Cheater’s Diary

My friend had recently started seeing a new sugar daddy, and (me being the supportive and self indulgent friend that I am) I went to kick it with the two of them one night. We had some drinks, chatted a bunch, and later that week, my friend told me, “He has a blog.”

As an avid blogger and long term chronicler of every whim, thought and fancy, I was intrigued. Having written about sex and love and other random thoughts for years, I have come across many like minded writers who write about similar topics, from similar perspectives. But this – this was different.

“It’s called Cheater’s Diary,” she told me.


At first my expectations were low. Despite the fact that I grew up reading almost exclusively literature written by white men (damn you, American education system!) who are clearly capable of expressing emotion and thought in cohesive sentences and stories, I’ve kinda lost faith in the writing of the average white man. For the most part, who cares? I had read enough of the white man’s plight already – total yawn.

There’s something to be said for the stories that white men tell about themselves, especially in light of the sociohistorical arc of this country. They tend to have an agenda, an image of themselves that they want to paint, like they’re some sort of hero or savior or captain of industry. Cheater’s Diary? Oh, hell no, that is quite the opposite of the story he paints.

After my friend sent me the link and I took time to peruse the posts, I realized, holy shit, actually this is exactly what I want read!

First off, since this is somehow turning into a blog critique, I was pleased to realize that this narrative fits exactly what we all know men in power do but never really admit to. There was an unrepentant vulnerability in the way that, well, from jump, it’s called “Cheater’s Diary” and the tag line is “Boozing, Cheating, and Spending the Kids’ Inheritance.” He acknowledges that the stakes are high, and says fuck it anyways. The entire narrative embraces this man’s self knowledge of his love of high end hookers, his willingness to throw money at them, and the very real emotional journey of falling in love, having an affair, and other small details of fucking up.

Which is real. It’s all very real. It’s real in a way that we’re not supposed to see – we’re not supposed to see the raw emotion and the sins wrapped up in one enticing and fascinating package. This isn’t the story we’re sold of chronic cheaters and remorseless philanderers. We’re trained to think that men who make a lot of money and cheat on their wives are heartless, that they’re malicious, that there’s something psychopathic about it. But Cheater’s Diary disproves that. The yearning, the self awareness, the desire for love and validation within these relationships that are supposed to be the antithesis of love and validation. It’s human. It’s dangerous.

It made me wonder – why don’t people tell these stories more often? Given the recent plight of sex workers in the face of FOSTA/SESTA, sex workers face an increasingly dangerous workplace that seeks to punish them for doing their job. The problem is – they wouldn’t have jobs if there weren’t a market for their services. Reading Cheater’s Diary, I came to realize: isn’t this the narrative that’s missing, and has always been missing, from the fight for sex workers’ rights? It’s almost as though when talking about sex workers’ rights, the conversation focuses on the workers, as if they exist in a vacuum, without any human element on any other side. The narrative about the patron’s side is dangerous because to admit that this is a mutual transaction between consenting adults (especially when many of those consenting adults are well to do men) invalidates the whorephobia that underwrites the incessant attacks on sex workers.

But, off my political soap box and back on my hands and knees where I belong. Reading this blog, I realized, isn’t this the blog-counterpart to what I’ve been doing? Isn’t this a man doing quite well the same things I have done, but just from a perspective that I have no real way of knowing? Isn’t this everything I’ve always wanted to know? Don’t I fucking love this?

I do. I fucking love it.

So, to all you disgusting, philandering, crying, emotional wreck men out there – if you know how to write, I might read it one time and be amused. There you go. Lap up that free validation. And remember – if you encounter other men who are writing boring, basic bitch bullshit about the world and women, please tell them to stop because they make the male voice sound both so shrill and so uninteresting. Nobody wants that.


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