The Adventures of a Love Investigator, 527 Naked Men & One Woman (20 page)

Hmmm. I stroke the massive lump of dark fur purring in my lap.

Judging me to be safe, Frankie continues, “I tried to turn the relationship completely around by making it like she was putting up with me.”

“Did she take the hint?” I ask.

He scratches the dogs head scratching behind her ears. “Nope.” He continues scratching and chatting. “Guys dread tears. They’re killers. So instead of facing tears and guilt, a guy creates a strong justification for ending the relationship. He behaves like a shit so she’ll leave.”

The nasty thought enters my mind that Mark may have made up the whole thing about his mother’s tears. Maybe that was his way of ending us. I’m not a very good witness to my own life. It’s time to talk to the man and fit the pieces together.

Six years of interviewing and I’m on a Delta flight returning to Florida, trying to digest all the emotional static. I put on ear phones and turn off the volume to block out the chatter of other passengers.

Listening to all the guys talk about fantasizing a relationship and then turning off to a lover, I think back to when I was a little girl. I had a big bowl of green turtles. I loved those turtles through all the lonely days of childhood. I created a love bond with their hard little shells and button eyes.

And then one day, five years into my turtle relationship, I came home from school ... looked at my little turtle buddies and was grossed out. I couldn’t bring myself to touch them. I gave them all away. Over the years I’ve discovered that love relationships are a lot like that. The gross-out comes when you least expect it. You never know when a romance is going to turtle-bowl.

“Now and then, no matter how happy he is, a man likes a piece of strange.”

~ Chet, 51, married

Case 509 / Chet the Cheater

The idea appeared as I opened my sleepy eyes to the view of the lake from my bedroom windows. The night before, headlines had reported on yet another powerful married man and his sexual escapades. The thought occurred to me that the opportunity to delve into this part of the male mind might be right in front of me, I just had to ask. Christa’s love Chet is powerful in the way that only the filthy rich can be. He has a private jet and a yacht that can cross the Atlantic. If success is measured by toys, then Chet is my boy.

I ring him up and he jumps at the chance to be interviewed. This is his kind of brag-fest. Again, I’m amazed at how easy it is for me to gain access to these men. Is it something in the tone of my voice? Or is it the appeal of being anonymous? Guys can be the phantom commentators on relationships and stay hidden.

With no real estate clients to work, my time is my own. I meet Chet in his offices on the highest floor of a tower overlooking the Charles River in Boston. The view is to die for, with tiny sailboats bobbing in the sunlight and lush trees in shades of green, red and gold.

Chet’s an evil looking man with a super-tight face lift and blue reptilian eyes. His arrogance allows him to be immediately at ease discussing his adventures outside his marriage. He doesn’t look for reassurance that I won’t use his name and takes it for granted that he can squash me like a bug if I betray his confidence. We exchange multiple sarcasms and then settle in for some questions and answers.

I ask about cheating.

He corrects me. “It’s not cheating. I just want sex from someone other than my wife. If I never went off course I wouldn’t be who I am. Men get involved in affairs because they crave the excitement. They’re no longer satisfied at home but they lack the balls to end the relationship.”

“So you admit to lacking the
cajones
?”

“I’m saying most men. Not me. I have no reason to end my marriage. Most men don’t think of the consequences of their actions. They want to remember what it felt like to feel desirable. A man’s self-image is largely attached to his sexual prowess... that’s just how men’s heads are wired. But they don’t think about the fallout. I do.”

“So affairs have no meaning.” My mind is on Christa who sees her future in this guy. She asked for it.

“Affairs come and go as you need them. There’s no fear of failure and no need to continue seeing that person. It’s like what we’re doing right now except we have our clothes on. You and I will never see each other again, so I can let you see sides of me that I’d keep hidden from someone I cared about. We’re being a lot more intimate than I ever could get with my wife.”

With nothing to lose I ask him about Christa. “Where’s that going?”

He snorts a laugh and avoids answering.

After an uncomfortable interval of silence I move on. “Which comes first the chicken or the egg? Does being powerful and wealthy lead to risky behavior or is the love of risk what leads to power? Just speak for yourself.”

“That’s easy. I don’t know why they keep batting that question around. I’ve never met a successful person who didn’t take risks. Risks are what keep our hearts pumping. I know I can’t get caught and even if I did no one would believe it. If someone pointed a finger at me, they’d be condemning themselves.”

“Don’t you ever feel anything? Guilt? Remorse?”

I’d like to say he fiddled with his pens or some other human trait, but he remained still as a stone, completely in control. “Am I ever sorry? No. It’s stupid if you admit it when you get caught. There’s an old joke about the guy getting caught
in
his secretary. He says to his wife, ‘I’m not having an affair. Are you going to believe me or your eyes?’”

“Deny and keep denying? Do you think your wife knows about your affairs but doesn’t let herself believe in them?”

“I’m saying it’s all financial. She’d lose everything including her identity as my wife if she complained. And I’m not about to give up the game. It’s like gambling. You get away with it the first time and you’re hooked. You just have to compartmentalize it. It goes here.” He points to the back of his head.

“Tell me what these women get out of it – in your opinion.”

“Wedding bands are like fish lures. Anybody tell you that? Most women can’t resist hitting on a man wearing a ring. It’s a competition thing. They want what the other woman has only they don’t want it for keeps. Not usually. They just want to take it from her even if she never finds out.”

Out comes the question... “Would you die for the woman you loved?”

“You can’t tell me any man answered yes. He’d have to hate his life a hell of a lot.”

I leave Cheater-Boy’s office feeling nauseous. Now I know I can’t make it through one thousand men. I need to put me out of my misery and soon.

“The average marriage lasts six to eight years.”

~ Judge Whit, 60, divorced

Case 510 / Whit

Whit’s clear-cut features, a gift from his Cherokee ancestors, hide the fact that he has just crossed into his sixties. I study his face looking for signs of cynicism. Judge Whit has the sad distinction of divorcing eight hundred couples every year. Single for twenty years after an eighteen year marriage, Whit has three grown children, all married. With my usual nod to verbal foreplay, I start the interview.

“Judge Whit, you’re an authority. Why don’t marriages last today?”

He sighs. “It’s a sad subject. In one sentence, people are not willing to sacrifice for each other anymore, they’re too self-centered.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Materialism,” he says flatly.

“That’s it?”

He nods. “Statistics tell us that most divorces stem from financial problems.”

I’m surprised and say so. I thought it had to do with cheating.

“I see this very seldom. I know the statistics say 40% of married people have extra marital sex, but there are a lot of people that, even if adultery were an issue, don’t bring it into the court room.”

“Really? This is news.”

“The average marriage lasts six to eight years. Now this is a generality, but eighty-five percent of the divorces in the United States are caused by money.”

“Is there a cure?”

“If women were given the opportunity to be more of an equal partner, the divorce might not happen. Women are basically better money managers than men.”

The judge and I share conversation and a glass of chardonnay. We are in the media room of a mutual friend, somewhere east of Baltimore.

Whit studies his glass, watching the sunlight bounce through it. “If you get married for lust, that will die.”

I nod in agreement.

“You can’t keep that going even if you’re madly in love, if you have nothing else going for you.”

He stands and stretches. He’s a tall, lean man with a shock of white hair, easy to look at.

“Love means much more than the bedroom to women. It means the caring, it means the commitment. Commitment means ‘honesty’ to a woman.”

I touch the glass to my lips again. I’m starting to feel a little more relaxed. It’s been a rough week.

He smiles, “Seldom do friends get married. I see people in court who hate each other. They won’t sit in the same room. You don’t see friends getting a divorce. If more friends got married, there’d be less divorce.”

A look of pity makes its way into his eyes. “I divorced this lady in my court the other day. Her husband didn’t even show up. She was a good looking lady. After it was all over she said, ‘I’m going to go and buy a bottle of wine to celebrate. Would you join me?’

“I said, ‘I’d like to, but as your judge that wouldn’t be appropriate and besides why would you ask me?’

“‘I want somebody to be nice to me for a short while. Just now I need it. You’re the only one who has been nice to me through this whole thing.’ Isn’t that sad? There are people that nobody will be kind to. I wanted to hug her, but I couldn’t.”

“Please give me some advice for people.”

“Short version? If you want a good marriage, marry a friend.”

Whit exits after four hours of chat and I race to the phone to check my messages. It’s been three weeks and not a word for the investigator. Has Sam found Mark?

“I think we just bored each other.”

~ Martin, 34, divorced

Case 517 / Martin

“It was during Thanksgiving dinner – I was getting ready to carve the turkey. She says to me, ‘Before you do that, look at this.’ She hands me the divorce papers. I was standing there with a sharp knife in my hands. She must have been crazy.”

He’s dating an acquaintance of mine. They seem to have a good thing going. Martin sure can talk. Talkers make the toughest interviews as they wade around in a stream of consciousness. Nothing short of cannon fire will slow them up.

A grocery store manager and part-time musician, Martin’s current lifestyle is minor league, his aspirations are big time. His sandy hair and hazel eyes reflect his heritage, a mixture of Irish, German and Welsh. His bitterness is his own. It hangs in the air around him like a sulfur-colored haze.

We’re in his apartment in Nashville, a cluster of early packing crates. He shows me around, proudly pointing out plants clinging to life in assorted green bottles. Martin gently handles one of the tendrils. “When this is strong enough I’m going to replant it.” I get the idea he’s speaking for himself as well as the vine.

He motions me to sit on a black plush sofa that runs half the length of his living room. A friendly German Shepherd pup rests his head on my boot, while two well-fed cats battle over their master. Martin begins to dissect his marriage. “I was twenty-three and thought it was time to settle down. How stupid can one person be? We had a son. I was working in a video store during the daytime and playing with a band at night. I was watching my son while my wife was out with her girlfriends, who covered for her. One of the girlfriends called me. I don’t know what her motive was but she said, ‘I think your wife’s having an affair with her new boss.’

I had a friend watch our son and I went to this club not too far from where we lived. I had a feeling she was there. She was making out on the dance floor with her boss. What made it worse was that it was at a club where I played before. All the people who worked there knew me. She wanted to get caught. I said to her ‘we can go to counseling if you’ll end your affair.’ But she kept saying, ‘No, no. You’ll never forgive me. No.’”

“What do you think of marriage now?” I ask.

“I’m kind of scared to get into it again, but if I find the right person I guess I could give it another try. After our divorce, I took revenge on women many times over, especially if they were married. I don’t know why I did that, ‘cause I wasn’t that type of person. Before I was married, I was always the one who got dumped cause I was always so sweet to the women I dated. I guess I was too clingy then, I was in dire need of someone.”

I wish for a bandage for his psyche. Something large and sticky to hold him together before he bleeds all over the sofa.

Martin continues, “Guys detach most of the time. But when I hear women talk about cheating, I guess that male part of their minds kicks in.”

“How did you feel about the married women you were involved with?”

“I just figured that’s what I was there for. Women have always found me very attractive. They would hit on me. About fifty-percent of the time I would know they were married.”

I keep a straight face as I wait to hear the refrain “it just happened.”

“The last woman I was with before I settled down, I think she was married. She was here visiting from St. Louis. She never gave me her last name. I saw the little indentation on her finger. She didn’t say much and that’s why I was suspicious. We fooled around. She took my phone number but I never heard from her again. I was used.” He fakes a whine.

The whole interview seems strangely familiar. “Why do you think married women cheat?”

“Maybe they suspect their husbands. Guys will be going out just to hang out with their friends, not cheat. But they’ll say things like ‘I have to work late,’ instead of just saying, ‘ I’m going out with the guys.’ Then when she calls the office and there’s no answer, she’ll get suspicious, especially if it keeps happening. Then she’ll want to even the score. And some women just live for the adventure of it. But it’s too dangerous.”