Should I Be Proud of Making a Man Cheat?


I always said that if I ever caught my man cheating I wouldn’t be that girl on Cheaters that Joey Greco holds back from beating the hell out of the other women while she screams, “If you were handling your business, he wouldn’t be laid up with me!”  Because we all watch that show and know damn well the girls should be a united front in putting some paws on the trifling man who is playing them both.  But usually he’s running through someone’s garden away from the camera men or sitting in the driver’s seat of 1995 Toyota Tercel with spinning rims, amused by it all.

My motto has always been you can’t blame the other women because she didn’t agree to be faithful and committed to you, your man however did.  But as I sit here and listen to several tracks off of this J. Cole Born Sinner album, I can’t help but feel like he’s apologizing to the girlfriend he’s been very public about in advance for the fact that his dick makes many decisions without consulting his conscience first.  For example on the track Runaway, he disperses a little raw honesty that I can appreciate:

Love my girl but I told her straight up “don’t wait up”
Stumble home late, I’m drunk, we fucked then made up
Used to living free as a bird, now I’m laid up
Feeling like a nigga got handcuffs on
How the fuck did my life become a damn love song?
She ride for a nigga and she stand up for him
But a nigga wanna be a nigga, be a nigga
Ride through the streets with freaks and real niggas
She never understand what it’s like to be a man
Knowing when you look inside yourself you see a nigga

Ok, maybe I don’t agree with the idea that whether you have a dick or not renders how helpless you’ll be when making sexual decisions, but I get it.  As my co-worker said in the most gender discriminatory comment of the year in a small office full of women: Boys will be boys.  Ok ladies, so what’s our excuse?

In many of my recent blogs I speak about this staggering trend of dehydration that has afflicted most single women at the close of this last cuffing season.  It was only just the other day I met up with my ex who recently made a pretty pricey car purchase and decided to take me for a ride. As we pulled up to the red light, you couldn’t tell the next car full of hungry hungry hippos that I wasn’t sitting in the passenger seat, as they proceeded to have their breasts and thighs pour down the side of their car door in an effort to get his attention.  I wasn’t his girlfriend, but apparently they didn’t know that nor did they care.  If you don’t know, here’s a confirmation: The parch is indeed genuine.


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