I hung up the phone on both of them. Fucking Na’im. Why does he have to be so damn nice, and honest. And shit, if he’s nice and honest, what does that make me?
I called Torrei back and . . . still didn’t come clean. I spun an elaborate story about getting drunk, passing out in the street, getting sick all over myself, and being too embarrassed to tell her. She didn’t believe a word of it. But she didn’t have hard evidence that it wasn’t true either. All she knew was that I’d lied and she was sick of it.
So was I. All this time, I’d been making Torrei into some sort of demon in my mind. But I was the one cheating, lying, leading a double life, and putting my friends in the uncomfortable position of covering for me. I was the demon. Fortunately, the proof Torrei needed to unmask me would come soon enough.
At a show in Columbus, Ohio, I spotted a woman who had one of the best bodies I’d ever seen. Throughout my set, she looked at me like a python waiting to strike a duck and swallow it whole. Later that night, I discovered that she actually had a snake tattoo on her back. I also discovered that she could swallow things whole.
The next afternoon, she emailed: “Oh my God, this is amazing. Did you feel what I felt?”
An hour later, she sent a long email about how this was destiny and we were meant to meet. For three days straight, she emailed love letters, sexual fantasies, even a photo of her with a dildo in her mouth.
I showed Na’im the emails.
Me: I think I got a stalker.
Na’im: Did you sleep with her?
Me: Maybe.
Na’im: That’s what you get.
Me: What?
Na’im: You think these girls like you for you? Look at her body. Now look at yours. These girls are sleeping with you because they’re obsessed with your fame.
Me: Hey, wait, does that mean I’m a star?
Na’im: No, it means you stupid!
I emailed her back and said something like, “Hey, you’re being a little intense. Maybe you should chill out a little.”
In retrospect, I should have said, “I’m falling so deeply in love with you that I don’t know if I can see you again because I’m scared of getting hurt.” Because instead of chilling out, she found Torrei’s social media profile, sent her a message, and then emailed me a copy:
“You should know that your husband and I made love and are in love. He’s not who you think he is. You don’t mean anything to him.”
She went on to provide details about that night: the date, the time, the name of the hotel, my room number, things I said, things I did—things you don’t want your wife imagining.
I lost my shit. There were so many specific facts that there was no way for me to get out of this. My phone rang—it was Torrei. I let it ring through to voice mail.
When I finally got myself and my story together, Torrei wouldn’t pick up my call. I took a moment to figure out which of my friends had any patience left for cleaning up my messes.
“Hey, Spank, do me a favor and call Torrei right now. Don’t ask why. Just do it.”
“She find out—”
“I’m not paying you to ask questions.”
“Was it that girl with the snake tattoo?”
“You’re killing me here!”
“Was it worth it?”
“Give me that fucking phone!”
Torrei started going off as soon as she picked up: “He shouldn’t have crossed me. I’ll make him sorry.”
I spoke up, owned what I did, and apologized. Not because I’m a good person, in case anyone actually still thinks that at this point, but because I had no other option. Torrei laid into me for the next hour straight. I will never forget the last words she said: “You should never trust a woman with a snake on her back!”
From that point on, I had clarity on how to deal with women on the road. A few people have a snake on their back that you can see, but most people with a snake have one that you can’t see. You don’t know what someone is hiding—shit can go bad at any time and for any reason. So before getting into any situation, it’s necessary to think: What are the worst possible consequences that could happen because of this? If you can live with them, then go have fun. But if you can’t, then back the fuck away from that snake.
81
* * *
I CONSIDER MYSELF A SMART PERSON. I EVEN CALLED MYSELF A GENIUS IN THE SECOND CHAPTER TITLE. SO WHY HAVE I BEEN SO STUPID ABOUT THIS ONE THING? EVEN YOU, WHO ARE NOT AS SMART AS ME, KNEW I SHOULD HAVE DONE THIS LIKE A HUNDRED PAGES AGO.
Any small shred of hope I used to cling to, thinking that I could force my marriage to work, disappeared after the snake incident. Torrei now knew she wasn’t crazy and felt justified in treating me like the lying sack of shit I was. I felt guilty for what I’d done and took it without protest.
Of course, I hadn’t felt guilty when I was doing it—just when I got caught. So it’s not like I really had a conscience in the situation. If I had, I wouldn’t have cheated in the first place. At this point, I should have just left. I’d been over the marriage for years, and this would have been a good excuse to get out of it. But I couldn’t bring myself to cut the cord because I didn’t want to abandon the kids. I didn’t want to lose the days I set aside each week to come home and spend time with them.
So I stayed and just tried to appease Torrei. I no longer argued with her. I no longer even disagreed with her. I became not a man but a pacifier.
The argument we’d had for so long—“You get to go out and live your life while I’m stuck here!” “I have to work to support this family!”—changed after I was caught cheating. It was now clear to her that I wasn’t always working. So she wanted me on a tight leash; she wanted to be on the road with me more; and she wanted me to help her pursue her dream.
Me: Of course I’ll support you. What’s your dream?
Torrei: I want to be a stand-up comedian.
Me: Wait, what?
Torrei: I’ve watched you do it for so long. And I’m funny. I know I’d be great at it.
Me: It takes time to—
Torrei: Are you gonna help me like you said or not?
Me: Okay, I’ll support you.
Torrei: Good. God knows you’ve given me more than enough material.
She got to work. She wrote jokes. She went to open mics to perform. And then she spoke the most terrifying five words I’d heard in our entire relationship—even more terrifying than “I am gonna kill you!”
“I wanna open for you.”
That got another “Wait, what?” But I was the pacifier now, so I let her open a show for me. She got some laughs. She even did something on stage that I couldn’t: impersonations.
Afterward, I gave her some notes to help her out. But she wasn’t interested in that kind of support: “I don’t need any advice. I’m not trying to be you. You do your thing, and I’ll do my thing. I’ll be successful my own way. Just you watch!”