I’ve always been the other girl. The side chick. The night time visit and and weekend escape. The island you wanted to visit, but never wanted to live because it was exotic, but not quite home.
Most times I was a side chick involuntarily, being that the secret was kept from me as much as from the main chick.
The interesting thing is that every time I got an “unknown” phone call from an exasperated woman, or met up for happy hour with a down trodden main chick it usually ended in me not getting jumped, shot, stabbed or anything else you’d expect. On the contrary, I’d meet a vulnerable woman yearning for information, looking for comfort that her “I told you so” friends can’t provide.
Last year it happened to me again. I met up with my lovers lover for rum and confessions. I made sure my face was pleasing to the eyes, prepared with the notion that I had to live up to the side chick rule; look worth it, be so beautiful it would be obvious why he cheated. It was silly, but necessary for prides sake.
We met. Gave each other the once over and tacitly agreed that I was the better looking of us two. I sat down relieved and she sat down humbled.
Our conversation started slow, but began picking up speed rapidly, like an airplane leaving the runway. Once in air turbulence took hold; we kind of spoke with harsh passiveness. She’d tell me things I didn’t know about him, “he likes toes and was always begging to suck mine,” she wiggled her pretty feet in her sandals, “did he suck yours too?”
“No, I didn’t know he liked toes.” I would say, feeling slightly “one-up’ed.” I had corns out of this world, I flashed back to how he’d always stare at my feet, now wondering if his long glances was out of disgust or desire.
This confirmation seemed to provide validation to her, she smirked while sipping her drink, because he never sucked my toes it was clear to her that she was the winner, she was the one he really loved.
It took everything not to burst her bubble by reminding her that he sucked my pussy, and that was all that really mattered. That was why we were here in an empty bar, overdressed–her with puffy eyes, and me with deflated esteem, because he liked sucking pussy that didn’t belong to him not because he enjoyed toes.
We continued on, talking, drinking, and then the connection happened.
Somewhere in the midst of snitching on her lover and out-doing each other, things began to soften.
We caught hold to each others pleasant nuances and fell backwards into some sort of twisted camaraderie. As an experienced side chick I’ve come to find that the main chick is often very similar to her unfaithful lover in terms of personality, and I begin to like her in ways that I liked the deceitful. The feeling would always become mutual.
Before you knew it we were talking incessantly. We were hanging out like school girls, licking each others wounds, sometimes literally, we did become intimate.
I question other women about this, wondering how many others share this experience. And usually I’m met with strange looks and distrusting vibes like I might be next to “steal” their man.
Anyhow, these romances or interactions never last, they’re usually soiled by resentment or distrust. Resentment that no matter how much you like me, I am still the girl who ruined your
fucked up perfect romance, I represent descent. And I too have my own reservations, which is fair, how do I know the mislead victim isn’t plotting on me? Or that you won’t return to the one that broke your heart (it has happened to me) leaving me as a rebound until love is reclaimed.
I know these strange relationships are not meant to last, but I enjoy them while they do.
It’s an unexpected relationship which is always exciting and deep. The deep happens when you’re able to move past weak pleasantries and get to know each other. When you meet to comfort each others pain, that develops a bond quicker than any other way.
Nonetheless, I’ve retired my side chick hat, but I still attract my exes, exes.
I think it makes sense. IF your partner could adore me so much, there was something about me, and surely you will see it too. Or you’ll try. They do try. They pick my brain. They court me dying to know what their cheating lover saw in me. And it always appears that your philandering lover saw a version of you, in me, with subtle differences that proved good enough to make the great escape worth it.
I remember having my last brunch with my new girlfriend and her crying into my arms about the man that equally fucked us. Her tears shed longer than my own, I had long ago been healed while she still nursed wounds that I was left licking. Why was I cleaning up another mans mess? Was this what I deserved for fucking someone who was taken? Or did I deserve the ass whooping that Twitter users said they would offer to any woman they caught creeping with their boo? Should I consider this less justice than deserved?
I wipe her tears knowing this would be the last time I would offer myself to this torture.
I had come to the resolve that I would never intentionally be a cheatee again, but not for reasons of morale, but because I didn’t want to be involved with the break down. I didn’t want to be the cause of another woman holding herself to sleep in tears and snot while her man dances the night away with me in some tucked off bar. But more importantly I wanted to know why I was not the main? Or why I did not get the glory of going through a mans phone and finding messages from some bitch? As a cheatee you have no rights, you just pull up your panties and listen to him say that you two were never official anyway so your opinion doesn’t matter.
It’s like being a drug dealer and getting robbed by another drug dealer. You can’t call the law. You can’t complain, folks simply tell you that this is what you get for being involved in illicit activity.
This is the life of a side chick. One example anyway.
My best friend argued with me on the phone that night that I explained these same sentiments to her and told her that I would no longer be seeing the crying ex main chick anymore because it was getting to be unbearable. I pictured me and the main chick two years from now celebrating our anniversary and her breaking down because she had a flash back of her ex nigga fucking me on the creep.
Fuck that, I had to go.
My best friend said that my thoughts do not represent the sisterhood I so often preach about.
She may be right, but I do not believe in soulmates-there is not “one person” designated for each earthling, multiple people can fall in love with the same person, it happens. Maybe I am selfish for exploiting that theory, but is it fair to say that depriving your partner of ever sleeping with someone else again is equally selfish? Fifty years of playing with the same twat that moans on cue? That’s a selfish request.
Couldn’t you still love someone and explore?
What if the rumors are true and You Only Live Once? Will my once be filled with fucking the same person day in and out, never able to grow by meeting new folks that can develop me in new ways? Or are these just the thoughts of an enlightened whore?
It isn’t fair.
We are all selfish, I believe in monogamy, but lets agree it is selfish to force someone to fuck only you…forever and its selfish for me to fuck someone else’s boo. I never did this to hurt anyone, I only wanted to own an experience, a memory, for just a moment, by someone who captivated me. I’ve explained this to many women, most do not agree, but usually I end up less hated by the ones who have been hurt. I’m human and sometimes my desires lead me to dark places.
Anyway, I promised my friend that I would never fuck any of her men. I was sad that I had to reassure her of this, I do have boundaries.
What are your thoughts? Is the side chick wrong or right and why? Comment below or via social media.
*If You’re Dign’ tha Conent Do Not Forget to Subscribe*