Allison Hope

The truth was, I didnt know who I was in that momentor where I was. I was a lonely, inebriated, pile of slop. It was New Year's Day, and roughly three minutes earlier, I'd woken up naked on the floor in this strangers house, next to another naked person who was most definitely not my girlfriend.

I scrambled to find my clothes and get dressed without waking my naked floor guest, contemplating how I was going to get back to the friends house where I was staying. Looming even larger was the panic I felt when I thought about how I was supposed to tell my girlfriendthe woman I claimed to love, and who I'd committed myself to some half a dozen states away before I left on a friends vacationabout my indiscretions.

I need to get back, I said, mumbling something that evoked enough empathy that the stranger into whose house I had wandered, and on whose floor I had presumably rubbed my naked body against someone elses, offered to drive me and help me find my way.

She was kind enough to drive me back around the mountain that I had apparently traversed during the previous nights debauchery, and return me to my friends house. That kind stranger helped me physically find my way back that day, but it would take many more years for me to really find myself.

I ended up telling my girlfriend I cheated on her. But what I couldnt manage to tell heror myselfwas why I felt the pull to sleep with other people. It wasnt just my girlfriend at the time: For more than ten years, from the time I started dating as a teenager until I met my now-spouse, I cheated on every partner I ever had (with the exception of one, who, ironically, was the only one who cheated on me).

I cheated in the most dishonorable of ways. I cheated on perfectly lovely and attractive partners with people I wasnt attracted to, and others more than twice my age. I cheated on one girlfriend with her best friend. I cheated on another with an ex. I once left a girlfriend sitting in my apartment while I made out with someone else outside; If she had just looked outside the window, she would have caught us in the act. I once had sex with someone in a pool with my girlfriend sitting on the deck overlooking us. (It was night, so visibility was low, and she didn't read our entangled swan dance as anything other than a friendly game of chicken). Another girlfriend had the pleasure of visiting me at the end of a week when I'd slept with no fewer than four other people before seeing her. She had no idea.

While this behavior may seem extreme to some, sleeping with people who werent my main squeeze was a pastime for mea deeply ingrained horrible and hurtful habit that I believed was just who I was. I truly thought I was a serial cheater by nature and that I couldnt ever change.

Sometimes my cheating felt pathological, painful. I often drank enough so that it felt like it was the alcohol guiding my bad decisions. It was easier to point a finger at Ketel One than my own shortcomings. It was an extra bonus if I couldnt remember the actual string of events from the night before; just a vague sense of accomplishment mixed with sharper guilt. I couldnt be culpable if my brain didnt produce memories, right?

Wrong, according to relationship expert, love coach, and author <a href="https://www.susanwinter.net/" id="08602770-7677-313c-a4fa-0e6e30247cca"> Susan Winter </a> . We are always liable for the actions we take: sober or high, she tells me. The difference lies in whether the cheating was a one-off, or a chronic pattern. There are times that individuals can get drunk and blackout. The choices they make are primal, lacking any rational filter. In the case of a good partner with a bad 'one-time blackout,' there's room for forgiveness. Especially if your partner is truly mortified, self-flagellating, and apologetic.

\"I was a pleaser by nature. Who was I to say no?\"

But it wasnt just a one-off for me. I did plenty of sober cheating during broad daylight, too. Any time I entered into a relationship, I felt the intense urge to line up someone on the side. Even when I didnt deliberately seek out pinch-hitter lovers, I seemed to find myself in situations that would lead me there: a coworker stealing a kiss in the kitchen at work after months of flirtations; a stranger beckoning me into the bathroom at the club; a friend deciding they wanted to be more than friends. There always seemed to be opportunities to engage in extracurricular activities, and I was a pleaser by nature. Who was I to say no?

And besides, I didn't think I could ever be satisfied being monogamous or faithful.

It is perfectly common for people to be committed to a primary partner, but emotionally, spiritually, and/or sexually involved with one or more partners, says licensed marriage and family therapist <a href="http://damonljacobs.com/" id="97ae41c7-14a2-3e25-af55-74c4b7a73b35"> Damon L. Jacobs </a> . It is not a reflection of pathology or deficit; it is respecting the abundance of loving energy that humans are capable of giving and receiving.

I knew there was nothing inherently wrong with <a href="https://www.menshealth.com/sex-women/a26886548/ethical-non-monogamy-tips/" id="cb5e2fd6-7444-3c37-a063-f67cd772e360"> ethical non-monogamy </a> , but my problem was that I was not honest. And I worried my lovers wouldnt stay with me if I told them I wanted to be non-monogamous, or that they would think they werent enough and break up with me. I had also tried open <a href="https://www.menshealth.com/sex-women/a28648204/what-is-polyamory-gaining-popularity/" id="1b811cb5-038c-3429-a10b-7f0a13cd5ebb"> polyamory </a> with a couple of partners, and it never seemed to work out. Jealously was always a factor.

Female hands gripping man's back, close up

For a long time, I admit, I loved the excitement of secrecy and sex that came with my cheating lifestyle. There is something incredibly sexy about sneaking affections around a busy schedule and a stable relationshipthe rush of adrenaline on a walk of shame, knowing I could bump into my partner at any moment (which did happen one timean awkward, rushed excuse ensued).

But I also felt bad about what I was doing. Most of the time, I got away with it, but sometimes my partners found out, or my guilt overflowed, and I confessed. Even when my partners didnt find out, I carried the tremendous weight of guilt everywhere I went. There was an honest and altruistic person somewhere deep inside of me who I had expended a great deal of effort to bury, but who never gave up trying to claw their way to the surface.

From time to time, I'd stop seeing other people for a little while, even fooling myself into thinking maybe I had changed my ways. Then, a happy hour session would turn into a make out session with someone who wasnt my girlfriend, or an ex would resurface and wed spend the night or a few together. I really felt like my sleeping around was something I had no control over. It was as if my vagina had a mind of its own.

\"I finally faced that my patterns were unhealthy.\"

Then, when I was in my mid-20s, I had a rough run seeing two women simultaneously. Neither was progressing to the level of full functionality or future potential. I was frustrated. I realized, maybe what I was doing wasnt working. As I waded through petty arguments and the exhaustion that comes with hiding facts and details as to not give away that I was two-timing them both, I started to just get weary of it all. Cheating was hard work. My partners certainly werent benefiting from my efforts, and neither was I.

It wasnt an "aha" moment, or some explosive catalyst, but more like a subtle nudge that finally toppled the mound of crap I'd spent more than a decade building up. I finally faced that my patterns were unhealthy, and that I'd wronged a lot of perfectly good people.

Maybe if you free up your energy, youll actually meet someone new who is right for you, a sage friend said over dinner one night. It was a novel thoughtI had always hopped from one lover to the next, stacking them like fanned playing cards, never without a handful.

Then I did something radical that I had never done before.

I broke things off with both women and pledged to be sans sexual partner for the first time in my adult life. It felt equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. As the days turned into weeks and then months, a visceral cleansing occurred. I could feel my real self emerging, the person who didnt need sexual backup plans, and who valued honesty.

I realized cheating on my partners didn't mean I didn't want to be with them. In fact, some may have made perfectly good long-term partners. I cheated because I was afraid to make myself completely vulnerable, lest I get hurt. If someone left me high and dry, I could insulate myself with another lover that was already warm and at the ready. I could hop onto the next stone in the pond without skipping a beat or falling into the mucky water.

The fear of being vulnerable is the hallmark of a chronic cheater who uses others to fill their deep-seated insecurities, says Winter. The logic behind this behavior insists that stealing only a brief taste of love leaves one safe from emotional harm. A quick entrance and exist allows for the feeling of love, without the dreaded loss. In order for this game to work, there must be an ongoing bevy of partners.

It was not long after I embraced being single for the first time in my adult life that I met my now-wife. She was the first person I gave myself over to fully, not because I was suddenly more confident, but because I embraced a part of myself that was even more difficult to tap: my vulnerability and trust. I understood, perhaps better than most, how fragile that shared trust is and how you must safeguard it in order to build a strong foundation and maintain a healthy and happy engagement.

Id be lying if I said there werent times when I felt tempted. There was the time a long-time crush who never paid me any attention suddenly started flirting. There were drunken friends outings early on in our relationship when people leaned in for a make-out session I would have once treated like a natural chaser to my vodka, but instead I took a step back and said, No thanks. The formula for me was fairly simple: Did I want to sleep with this person, kiss this person, flirt with this person more than I wanted to do those things with the woman warming up the bed for me? The answer was always a resounding no. It made my decisions much easier. (So did cutting back tremendously on drinking.)

More than ten years later, I have now spent as many years in this new-and-improved faithful version of myself as I did in the cheating one. While I had a lot more sex as the earlier version of Allison, I also experienced and caused a lot more heartache. This version of me is worthy of walking through the world with her head up.

Who the hell are you? said a woman sitting in the living room I stumbled into.

I Used to Be a Serial Cheater. Here's How I Finally Changed My Ways.

I knew I was a lesbian at age 15. I knew I was a feminist from the womb.

I had a flower power hippie mom who set a strong example of how women can far exceed mens ambitions. She worked and made more money than my dad did, and still managed the house and out-parented him. I grew up witnessing strong women who did it all, and men who caused trouble.

There was my best friends stepfather who raped her. The male gym teacher at school who was caught sleeping with underage girls. My own father was not nearly so controversial, but he was crazy and lazy and seemed to have a better pulse on how far along his homemade beer was than his kids schoolwork.

My own encounters with men were far more negative than any I had with women. There was the boy who forcibly kissed me, the one who took my virginity against my will, the one who may have slipped something into my drink to take advantage of me, and the one who was dating my good friend and groped me while I was sleeping. The list goes on.

It didnt take more than that repertoire to settle on the opinion that men were a lesser species. I joked that the male species was lower on the evolutionary chain, as evidenced by their excessive hair and slightly more grotesque bodily functions. With time, my joke grew into a subtle undertone that I actually started to believe. Its fair to say I was a "feminazi." I would go around telling women to stop apologizing so much because men don't. I helped women out of bad and abusive situations with men and helped drag others out of the closet and into the light.

\"I had virtually no interaction with men.\"

I came out as a lesbian to my friends and family when I was 16, and I steadily built a beautiful and empowering network of women who I befriended, loved, and made love with.

Aside from infrequent family gatherings and casual interactions in public spaces, I had virtually no interaction with men.

My first two jobs after college were a lesbian TV show and a lesbian magazine. I played in a lesbian softball league. I hung out at lesbian bars. My co-workers were all women, my friends were all women and my lovers were too.

I had so few men in my life that my cat would get scared whenever someone who was malemy landlord, my brotherwould on very rare occasion stop by my apartment. The only male friend I allowed in my inner circle had a vagina. He was transgender and had amazing empathy and lesbian sensibilities. Case in point: I was hosting a party at my apartment with about 30 lesbians and the one trans guy and someone said, Ah man, who the hell put Indigo Girls on?! The culprit? The one male-identified person in the room.

I was happily living my female-centric life until three words were uttered that would change my life forever.

I see something, the ultrasound technician said as she swooshed around in my uterus with her magic wand.

Technician treating varicose veins with ultrasound equipment

It was several years later and I was arguably less exclusively female. I worked in an environment with men and had to at least pretend not to hate them. I put a ring on it and married my soul mate, a wonderful woman who wasn't into the bar scene, so I quit my nightly lesbian entourage. Still, I didn't like men. I saw the layers of privilege and the power they held over me and others, often enough lacking the actual intelligence and talent and grit to get where they were.

What do you mean? my wife asked the technician in the imaging office that fateful fall day.

But I knew. I knew before the gamete started growing in me. I knew we were having a boy.

A penis. There it is, the technician said, excited on our behalf assuming we were too.

Oh wow, said, not exactly sure how to feel.

In truth, I felt kind of icky. I have a penis inside of me, I thought, completely freaked out at the thought of that. I had worked so diligently my entire adult life to have that not be the case, and here I was inviting a male right into my home, into my body eve.

\"I was forced to reconcile with the male-hating part of my identity.\"

Over the next few months while I was pregnant, I grappled with my misgivings about the soon arriving male. I was without a doubt over the moon about having a baby. The good hormones were flowing, and I felt complete, like becoming a mom was my destiny and the most beautiful expression of my wife and my love for one another. On the other hand, I struggled with the burden of raising a white male. That I would essentially be waiting on a mans every wants and needs, even if he was my own son. Plus, I may one day walk into my bathroom to see the toilet seat up. I couldn't handle it.

I was forced to reconcile with the male-hating part of my identity that had taken such stronghold in my psyche. I always joked I would have a girl and raise her to become a soccer dyke (knowing full well that I dont have control over such matters).

I worried intensely and quietly throughout my pregnancy and then, in the blink of an eye, everything changed. The moment my son was born and I saw his tiny, amazing face, I knew I had nothing to worry about. I was in love with this little human who happened to be male. All of my ill will towards men faded into the background as I realized that there was no way I could impose my biases onto this innocent person.

Holding my son, with all his maleness, I dont see a future misogynist or a boisterous politician. I dont see a domineering future father or abusive husband. I dont see a privileged boy who teases people whose skin isnt as white, whose gender isnt the same, or whose house isnt as lovely. I see just a human being whose features resemble mine, who I love with every fiber of my being. I see in my son a blank slate of a human being who has the potential to become an incredible boy and adult male and create a better world for other men and women.

Of course, what kind of man he grows into will depend on how my wife and I parent him, how peers and other influences and mentors infect him, and what the larger culture is pushing as acceptable behaviors and norms. I'm hopeful that the shifting and more malleable parameters around what maleness could or should look like will allow my son and other boys to become men who are not afraid to express their feminine sides.

Silhouette of mother raising baby girl in the air outdoors against sky during a beautiful sunset

Over time, a weird thing happened to this habitual man-hater. My love for my son was so abundant, that it spilled over. I found myself smiling at little boys around my sons age who I saw out on the street. I felt a newfound warmth for boys a bit older than mine, thinking about how I hope he will grow into someone like the boy at the supermarket helping his mom shop, or the boy playing hockey with a team at the sports complex. These boys grow into men, I realized. A novel thought. Not all men are terrible. Some of them are just bigger versions of boys like mine.

I experienced an epiphany of real proportions. In conjuring up the infinite love and patience I have for my son, Ive been forced to abandon my misandry and adopt a new world view of the male species.

Of course, I still regularly have to check my own biases, curbing those moments when I open to mouth to say "white men" with an accusatory tone when I see one do something stupid or harmful. I try to be careful about stereotyping now, in order not to negatively influence my son or give him a complex before he's even old enough to spell his own name. I have had to very seriously shift my thinking to let my son (and with that, males more generally) into my life.

When my son does traditionally so-called male things like aggressively crash his toy trucks into one another, I dont tsk and worry about what type of angry man hes going to grow into; I model good behavior and ask him to invite me to a tea party, where he abandons his trucks temporarily in lieu of pretend tea and crumpets with his mom and stuffed animal guests.

I've discovered that learned behavior and biases are strong, but the power of true love is stronger. Besides, I'm raising my son to be a feminist.

I Hated Men. Then I Got Pregnant With My Son.

I am a recovering man-hater.

I Used to Hate all Men. Then I Got Pregnant With My Son.

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Allison Hope

Articles written by the author

I Used to Be a Serial Cheater. Here's How I Finally Changed My Ways.

I Used to Hate all Men. Then I Got Pregnant With My Son.