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This month, Esquire UK's advice columnist helps a reader whose relationship is on the brink over a "polish."
Uncle Dysfunctional is Esquire UK's "agony expert"—that's advice columnist in British. Here he counsels a young Londoner about whether a happy ending at the massage parlor constitutes cheating on your significant other.
My girlfriend's up the wall. About a massage. She's packing her bags, crying on the phone to her mom, swearing blue murder at me and, frankly, I can't make head nor tail of it. I like a bit of a rubdown. It relaxes me. I've got a high-stress job (better not ask), I like to have a bit of a schvitz and a stretch in the gym, a lounge in the hot fog, and then a bit of a deep-tissue pummel. There's a good girl at my gym and she always finishes me off in the correct and time-expected manner. And I've never thought anything about it. I mean, who doesn't get a happy ending? It's not even a thing. You throw her a tip and say, "Later," and you feel great and smoothed out for a high-octane evening. How relaxed are you going to be with a hard-on? And who doesn't get a stiffy on the table? It's just another bit of your bod that needs de-stressing. Anyway, the girlfriend—I say the girlfriend, but we've been together for a couple of years and have got a kid, and I think that she's it, give or take—she overheard me and a couple of friends having a bit of a banter about hand jobs, and she cornered me after and said, "Do you ever indulge?" And I said, "No, except for a polish after a massage." And she goes inter-fucking-galactic. "You're cheating on me and the kid, and you've been doing it all the time we've been together. I thought you loved me. I feel betrayed and humiliated. What am I going to tell little Taylor?" Bloody hell. I never saw this coming. And the thing is, I'm as good as gold. I never play away from home. My dad was a dog and I remember what it put my mom through. Anyway, what can I say? This doesn't mean anything, right?
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Well, yes and no. We've covered cheating quite a lot here. But, apparently, your ever-alert penises have short memories. I sometimes imagine Esquire readers' penises as a troupe of bored meerkats all up on their hind legs, sniffing the air for juicy poon; never still, always questing with evil, ravenous, beady little smirks. And then I have to think about something else, like Buddhist sandpainting. The first point to make is that the definition of what is and isn't cheating is not down to the man in the dock. If you've been fouled, it isn't for the opposing team to say whether or not they were just playing the ball. If you've been robbed, it isn't for the robber to hold up his hands and say he didn't think you'd miss it. So, cheating is not what you can get away with. It's what she feels about what you get away with. And the truth is some partners roll their eyes at a hand job in a spa, and some partners shrug at a drunken gobble in a dressing room. But not many. And only if they're playing away themselves or they don't care that much about you one way or the other. The big question here is: would you feel as sanguine if she were doing it to you? Say, after a pedicure she got a generous fingering? Probably not. The thing with guys and hand jobs is that they like to imagine they're closer to masturbation than fornication, whereas girls don't even like to think about their boyfriends having one off the wrist on their own. The big deal is that it involves a third party. And now you have to ask yourself, does it matter who this third hand belongs to? For the sake of argument, let's assume you have no attraction to men. Would you be satisfied with a happy ending from a male masseur? So, it's not just a mechanical relief, is it? Because the mechanic matters. And there's a telling anecdote about that. A shy cello player with a prominent symphony orchestra is on tour in the Far East. A horn player tells him that, if he fancies it, there's a really good massage parlour next to the hotel. Never having done anything like this, the cellist nervously books in for an hour's relaxing stroke. The masseur's only done one leg when he's sporting an expectant stiffy like a drumstick, and she smiles and winks and says, "Would you like a wank, soldier?" "Oh, well, actually, yes. I would rather," says the cellist. "OK," she replies, going to the door, "I'll be back in five minutes when you've finished." You see, it wasn't a thing. If it wasn't a thing, as you put it, you could always have seen to yourself, but the real point is that she cares. You would mind far more if she didn't. A lot of loving someone is protecting them from the vulnerability of their love. You had a duty not to let the mother of your child be hurt by her love for you. And if that twinges with guilt, well it's not due to a sordid tug in the gym, it's because you've failed at the first job of being in love, which is to make the person who offers their love back feel safe.
This piece originally appeared in EsquireUK's November issue.
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