It seems that my spirited discussion of resolving the ultimate betrayal through mandatory paternity testing made the rounds on the internet. A male commenter at Overcoming Bias had this to say about the Roissyan contention that cuckoldry is on a par with rape, if not even more psychologically traumatic:
And as to whether it’s worse [for a woman] to be raped or [a man to be] cuckolded – I cannot even begin to understand the trauma or ostracization of the first (which by the way happens to A LOT more than two percent the population) while the second would only hurt because of the dishonesty. It’s a difference of several orders of magnitude!
Oh rilly? I think it’s time to put this assertion to the test with a leetle thought experiment. Imagine two highly unpleasant scenarios.
You are walking past an alleyway when Big Bad Bubba comes up behind you and drags you into the dark alley, muttering “you look real purty for a grown boy” as he uses his bulk to press you into the damp brick wall, his beefy bear paws yanking your jeans and boxers down to your ankles. You try to resist but his strength is overwhelming. He smashes your face into the wall and sticks a knife to your throat, saying he’ll cut you if you scream. Suddenly, a seering pain shoots up your rectum. You struggle to get away but you are immobilized. The pain continues for what seems an eternity but is in actuality only one minute and 22 seconds. Punctuating his release with a great heaving grunt, Bubba withdraws, spent, and cackles as he walks off, the lingering musky stench of his sweat offending your nostrils. Vomit rises up your throat and you stumble to your knees, your hands grasping at pebbles on the ground. You are sure your innards are spilling out on a torrent of blood from your asshole, but luckily when you arrive at the hospital an hour later the doctors tell you there was no permanent damage to your poopenshaften and you are AIDS free. You go home, go to sleep, and call in sick the following two days. Over the following months you go to the gym more frequently than you used to, working out your shame and anger in the weight room. People compliment your improved physique. You tell no one of your ordeal.
You are married to the love of your life. In the first year of wedded bliss, your wife gets pregnant. Nine months later an infant pops out. You are filled with so much joy you hardly notice the brief flicker of discomfort you feel when you ponder that the child looks nothing like you, nor do you pay much attention to all your relatives telling you how much the child looks like you. Time passes. You spend countless hours, days, weeks, months, years loving your child, wiping his ass, taking him to the park, strapping him in the car seat and struggling with the belts and clips, working extra long hours to afford a move to a better neighborhood so your child can go to a good school, sacrificing your beloved guitar gig with a local band to spend that newly freed up personal time helping your child with his homework, attending his soccer games, cheering for him when he scores a goal, instructing him how to swing a bat and build a model airplane, teaching him how to defend himself in a fight, disciplining him for a bad grade in english, setting aside a chunk of your income for his college fund, and generally reorganizing your life in almost every conceivable way for your child’s benefit. Then, when your child is age 10, through a series of fateful circumstances you discover he is another man’s biological son. Your gut implodes and your heart crashes. Your mouth has dried into a sticky velcro. You feel as if you have just seen everyone you love die horrible deaths in front of you. Your brain is scorched and the room spins for what seems like an eternity but is in actuality only two hours and 43 minutes. Over the next year you learn that, despite your best efforts at some kind of recompense or at minimum freedom from pain, the law has decided in its infinite wisdom to require you to pay child support for another eight years to the wife you divorced, in the interests of the child. Betrayal eviscerates your sense of self. Besides the obvious lie, you wonder at the cascade of lies in tow. Did your wife whom you loved so much ever really love you? Did anyone else know? Did they think you a fool? Was your dignity worth so little to the people who mattered to you most? You ask these questions already knowing the answers.
Now that you have considered these two vile scenarios I want you to vote which of the two, should you be forced to endure one of them, you would rather have happen to you. This voting is for my male readers only. Ladies, you can take a time out with your purple saguaros.