gets embarrassing if you don’t) and, once she starts putting on the pressure, he will say almost anything to forestall the dawning of reality. He is torn because although he can see that he is becoming everything to this woman (and he, of course, has absolutely no intention of leaving his wife and family), part of him has become addicted to the snatched, sordid, heavy-breathing sex and the endless, filthy e-mails and text messages that bring him to
the boil when he is sitting at his desk and should be concentrating on whatever it is someone is paying him to concentrate on. And he is attracted to the danger because it makes him feel alive. The Other Woman is, of course, always a willing co-conspirator in her own downfall. Tough, grown-up, educated, discerning and smart in every other area of her life, she becomes a helpless, malleable, gullible dunderhead who will believe any transparent lie rather than accept that the world view she has constructed is nothing more than a fantasy, and that she, to her married man, is nothing more than a fantasy. And so on and on she drones to her friends . . How do I know all this? How do you think? And let me take this opportunity right now to say . . . sorry, but what the hell did you expect? Men know women like this on sight. They can recognise them. At work, in bars, passing on the street, reading self-help books on the Tube and hanging around wistfully in the tumbleweed-blown
sections of bookshops everywhere. The bitter aura of their disappointment clings to them like a noxious gas; the underlying fairytale that, despite all she has suffered and should have learnt from, there will be a happy ending, clanks at her feet like a rusty ball and chain. Men can smell it and hear it and they avoid them like the walking dead because there is nothing less attractive than a woman who has so utterly and obsessively surrendered herself. What a sad sight is the Other Woman. At times (usually the times when she’s hit the Pernod and cranked up the Dido) it seems that her only friend is the cat. And then, just the other day, as I glanced in irritation at my mobile phone, and the text message telling me that my expected Saturday morning dalliance was off, it suddenly occurred to me. I am the Other Woman. Well, the Other Man, obviously. But it got me thinking. What is the difference between me and the popular stereotype above, and should I start reading
self-help books with such titles as Why All Women Are Bastards — and How to Get One of Your Own? The first thing, I suppose, is a question of quantity over quality. I have had one or two (OK, four or five) relationships with happily married/boyfriended women (occasionally, more or less simultaneously), and I suppose the effect of this has been to dilute my emotional and/or physical reliance on any one of them. And then I haven’t exactly been moping around, polishing my nails and preening my bikini line, waiting for any of them to leave their partners. One of the drawbacks of being the male equivalent of The Other Woman is that one doesn’t get showered with chocolates, jewellery and flowers. On the other hand, there are no empty promises sought, or given, about her leaving him once the kids are grown up. (And a heads-up for the sisters here: it should be a red light with klaxons, bells and slaps around the face for any woman whose lover claims to be staying with his wife
solely for the kids. It is almost certainly rubbish and you are, as the rest of us already know, merely a bit on the side. And if it is true, then he’s not right in the head. Anyone that dependent on his children for his own happiness is heading for disillusion. Don’t go there with him.) Love, as the great and tragically under-rated psychosexual philosopher and poet-balladeer Belinda Carlisle once observed, is a big scary animal. How very true. And it’s a big scary animal that requires constant feeding. Rather like Tiddles. If you insist on climbing into the cage with the beast, be prepared to feed it often, or it will start feeding on you. And if love doesn’t get you, Tiddles surely will. Lose the cat. And the wee-soaked litter tray.
© Jonathan Gornall 2006 Extracted from Microwave Man, to be published by Penguin on January 26 at £7.99. Available from Time Books First for £7.59 with free p&p, 0870 1608080.

So, I get this nasty response from my husband’s dirty secret.  I get blamed by the Other Woman for contacting her while she is screwing around with my husband or trying too anyway.  The only time I’ve ever been nasty with her or my husband was/is when I would catch them in contact.  I never started any conversation nasty with her until she became self-righteous.  I have no other reason to contact her if she was not having an affair with my husband.  His mistress never apolozied to me once – why because she did not care about me and my husbands kids.  She cared less that I was hurting as did my husband at the time.  Now that my husband is no loger in the affair he refers to her as a whore.  It is not unusual for someone once out of the affair to see their affair partner as a co-conspititor to the damage of a marriage.  My husband had a happy marriage until he started his affair in march of 2003 then he changed into a monster.

Re: The Times January 17, 200

6

Sunday, May 28, 2006 10:14 PM

From:

“Joycelin Lyke” <Joycelin.Lyke@wellstar.org>

To: webhhweb

Colleen,

I’m tired of you trying to blame me for your shortcomings. I do not appreciate you sending me hate mails. I will not stand being harrassed by an idiot like you. Find another hobby coz I’ve had enough of your foolishness. Try getting a job. That would definetly help you spend your time more productively.  You are the most miserable woman I have come across in my entire life.  You call yourself a smart woman as compared to me, then act like one. Stop sending me junk mails or contacting me in any way.  I have nothing to do with you or James. So leave me alone.

Joycelin

My shortcomng – oh yes, we all have them especially when you are fucking my husband.  My shortcomings is called justified angry.  Ask your Priest about adultery and justified anger.  Oh I don’t just blame you, I blame my husband too.  After all you are a co-conspiritor in the break-down of my marriage.  My husband and I as a couple had no strife before his affair with you which lead to his porn addiction, among other things.  Find a hobby – well I have many – now I write about infidelity because it is part of my marriage history and you are the intruder.  Miserable people lie, cheat, and steal.  You both had other choices.  You never once thought of how your affair hurt and destroyed a family.  Shame to you and the kids you have one day – if you have any.  My husband isn’t the only guy you pursued – looking for someone to marry you.  You lied to all your poor male victims.  You’re a liar to family and friends.  You will end up cheating on your new husband in hard times – his poor heart.  Your commitment only runs so deep.  You have no respect for marriage(s) and that makes you not a friend to any marriage.  You can fool people but in the end you will stand alone to answer for yourself.  My job has always been my family.  How dare you judge me while you had an affair with my husband.

Date: Sun, 28 May 2006 22:59:15 -0700 (PDT)

From: H Webster
Subject: Re: The Times January 17, 2006
To: Joycelin Lyke <Joycelin.Lyke@wellstar.org>

What did I hit a sore spot with you that you feel justified in calling me names when you are the whore that has zero morals and values for marriage.  You get a life because you had no business being in mine to begin with.

_____________________

Date: Sun, 28 May 2006 23:04:25 -0700 (PDT)
From: H Webster
Subject: by the way
To: joycelin.lyke@wellstar.org

I do have a great job.  The best one!!  I’m the mother of Jimmy’s kids.  Something you will never be!!!!!

_____________________

Yet here is another email I sent her when I once again found her New Cell number on our phone bill.  This time she change her cell number.  Hoping for what – who knows.  You are a real piece of work. And this was not the last time she has tried contacting my husband.

please stop

Saturday, November 17, 2007 4:32 PM

From:

“H Webster”

To: joycelin.lyke@wellstar.org

I called you yesterday because I wanted to understand why you are trying to contact my husband after he has told you not to contact him ever again.  I don’t understand why you do not respect him!

My husband made a choice to be with me (his wife).  He did not stay for the kids, I will not stay married to him if it is just for the kids and he knows this.  I do not hold him prisoner, if he wanted to continue with you he had to let me go.  It is not right or Christian to lie and deceive people.  Me and my kids have been though enough trauma because of you both, but my husband is responsible for his part and is helping me heal.

If you are his friend you need to respect his wishes and stop contacting him.  Going behind my back to make contact is cruel at best.  Real friends do not forsake others and friends are not based on lies and secrecy to deceive others.

Please move on with your life and seek counseling for yourself.  People that get involved in affairs truly have personal issues and injuries that go beyond the affair, otherwise you would have never had one to begin with.  I hope you find peace and forgiveness some day through Christ Our Lord.

Other Readings:

Letter To The Other Woman

I Blame Them Both

My Husband’s Apology Letter to out Families