Cheating: How to Do It Right- a Guide for Women

CHEATING:

How to Do It Right—

A Guide for Women

Marleen Marylin Mour

Copyright © 2012, 2014 by Marleen Marylin Mour.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Rev. date: 03/27/2014

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CONTENTS

Author Bio

Introduction

Chapter 1 To Cheat or Not to Cheat?

Chapter 2 Preliminary Precautions to Taking the Plunge

Chapter 3 Don’t Shit in Your Own Backyard

Chapter 4 Don’t Rush

Chapter 5 Keep it Separate

a. Don’t share your personal phone number

b. Don’t share your work contacts or addresses

c. Don’t take him home

d. Social networking sites

e. Don’t divulge information about your partner to your play-boy

Chapter 6 The Honesty Card

Chapter 7 The ‘Little Things’

a. Financial records

b. Sex Toys

c. Never send nude pictures.

d. Password—protect your personal phone

Chapter 8 In the Bedroom

STD Myths

Chapter 9 The Make-believe Outings

a. Solo Activities:

1. If details can be cross-checked, use actual data

2. Know what material evidence is needed to support your story

3. Have the details prepared

4. Consider the results of your proposed lie

5. Remember the little props

6. Separate cars

7. Don’t be too specific

8. Mix it up

9. Handling phone calls and tag alongs

b. Group activities

1. Selecting the right friend

2. Giving enough notice

3. Constructing the believable story

4. Stay in sync

Chapter 10 How to Lie

a. Believe the lie

b. Facial expressions

c. Know what a liar looks like

1. Eye Contact

2. Don’t Fidget

3. Don’t get flustered or trip over your own words

4. Bring the lie up first

5. Avoid elaborate stories that require unavailable corroboration.

6. Appear indifferent

7. Good Memory.

Chapter 11 Don’t Change Your Routine

a. Becoming noticeably more concerned with your physical appearance

b. Never accuse your partner of cheating

c. No unexpected gifts or favours

d. Decrease in sex, intimacy, level of physical affection

e. No late nights ‘in the office’

f. Don’t justify your affairs

g. Your friend can’t act strange

i. Picking fights as an excuse to leave the house

Chapter 12 Don’t Get Too Cocky

Chapter 13 How to Break Things Off for Good

a. Preparation

b. Delivery

c. Wrap-up

Chapter 14 Dealing with the Guilt

Chapter 15 When to Admit, When to Deny

Chapter 16 Bonus Chapter—for the risk takers

a. Be willing to pack up and leave if things go sour

b. Not the boss

c. Choose someone with more to lose than you

d. Let him come after you

e. Make sure he knows your relationship status

f. Contact in and out of the office

g. Let him know exactly what you want

h. Code of conduct in the office (including company functions)

i. How to break things off

Appendix The Psychology behind Why We Do It

Statistics

Final Words

AUTHOR BIO

I was born in El Giza, Egypt, the second most populated suburb in the world. I crawled out of my mother’s womb 7 weeks early and eager to get this show on the road.

My father was in Washington D.C. in pursuit of a PHD. When he returned to Egypt, he and my mother fought over money and my mother’s greater ability to financially support the family through her work. It ate away at his ‘manhood’. He wanted to be ‘the head of the house, as Jesus is the head of the church’ and thought it best to force it upon us. He demanded obedience, respect and adherence to his strict and conservative rules. His means of enforcement were not logic or love, but rather fear and emotional and physical abuse.

The night I hid in the hallway, hearing yells and piles of plates shattering was my last night as a little Egyptian girl, unaware of the world outside. The next day my mother had my older sister and I pulled out of school and put on a flight headed to Sydney, Australia. My father would come home that night to an abandoned house and the beginning of a lonely life.

We spent 4 years in Australia. From the ages of 4-8, English became my primary language. I never missed my father, and never really thought of him as ‘my dad’. To me his lack of presence meant freedom from repressive and suffocating rules. Little did my mother know that her taking us to Australia would forever change our lives. She’d given us a taste of freedom that we would never forget.

In 1995, my father had located us. He showed up bearing expensive gifts and promises of a new, happy life together in West Africa. As a kid, no amount of toys fooled me. Despite my getting picked on at school and eating my lunch hidden in bathroom stalls, I knew that going back to my father meant giving up our freedom and thus our happiness. But my mother was torn. Torn between doing what made her (and ultimately her kids) happy, and doing what her culture told her was ‘right’ and ‘honourable’—to go back to her husband and be a ‘good, obedient wife’.

The 10 years that followed took me all over the world through school and family trips. From South Africa to the Ivory Coast, The Netherlands, Austria, Tunis, Canada and back to Egypt. Each culture opened my eyes to the world we live in—The world in which you must follow the rules of others and abide to societal standards to gain approval and be ‘good’ but ultimately unhappy.

At the age of 19, I’d spent so much of my life trying to abide by the rules that I found myself miserably engaged to a man I knew I wanted no future with. I suddenly saw where my life was headed. I was engaged to the man I’d lost my virginity to because I believed I’d go to hell if I ever slept with another man. Getting married, finishing a degree in economics and becoming a house-wife at the age of 21 was the ‘right’ thing to do. But how come doing what’s ‘right’ never made me happy? I wondered ‘is my life and future supposed to be mapped out according to the beliefs of others? Is this my life to live or theirs?’

I knew the answer. I wanted the freedom of self-expression. I wanted to make my own decisions and feel ‘good enough’ with all my mistakes and unconventional desires. I needed out. Out of Egypt, out of the life my father had me chained to.

I had no money. The Egyptian laws stipulated that I wasn’t permitted to leave the country with out the consent of my legal guardian. When 2 guys from class asked me to be the 3rd member on their team for a university competition that pays the winners, I knew the universe was throwing me a life jacket. I jumped on it. My Australian passport was my ‘get out of jail free’ card but that was long confiscated by my father.

The night we won the competition, the mere concept of being free came alive. After 2 months of secret visits to the Australian Embassy, I had my very own passport. I hid that passport in my underwear everyday till my father left to Tunis for business.

Knowing my mother had also had enough of the abuse from my father, I divulged all the details of my plan to her and urged her to come along.

After 10 years of regretting her decision to return to him, she was still too afraid to break the rules. Too afraid of the repercussions of taking his kids away again, this time with his only son (my younger brother). She used every excuse she could muster up to not leave, even invited a priest over to ‘talk some sense’ into me. But I’d made my mind up. I was getting out, with or without her.

The night of my flight, my mother snuck out of our 4th floor apartment, dead bolted the doors and sat in the stairwell till my flight took off without me.

I begged her to let me out, but got no response. I was ready to explode, ready to jump out the balcony if I had the slightest chance of making it alive. But I didn’t. When my mother came through the front doors, I pushed her aside, grabbed my suitcase and stormed out. I knew my flight was likely gone, but I had no choice but to jump in my car and race to the airport. My freedom depended on it.

When I arrived and ran inside, it was all confirmed. The flight had departed and there was nothing they could do about it.

My eyes burned and doom incessantly throbbed inside my head. I dragged my suitcase back to the car, locked the doors and let out the sobs.

I hated my mother for being so weak. Hated her for showing us freedom, then taking it away. I couldn’t give up. I refused to go back.

As I dried my face and squeezed my eyes to regain vision, I grabbed for a cigarette to ease my nerves. With the windows rolled down and the hot desert air blowing in my face, I took a long, deep drag. I could feel the nicotine filling my lungs, seeping into my blood stream and making its way to my brain. When I dispelled the smoke from my lungs, all emotion left with it. Clarity resumed. There was no more time for tears. I knew what had to be done.

I drove to the Airline office and rebooked my seat on the next flight. Without returning home, I drove to the airport the following night. As I walked through the front doors, my eyes locked with my mother. She’d called the airline, been notified of the next flight and decided to come with my father’s brother in case I showed up.

I grabbed hold of my suitcase, and marched straight towards the ticket gates. They walked towards me. My mother hung back while my uncle grabbed hold of my shoulders and shook me as he yelled in Arabic Where the hell do you think you’re going?!

I’m getting the Fuck out of here, that’s what I’m doing!

He tore the suitcase from my hands and stormed off.

‘Fine’ I thought, ‘take the suitcase. I don’t need cloths.’

I headed to the gate and handed my Australian passport to the guard. Without warning, my uncle returned, grabbed my passport from the guard and announced ‘I’m her legal guardian and I forbid her to leave!’

With my poker face on, I turned to the guard and said in English I don’t know who that man is but you just gave him my passport! If you don’t get that back right now, you’re losing your job!

He quickly grabbed hold of my uncle. Sir, this is an Australian Passport. I can’t hold her here by law.

Within minutes I had my passport and boarding pass in my hands. My mother stood on the other side of the gate looking scared and out of control. My uncle paced back and forth behind her.

I headed towards her one last time. Are you gonna give me back my suitcase?

Before she could reply, my uncle had stormed in front of me. He leaned in over the threshold, looked me in the eyes and whispered in Arabic you’re gonna be in so much trouble when you get back.

With all the rage and anger of 19 years of repression bubbling inside me I yelled FUCK YOU, FUCK YOUR FAMILY and FUCK YOUR CULTURE! My entire body shook with a ferocious need to cry and claim my freedom at the same time.

My anger frightened him. As he took a step back I turned to my mother and said you can keep the suitcase and never see me again; or you can give it back.

When she didn’t reply, I turned to walk away.

Wait! she yelled. Come take your suitcase!

. . . .

Since making it to