The Hitter Syndrome

Finally completed the story after much discussion, research and input from many who had been hit on. Enjoy and share your views too, please.

To All the Girls I've "Hit On" Before

The word “hit” has so many connotations that one wonders what it really means at the end of the day. Dictionary.com gives more than 30 different variants of the word, its grammatical status, and usage. As simple teens in the 60’s, all we knew about hitting was that it was a physical act, inspired by anger, carried out by one upon another, usually, ending up in hurt or pain. Synonyms that come to mind, in that context, from that era are, beat, cane, strike, bump into. In sporting terms, of course, we see the word very often used in cricket, basketball, and baseball. Then, there is also the “hit” connotation of the action of doing something, like “hitting the road” on that great adventure into the open, “hit the beach” on a Sunday morning, “hitting a bad patch” in life or business, “hitting the right note” in music, “hit on the answer” in a quiz, “hitting the hay” when you are going to bed, and of course, “a storm hitting the coast” during hurricane season. We also have the luxury of enjoying some of those great humorous phrases like when the “goo hits the fan”.

In this new hi tech cyber world of ours in the 21 century, the word has taken a very unusual and more slang like meaning with the “on” suffix attached, which implies that to “hit on” someone is to pay unsolicited and, usually, unwanted sexual attention to, as in, "can't go into a bar lately without being hit on" or “the boss is hitting on his Secretary”. Hence, 'Hitting on' implies that the man is interested in some way (usually sexually) and he is going to do something to try to impress the woman so that she will also be interested in what he seeks from her.

While this type of hitting could be easily referred to as “making a pass” which in the good old days may have been simply casually tapping a behind hoping for a responsive blush that ends up in some down to earth flirtation, it has certainly taken many new byways in modern times.  Of course we cannot run away from the fact that men and women, since the old Snake and Apple incident, have always been making passes at each other in some form or the other, legally or otherwise. The end game, traditionally, has always been the institution of marriage, where, the two individuals tie the knot and are expected to “live happily ever after”.

Hitting, in modern times, has somehow evolved into an addictive game of “hit and run” where the perpetrator intends to take the opportunity afforded to make a kill of the victim by exploiting what is automatically assumed to be his or her intimate personal and physical needs. The hitter, of course, is only looking to fulfill his or her own lust on a very short term basis. Sociologists and gender advocates even refer to this form of hitting as abuse and are making genuine attempts to create the awareness and provide protection for the victims. Sadly, most of the victims, across the globe, in these cases are female.

One of the best platforms for a hitter is within the working environment of the office or workplace. Here, the perpetrator is usually the one who sits at a higher rung on the organization tree, where, it becomes quite convenient and risk free to make the hit on a lower level employee. While, in some cases, the response may be consensual, there are also many instances when the victim is subject to agree purely to preserve the position they hold or even simply cling on to their jobs. Universities also provide another effective playing ground for this game where the mentors hold the cards in the future of the students who, usually, have very little choice in jeopardizing their future and careers. The most extreme, and worst case scenario, of hitting occurs within the family unit, generally, takes the shape of incest, which, in all societies and communities, is a punishable offence.

Hitting, amongst peers is also a very common phenomenon that can be seen across the divide at all occasions where people gather together for work, play or entertainment. In general, most societies treat such events as normal where the intent is seen to be purely one of social interaction based on mutual consent, irrespective of who the players are and what their civil disposition currently is.

The strangest and most amazing situation is that it is happening everywhere, across the board, top down, in every possible society or group. Human beings do have the ability to portray themselves as “decent”, “professional”, “religious”, and most of all, “honorable” based on their life’s situations within their own groups or even at a much larger national or even global level. Politicians, professionals, preachers, and pundits, have been exposed by the media and the public on so many occasions with their hands inside the cooking jar in this respect. While it could be said that people in these high places are automatically “entitled” or even “offered” these luxuries of social interaction to fulfill their desires the saddest part is when it happens amongst common people who have inter-connected relationships and friendships.

The case of the best friend hitting on ones wife or girl friend is well known in life, books, soaps and the movies. In general, personal experience tells us that a very large percent of these hitters are married males. While almost every single one of them would rise up at their own Tahrir Squares with placards to ban polygamy, they, still are the greatest players of the hitting game within their inner circles. That sure is one of the most bizarre paradox of these times.

So how does one be safe from these mighty hitters of this masculine ball? Some women take up courage and say “No” emphatically and even, possibly, lose out whatever advantage they were expecting to receive from the hitter at a professional or business level. Others, on the weak extreme, probably breakdown and succumb, willingly or unwillingly, in with the hope that it will be put behind them after they have got what they want and move on. Those in-between are the smart ones who play ball up to a point, pretending to party, and, slowly slip away at the right moment using some form of diplomatic excuse. Obviously, in this particular, case the hitter is fully aware that the victim is not being cooperative because she does not like what he proposes. Yet, these vermin, very rarely back off. Every time they are rebuffed they make it a point to come up with another bolder attempt to seek their pasture. As long as there is contact and communication the will to conquer will always prevail. It is much like a hunt.

Women with a strong personality and who know exactly what they want and do not want are the ones who are usually safe from these vermin. They are very assertive about their status and make it very clear, either directly or by various other feminine mannerisms, to indicate their disinterest openly. The feeling of being rejected also creates a very negative effect on the hitter and lowers his ego to a great degree. This factor can also be a catalyst to strengthen his will to hit even harder to achieve his ends. No one wants to be a loser, at the end of the day. Women, who also suffer from or have their own personal and psychological problems and issues, may also become easy prey to these gloating men. Once a weakness in the woman is detected the hitter will exploit it to the maximum knowing that his chance of success is even greater. While hitting is, generally, a trial and error exercise it has, certainly, reached epidemic proportions amongst most human beings on the planet.

Women will also usually complain about being 'hit on' all the time and guys will talk about 'hitting on' girls. It’s a very commonly seen situation across the board. Some men even admit that there just is no other way to approach women because you're a man so obviously you must show interest in her sexually.

Unfortunately for most men, 'hitting on chicks' nowadays almost never works. Even for a man that has got 'game', it's usually the inert nature of women who know they are in the game that will then assess his levels of skill and compatibility . When a man approaches a woman, using his various ploys, she can almost always tell if he is going to 'hit on' her. Women have become so adept at this after being approached by hundreds of different men (who all seem the same) that have 'hit on' them. They've become very aware and keen on what is going on and can see it from a mile away. They can tell from the man's nonverbal body language and communication that he is 'interested' in and that she has the favor in the relationship because he's trying to 'get something'.

At the end of the day, it's the woman's level of interest that determines if any kind of relationship will go forward. In the relationship where men hit on them, she has the power and favor and that's not what she wants. She wants a man who is equal or greater in relational power than her. In this way, she can be attracted to him in a more realistic and positive manner.

Yes, today's women live in a logical vs. natural instinctive paradox but don't blame them for it. Look at their actions instead of their words. If you don't understand the root behavioral characteristics they represent, you'll continue to think women are illogical and you'll still probably think the only way is to give away your power and mystery up front so that you have to 'hit on' women.

And what is the status of the guys who are uncontrollably interested in her sexually, only?

Well, that's the problem because they're giving their power away and ruining their (what becomes) 'chance' all along. It's time that men harness an equal leverage of power that the woman has and gain some self-control because he actually may not be interested in her other characteristics.

Attaining this will, surely, require some de-programming and advanced mind control training to actually change his reality from 'hitting on chicks', playing the 'game' and failing to one of attracting women and getting them consistently interested because he keeps his power for himself. And do you notice how so many people call it 'getting lucky'. That entire scenario is one where women have the power and control.

Men, have a tendency, usually, to say that, a woman is sexy, she loves sex, she wants sex, and hence she will respond to sex if and when the offer is forthcoming. Sometimes they may be correct for the majority of women; sometimes they may be correct for a minority of women; and sometimes they’re absolutely wrong. The bottom line in this is that anything the hitter says about women is not true for all women. Hitters could also be wrong about their perception of men, too.

The “hit on” theory makes a lot of assumptions, especially stereotypes about women. Hitters may have some good ideas about how to flirt, but many of them will try to convince you that those tactics work because women are dumb, childish, weak-minded, gold-diggers, submissive, irrational, or whatever other gross stereotype you care to choose. Just because a hitter is able to show you how to flirt, that doesn’t mean the assumptions behind the advice are reasonable.

If a man wants success with women, he has to be the one who has the power and control in the relationship because that is what the women want and will be attracted to, while words can't do it justice.

As for the women, complaining to a higher authority, in the society that we live in, in seeking some form of justice and fairness very rarely produces any positive results. In fact it can make the life of the female even more difficult. Most of these hitters are people who have connections and can make or break things for other people.  In some cases they can even turn the tables on the victim and make her appear like the hitter or even a gold digger. The public are too naive to believe the underdog.

Hitters are galore, and thrive very successfully, amongst all peoples and communities at all levels of society, from Princes to Peasants. It is a common human phenomenon based on various reasons ranging from childhood psychological disturbances, domestic turmoil and other disturbing social conditions that are commonly prevalent in a majority of homes and families. It also has its roots on the selfish nature of the species in only seeking what they desire and not caring about others.

Raphael was a senior Professor of Economics at the University of Wachumaycallit, in his 50s. Kumari was a post grad student aspiring to achieve her Masters degree in Environmental studies. The first response she received from the Don when she approached him for mentoring her program was a tongue in cheek statement clothed in sexual humor. Since then Kumari has had to break her back in keeping out of the professors paws while still making sure that she benefits from the program which is unavoidable since she wants to pursue her career.

Build4Tomorrow NGO was headed by Karu, a married man with three kids. Their plan was to provide housing for humanity in a little village on the East Coast of Sri Lanka. Mala, was a young lass who hailed from the southern town of Matara, and had just taken up a position as Project Coordinator with the B4T. Her job involved travel from Colombo to the east coast on a regular basis. She usually stayed over at the rest house that was located close to the job site. On one occasion when she was on duty at the job site she found, to her surprise, Karu calling over at the rest house, unannounced. On inquiry he stated that he was on an inspection visit since the principals wanted a status report urgently for funding reasons. It was during this conversation that he slowly popped up with the idea of sharing her room in order to cut costs since he was only staying over for a few days.

MaryJane was a Burgher lass from Colombo who worked as a teller at the Bambalapitiya branch of GameyBank. The branch manager always insisted that she stay over after closing time to finalize some report or review that he conjured up almost every single day. Since it was usually late in the evening he duly offered to drop her off at home in order to save her the time and hassle of commuting in the dark. He never failed to ask her if she wanted to stop by and have a quick meal since he was always hungry. She had to refuse politely saying that she had to prepare the meals for her own kids waiting for her at home. The dilemma she faced was whether to quit or comply. No doubt dinner is a harmless pursuit you will agree? But she was able to read between the lines being a grown, married, and mature woman. Her boss was also married and probably had a wife waiting for him at home to join her for dinner.

Geetha was attending a dinner hosted by the German Embassy in Colombo. She represented an organization in Colombo who had business with German industry. She bumped into Mervyn, a reporter from the local media, she had known during her University days but lost contact in ages. They exchanged mobile numbers as ex colleagues. Two nights later she receives a text message from Mervyn. He wants to meet her urgently to discuss an issue. What issue? They haven’t seen each other in decades and he pops up an invisible issue? She’s too wise to fall for that hit.

Nimal is a businessman. He also dabbles in other social and political affairs. One day he bumps into Nelun at a Government department where she is responsible for approvals. They become business associates since some of his work requires her assistance. Slowly, he gets personal. Relates his woes he has to face at home with his wife. Seeks her sympathy. Even cries at her table. She feels embarrassed. And then comes the punch line. He calls and says, “I’m coming over to your office, Let’s have lunch?”. She has to wriggle out giving an excuse at first. Later on he gets persistent. Even openly states that he likes her. She takes up courage and says no. Finally he even admits what he seeks, shamelessly. How many others will succumb or survive? This guy is sick, real sick.

The departure lounge at Gate #32 inside King AbdulAziz International Airport in Riyadh was choking with Sri Lankan expatriates waiting to take the Saudia flight to Colombo. There were also a large group of Malayalees who were travelling to Trivandrum via Colombo. They often choose to take this route, back home to Kerala, on account of the daily flights to Trivandrum from Colombo and also the facilities they benefit from at the Customs desk in their State compared to the transit in Mumbai. Those who fly Sri Lankan also benefit from the free booze that’s served all the way back home, a commodity they are deprived from during their sojourn in Arabia. There are also a few Saudi families and western expatriates also waiting to enjoy the lush green climes of salubrious Sri Lanka.

The majority Sri Lankan passengers consist mainly of house maids returning home after an arduous two or three year stint working their butts off in search of some extra cash to develop themselves back home. Their anxiety and expectations can be visibly seen on their attire and faces. Some may be leaving with an aching heart after having had a difficult time with their employers while others would be looking forward t return to continue their contracts. Almost all of them are engaged in repaying debts incurred before they set out to the Gulf in order to pay for all the varied expenses back home to the agencies and authorities to have their paperwork completed.

In the midst of this hodgepodge coterie of humans there also lurk another band of male expatriates returning home after having spent time in the region. They too could be a mixed bag of unhappy and content workers based on their own situations. Being on single status employment contracts they would have had to spend their life in Arabia living in all male labor camps and very difficult conditions. Load all of these situations on the hearts and minds of simple human beings and you can easily end up creating an evil monster that’s waiting to devour anything that comes its way.

The waiting time for departure is at least an hour away. More people keep flocking to the departure lounge and seating themselves with their hand luggage. Some strike up conversations with the person sitting next to them since they may not even had access to another Sri Lankan chat for many years. The scene seems peaceful amidst lots of laughter and chatter in Sinhala and Tamil.

And then the hitters make their move. These are an ingrained band of men who have been living and working in the region for quite some time and have been travelling back and forth to Sri Lanka and back over many years. They are the mafia of the menial expatriate Sri Lankan community in the Middle East. They may also speak some Arabic and are very eloquent with the names of places, events and affairs in the region and also back home. They come equipped with all these ammunition to seek their prey.

“Gama Koheda, Nangi” [where are you from, sister] one of them pops up the question to an innocent looking young housemaid who appears rather new and probably flying home for the first time. “Api Nuawara”, [from Kandy] comes the reply, coyly. “Aiya Koheda?” [Where are you from?] “Mama Colomba”, [Colombo] he responds. The conversation then delves upon the working conditions, employer, salary, and other related events that have transpired over the past few years with both parties getting quite comfy with each other and giving out information freely. Once the guy realizes that his new found friend is a newbie he feels happy that he has a “hit” on his hand for the next 6 hours or even more. The flight to Colombo from Riyadh takes approximately 5.5 hours. “Oyata Honda Seat ekak hambawunada?” [Did you get a good seat] he asks as if to try and assist her to find a comfortable and vantage seat on the aircraft. She is not sure about seating at all and immediately opens up her handbag and exposes her boarding pass to him. He then goes on to explain that its bot a very good seat but he can arrange for her to have a better window seat on the aircraft where she can enjoy the ride better and also drops in a quick line stating that he would be seated next to her and that they could continue their chat along the way. The gal is impressed at this good Samaritan and willfully agrees without realizing what comes next.

The public address system announces that boarding will commence now and the man is now directing the gal on how to set about joining the line to board, even offering to assist her in carrying her hand luggage. The gal feels even more comfortable and secure. She thanks her God inside her heart. Once on board and seated, obviously on different seats, the guy sweet talks the passenger seated next to him to agree to exchange places with the gal stating that she is a relative from his same village. The gal now moves over and seats herself at the window seat next to her “hitter”. That’s phase one accomplished successfully.

From then onwards it’s a matter of sweet talk, saucy jokes, innuendos, implying statements, and sometimes, even seduction, to get her interested into an escapade during the flight under the warm blankets that the airline provides after lights out. Ninety Nine times out of 100 the guys make a hit. Soe, after the long and pleasurable encounter on board even make arrangements to stay over in Colombo for a day or two at a guest house before taking that final lap back home to the village. Cash is not an issue since he has some savings in his hand that was hard earned and meant for his family. What the heck? A man deserves some fun in his life. Then there are those who even clinch an even better deal in arranging more escapades during the Sri Lankan leg of the vacation. Some even arrange the return trip together making it a totally round trip extravaganza. After a single encounter like this the gal has now been initiated into the club and thence on she’s easy meat for any other hitter who comes along the way. And all the time the fact remains that both parties are married and have kids and family, commitments, obligations, responsibilities, and even ventured out to the Gulf in order to alleviate these needs. There are those who then go even the last and dangerous step. They make arrangements to meet up in Saudi Arabia based on suitable times and conveniences that are reasonably safe. The risk they take is absolutely excruciating even to think about. Getting caught can be suicidal in any Arab nation. Yet the call of the flesh overrides all danger to oneself, as always. And the hitting continues unabated, even in the remotest of lands.

Then there was this elderly physician in Colombo who thought he could make headway into one of his female patient’s privacy by telling her, seriously, that he would love to have her to have his babies. I am not sure how much this violates the oath of Hippocrates? Has that oath completed its shelf life already?

Of course haven’t we all heard of the dentists hitting on their patients while under treatment on the chair using all his charm to see how far he can reach during the procedure? The close proximity and physical contact also facilitates this even more. I really am not sure about how male Gyno’s manage their day?

Captain Silva, a young man, who worked for the Police Force, was dating Sumana, who hailed from his own village and worked in a government department in Colombo. He used to pick her up every evening from work and ride back to drop her home. Sumana was a close friend of Dilini, who also worked for an NGO located close to her office. Silva and Sumana usually dropped in at Dilini’s office to say hi and enjoy a chat on most day. The friendship blossomed even further and the threesome even went out together for a meal or a social event in town. One morning Dilini is busy at work in her office. There’s a knock on the door and Silva walks in, fully uniformed in his Police gear. She’s surprised at this unannounced visit, especially at this time of day and without Sumana, too. She offers him the usual courtesies and asks him to take a seat. He explains that his visit is one of grave concern to him as he needs some valuable advice from Dilini related to a personal matter. Apparently, he explains that he is having some personal issues with Sumana and does not know how to resolve them. He seeks complete confidence from Dilini who is totally taken aback by this overture since Sumana had not indicated any unusual issues to her at all. Silva shows his desperation in pleas and laments. He wants a private meeting with Dilini outside her office in order to explain the details of his woes to her. It’s a tough call for Dilini since she seems trapped between the devil and the sea. She offers Silva a cup of tea and manages to avoid giving him a direct response using her common sense and the fact that she will be quite busy for the coming week with a possible field trip out of town too. He accepts and walks away saying that he would call her again. The calls and text messages become very frequent now. Dilini is not really sure how to break this news to her friend, Sumana, since Silva had requested complete secrecy about his visit. The intrigue is way over the top. Finally, Dilini consults a close friend of her on the matter and decides to invite both Silva and Sumana together for a meeting. The ice is finally broken and the topic out in the open and all ends well with Silva forcing out a very flimsy excuse about the real issue between him and Sumana, which was, actually, non-existent. Dilini realizes the game. Her diligence and caution paid off. Basically Silva was obviously hitting on her, using his Police uniform o gain access to her office and also gain some respectability amongst the staff there. His ploy was to try and take Dilini out of the office to a private location and then try and make the hit produce its desired result. Had Dilini accepted his proposition she could easily have been in a terrible fix and compromising situation.

Ravi was around 45, and a frequent visitor to Sheffield International School in Dehiwela where he dropped and picked up his 10 year old daughter, Malini, everyday. Often, he would speak to her homeroom teacher, Miss Kumi, and discuss the progress of his child seeking to know any special attention he should give her with her homework. Kumi was a very attractive young lass, in her early 20’s, who had graduated in education some years back. Malini was an average child and Ravi and his wife made all attempts to ensure her education progressed successfully. Ravi was very much attracted to Kumi. He was unsure how to make the initial pass on account of her being his daughter’s class teacher. “I need some extra attention for Malini”, he once popped the idea to Kumi. “Will you be willing to tutor her at home on weekends?”. Kumi was already tutoring two children in her locality and seemed interested as it provided her some additional income. What she did not know was that Ravi’s wife was working on Saturday mornings and it was only he and Malini who were at home. The tuition class went on quite well as planned until one day Kumi rang the doorbell at Ravi’s place to find that Malini was ill in bed. Ravi expressed his apologies at not being able to inform Kumi earlier and save her from the bus ride to his place. He offered to drop her back home as a means of compensation. Kumi accepted wholeheartedly feeling honored at his compassion and kindness. Driving on High Level Road, Ravi was chatting to Kumi in his normal manner discussing many things. As they passed by the junction he paused and asked, “Would you like to stop for a drink, it’s a very humid and hot day, today?”. Kumi was thirsty too and didn’t feel uncomfortable at all and openly said, “Yes, why not, that would be nice, thank you”. On the way back home to drop Kumi Ravi makes his first pitch, “Maybe, we could do this again, sometime?”. Kumi feels very disturbed She never realized for a moment that this married man, father of her student, was actually hitting on her. She had always looked upon him as a caring father and loving husband to his wife. There was nothing else she could do but to discontinue the tuition class.

Khalid Khan was a Pakistani Diplomat in Colombo. He never failed to make overtures to most of the young women who called over to obtain visas to visit his home country. His ploy was very straight and simple. “Join me to dinner and you have the passport stamped, in the morning”. How simpler can that be?

An email exchange about what goes on inside the UN office in Colombo might also be interesting to analyze and ponder over as follows:

PA, sending out an event notification:  Dear All, UN Event, Date: x Month, Year , Time: 1000 hrs to 1200 hrs, Venue: conference room or PM’s room if not available, Best regards, PA

PM response: Yes, we can meet at the said venue as planned . best

PA: Thanks a bunch [PM], but I managed to get the XXX conference room Thank you again.  

PM: What will you offer?

PA: Good snacks and tea/coffee. What more do you want? Cake?

PM: You know what I want.

And then he takes up courage to call over at the PA’s desk and say, “why don’t you respond to my mail, you can simply say yes, what are you afraid of, I will arrange everything, you have nothing to lose, just say the word and I will take care of everything”. Phew! Is this the World of the Ban Ki Moon people?

An interesting response I received from a male in London goes like this:

“According to one of the Tennis pros David L, this is his modus operandi. He is of mixed parentage so ruggedly handsome 6 feet 2 inch tall and with a permanent tan not pasty white. According to unofficial reports he has broken at least 6 marriages.

He told a few of us in full confidence that you don't score with women by giving flowers and chocolates, that may get you some sympathy sex. His Modus Operandi is to break her self esteem, she will turn to putty in his hands”

Oprah’s website has some very interesting comments by American women on her show “Why Men Cheat” where she hosted marriage counselor,  Gary Neuman,, as follows:-

carolherrington : After 30 years, an old fiance looked me up on FaceBook. I am beginning to think that is a nightmare. We were engaged. Mom insisted we break up, and I did. Apparently, she knew his character better than I did. After a whirlwind romance between July 4th of this year and now, he not only proposed to me but wanted to move to my ranch to be with me and my furry four-legged "children." Only after some pressure and some odd txt times did I figure out he was still married. He went from his marriage is over and on the rocks to he doesn't know what he wants - of course AFTER I asked for a prenuptual to protect my assets. Then, the moron still emails me he will love me forever and morn what we could have had. I am not sure why men cheat, except that maybe they are looking for greener pastures. My pasture is permanently closed and posted!

yisell : There are two types of men in the world. There are those with a fleshly eye, their desires of the flesh can never be satisfied. And, those with a spiritual eye that adhere to a moral principal or standard. The man with the fleshly eye takes advantage of every opportunity that comes his way to cheat. You know the type, he's always eyeing anything in a skirt. And with the caliber of women today it makes it easy for him to cheat. Cheaters need partners and it's sad that so many women have become willing participants in the ultimate betrayal. I suggest to men, that if you find that you have roaming eyes, you are not marriage, or boyfriend material. Be honest with yourself and the women with whom you come in contact. Remember too, that what comes around goes around.

kfed : Give...me...a...break! Men cheat when they are too stupid to figure out how to get what they need in the relationship they are in. Such men will never be happy in any relationship with a woman, and they will always be looking for satisfaction elsewhere. Also, it is not the responsibility of their partner to help them find happiness. If they can't learn how to find happiness within themselves and they always look to other people to make them happy, then they will surely never find it.

Kalli2010 : I really do not think his data is accurate. His research only studied 200 males 100 of which are unfaithful. Unfaithful males are not known for their honesty. To assume the data is correct is crazy. From my own personal observation I believe the core of the males who are unfaithful are narcicistic. To further my belief that this is the case I will add that its comon knowlege that women tend to be more verbal and good at networking. They will thank a man and appreciate him for doing tasks. However the reverse happens to women men rarely ever appreciate or verbally appreciate their actions. Because of this I seriously think that Mr. Neumans affair proofing ideas will never work.
I really wish you would have a real relationship expert on.

What's the number one reason men cheat? Ninety-two percent of men said it wasn't primarily about the sex. 

"The majority said it was an emotional disconnection, specifically a sense of feeling underappreciated. A lack of thoughtful gestures," Gary says. "Men are very emotional beings. They just don't look like that. Or they don't seem like that. Or they don't tell you that."

Josh says he cheated on his wife, Jennifer, because he felt underappreciated at home and started feeling insecure. "That insecurity was really the catalyst," he says. "I didn't feel comfortable going to the one person in the world I should be going to, which is my wife."

With daily worries like bills, children and chores, Gary says it's easy for couples to drift away from appreciating one another like they should. Gary says the other woman often makes the man feel better about himself. "[She] makes them feel different. Makes them feel appreciated, admired," he says. "Men look strong, look powerful and capable. But on the inside, they're insecure like everybody else. They're searching and looking for somebody to build them up to make them feel valued." 

Men have a winning mentality, Gary says. Just think about how the men in your life act while watching their favorite sports teams. "They love to win," Gary says. "Does he have ownership in the team? It looks like that. But as long as they're in the game, even to the very end, they'll watch. Once it's a blowout and they know their team can't win, television goes off. And what a lot of men will say to me through this research is, 'I just felt like I couldn't win.' Now they might not have been great guys to live with, I'm not saying it's her fault, again. But if you want to secure your relationship and understand and have the knowledge of men, make them feel like they're winning with the things that they do for you."

Don't be afraid to praise your partner or tell him that you appreciate what he does, Gary says. "We get married because we want one person in the world to really think we're wonderful for doing all the things that we do. We all want the same thing," he says. "And the more we give it, the more we get it in return."

How often does a man cheat on his wife with a woman who's more attractive? Not as often as you may think. Gary found that 88 percent of the men surveyed said the other women were no better looking or in no better shape than their own wives.

For the first five years of his marriage, AJ says things were rocky with his wife, Janet. "We got to the point where we were really living in separate parts of the house. I went downstairs every time I came home from work," he says. "So when somebody else took an interest in me and was interested in what I did, interested in my job, interested in what I wear—you name it—before I had the self-awareness to understand my vulnerabilities and take responsibility, I liked it—even though it was the worst decision of my life."

While writing this article I had a sudden brainwave to send emails to a few females I knew in different parts of the globe, and also try and see what other similar stories have been reported through time, to try and get their feedback, experiences, or comments. Here are a few that are simply mind shattering.

And of course, as this is being written, we are all a witness to the massive breaking news of the arrest of the IMF Head, Strauss-Kahn, in New York for attempting to molest and rape a hotel maid. This is then followed by Arnold Shwarzenegger’s admission that he has fathered a son by his maid ten years ago and his wife Maria Shriver is now leaving him after 25 years of marriage. We did have the Bill Clinton and Monica saga in the White House many moons ago. Who is next in line from the celebrities and politicians, I wonder?

Annie Zaidi, (Email: knownturf@gmail.com  Website: http://www.anniezaidi.com/ ), from Mumbai in India writes in her “Known Turf” blog:

Quote

I had my doubts about blogging this - writing about street harassment. After all, it's as common-place as paan (betel) stains, as ubiquitous as spit.... Will my saying 'NO' to harassment prevent it? How does telling my stories serve any purpose?

But while discussing the Blank Noise Project with a male friend (who has never maaro-ed seeti, never chhedo-fied, never sung lewd songs, never felt up, pinched, grabbed any part of any woman), he told me - "How do you know? Some teenage boy somewhere reads this and decides not to molest women... you never know."

For men like him, I write this post.

Some things, you learn to expect, growing up a girl

You expect to confront harassment as surely as the sun in May and the fog in a Delhi December.

When you leave the house, an invisible snake of alert suspicion will wind down from your shoulders down your back and become a clenched fist in all public spaces, through all journeys.

How optimistic you're feeling about man-kind, on any given day, determines whether you take a bus home, or just hop into an auto, or a cab, knowing you cannot really afford it. If you really cannot afford an auto some day, you will not take the bus at rush-hour. You'll let bus after bus after bus go past. Waiting is tiresome. But waiting is easier than bristling.

You didn't always expect to do this, of course. One learns these things, by and by.

I began learning in Bombay. Yes, that delightfully sprawling city that is so kind to its women.

My first lesson was delivered atop the railway bridge at Andheri railway station when I was 13 years old. It was my first visit to this city by the sea, my first brush with the overflowing local trains. The first time someone grabbed my 13-year old breast.

After all these years, I cannot forget - his face pudgy, more fair than dark, moustache, white shirt, briefcase in hand, big belly, must have been about 40. Old enough to be my father.  I remember he had walked into me - or pretended to - and while I struggled with the shock of what he'd been doing under the guise of walking into me, he calmly walked past... just a regular uncle-ji hurrying home after a hard day at work.

What did I do?

Nothing. No, nothing at all. I just kept walking on, beside my brother.... My 17-year old brother who might have picked a fight if I'd told him.... What could I have told him?... It was too late anyway. The crowds had swallowed all of us, so completely.

Some things, you learn to expect (relief is always unexpected).

Therefore, you will be very pleasantly surprised when a man takes the seat next to you in a bus, and actually leaves two inches breathing space between you, instead of pushing so close that the windowpane leaves marks on your forearm.... All the same, old habits die hard, and you will spend the journey with a clenched fist balled up somewhere in your shoulder blades, because, you never know when he'll start acting up, do you?

You will also feel miserable when the well-behaved one gets down two stops before yours - it's too much to expect two well-behaved men sitting next to you on a single trip.

But no matter how much you steal yourself to it, sometimes, you will still get reduced to tears.

Seven years later, again in Bombay, after swearing to travel only in the ladies compartment of the local train, I learnt yet another lesson : some 'ladies' compartments turn into a free-for-all feel-up-jam-session after nine o'clock at night.

Suddenly, there were men's crotches pressing into my face, my knees and my shoulders. I stood up and fought my way to the door. Only to be surrounded by half a dozen men offering to 'get me out safely'. As the train stopped, half a dozen men got on, half a dozen got off. Trapped between them for a few seconds, I lost count of how many hands felt me up.

I cried tears of rage - if only that train hadn't moved away... I wanted badly to drag at least one of them off that train and smash his skull on the nearest railway track.

Some things, you get used to. Like rage

Your ears will be whispered into, your behind will be touched. Songs will be sung...

You will learn to laugh. Humour can a great self-defense tool.

For instance, when a boy calls out 'good morning, madam' on a busy street crossing, I laugh it off.
When a boy follows me from my office every day, offering to marry me, I laugh it off.
When silly men accost me on the streets and demand to 'make friendship', refusing to take 'no' for an answer, offer me lifts, I laugh it off.
When somebody calls me 'taazaa malaai', 'mirchi', 'badhiya maal', 'chhammak-chhallo', 'lassun-pyaaz' (yes, even that!), I shake my head and laugh it off.

Over the years, I even learnt to focus on the merits of the songs being sung/whistled, thinking about the musical tastes of the modern roadside Romeo, instead of the intent behind the singing or whistling.

But when I am walking home at night and a car full of drunk men slows down close to me, I cannot laugh. I can only hope to  seek relief in the other car that is  coming down the road; when that car also turns out to be full of drunk men who also plan slow down near me...
it is hard to keep up a sense of humor all the time.

Five years ago, once again in Bombay, I lost my humor, and learnt not to, NOT do, anything. At Andheri station, again, for the first time, I used violence.

A man asked me 'how much?'.
I tried to walk past quickly.
He asked me a second time. 'How much?'
I took a step forward, then stepped backward, swung around, and threw a punch.
He looked very surprised and asked 'what did I do?'
I didn't stay to explain. That night, my fist was swollen. I'd never seriously hit anyone before.

The next time two occasions I punched men, it was at railway stations in Bombay. In both instances, I didn't hit out immediately. It was only when they persisted a second or third time, despite my obvious disinterest.

The third time was in Kathmandu, outside a movie hall. The man touched me three times before I finally lost it.
He began by protesting - 'I didn't do anything' - and ended by saying 'sorry, sister'.
(Bless his poor sister, if he has one; I wouldn't want to be in her shoes.)

Some things, you learn. Some things are shaken and scolded into you.

For example -
When walking, don't think. If you get lost in your own internal world, somebody or the other might misinterpret this as an invitation to grab some piece of you.

You stay alert. Not glaring at every passerby suspiciously can be interpreted as an invitation.

When walking, don't take quieter, narrower lanes which are more picturesque and less polluted. Those are pretty much reserved for the goonda-types and 'eve-teasers' of the city.

When walking past a parked car with the engine idling and man/men sitting inside it, step aside and put at least four feet between you and the car's doors ... don't you read the newspapers?

When lost, don't roll down the car windows all the way while asking for directions. Ask women and chowkidaars for directions, preferably.

Try not to park in basement parking zones, if alone.

When in public - don't sing, don't smile, don't swing your arms, or your hips. It is better to wear a frown on the streets, along with mouth that looks like it can chew your head off, spewing some rather choice invective, if bothered.

Learn filthy abuse; use it.

When something is lost/stolen, don't go to the police station alone.

If propositioned in a dark, lonely spot, do not slap or insult. In a low, pleasant voice, say you're already engaged. If cornered in a really dark, really lonely spot, give him a fake name, fake phone number.

When accosted by a cop, tell him your dad/grandad/uncle is a senior cop.

If there are less than six people in a bus, don't get on. From Churchgate, at night, don't travel in Ladies first class. From Andheri, early in the morning, don't take the Ladies first class.

Don't hitchhike.

Don't sit alone by the sea for more than ten minutes.

Forget about watching the sun rise over a field, all by yourself.

Stop thinking about long, leafy walks that lead to nowhere.

Stop wondering how the streets looks at midnight, after a drizzle.

Stop...

I don't know where, if, and how, this will stop. But I hope it does.

There is another aspect to this that I can't help thinking about: it creates a never-ending trap of dependence that many men resent equally.

We women depend - are taught to depend, are left with no option but to depend - on men for our safety and survival.

We can go out, but with 'ghar ke ladke' (housemaid) to take care of us. The brother, husband, father, cousin or boys known to the family will escort us - to a movie, to a mall, to a party. At best, you might be able to manage if you're a big group of girls. But how many times can you walk around as girl-gangs?

We learn, consciously and sub-consciously, that we cannot do anything alone. And if we do, we're going to have wage war every inch of the way.

That lesson is etched in so deep that conceiving of 'life' alone is...

No wonder you need men. No wonder you need marriage. No wonder you cling to the man, because how will you manage alone?

unquote

All of the stories related above are real and contain fictitious names to protect the people who have come forward to narrate them. They have shown many instances when the victim has managed to survive the hit attacks. There are also so many where the success factor has been very high.

The taste for forbidden fruit is insatiable. As long as the goods are freely available and within reach the hitter will always take his chance at a bite. He doesn’t really need a snake to coerce him. In fact the snake must dwell within himself, for sure.

Here’s another anecdote from Annie Zaidi’s blog

smell the skinny latte, ladeez

"I don't like the jargon "sex workers". We are all sex workers these days, unless we are celibate, as we are all encouraged to pursue lifelong sexiness. Most young women are endlessly groomed to be desirable after all. Yet the men who have sex with young, frightened, addled girls choose to do so. Such sex, we are told, is about power. To have sex in a car with a heroin addict is very cheap indeed. It goes on day in and day out, and of course it makes me wonder about male sexuality. And so does the use of rape, as a weapon of war. To say these things is not to say all men are rapists. But some are. To not say them does not make it stop.

It is as though feminism had to sex itself up to keep itself interesting. We are not hairy man-haters who bang on about domestic violence and abuse. We are fascinating women interested in fashion, relationships and true intimacy. OK, so we have a few little problems like having it all turning into doing it all, and finding a nice guy to do any of it with at all, but look on the bright side! We have got a few more female MPs, our girls are doing well at school and isn't life grand?

Well no. No it isn't."

That was Suzanne Moore in the Guardian (http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2011/jan/15/suzanne-moore-time-to-get-angry ).

And this is my internal countdown to March 8 as I think about womanhood, liberalism and modernism. As Moore says: "Reasonably sitting around, waiting for equality while empowering oneself with some silicone implants does not really seem to have worked wonders, does it ladeez?"

This blog is a must read for every single human being on the planet:

Diary of a SLUT

http://thesuicideletter.tumblr.com

REPORTING LIVE FROM HELL. 
WAIT, IS IT HEAVEN?

Slut - a word for MEN.

Dear Horny Rascals,

I’m going to die. Not because of you. It is a happy death. Because at last I’ve won. You might be worrying that this letter might get you some unwarranted frenzy since it’s going to be a dead woman’s last note. If you’re thinking so, you’re right. One of the only things that I want to do before I die is to make every man in this world experience hell. No, I’m not a psycho who has decided to kill everyone before killing herself. Well, I’m a woman; a frustrated, tormented and exploited woman, by none other than the sluts of the highest order - men. That can be ‘you’, if you’re one of those who would read this letter just in hope to find more mentions of vagina, breasts and clitoris. Trust me, which you’ll. 

I was born in brothels. That’s why they call me a slut today. I was first raped at the age of 6 and had been raped consistently by every man that crossed across my vision, till 15, when my whore mother married me to a broker. Does this excite you? Does this make your penis swell up in pride? Sit down quietly, because it’s not my story.

I’m 24. Educated. Indian. Taken thrice. Ditched twice, both kinds. Single now. I never had the chance to actually pay heed to my sexuality until the unknown dick-horns around my society, some of them who I’d once played cricket with, started giving me lecherous stares when I just crossed my puberty. My entire body used to cringe back in fear whenever those eyes seemed to see through my clothes, stripping me with those insolent eyes. In the city of sperms, my breasts seemed to be just another place for men to jack off.

For a 13 year old girl, the world was not too friendly. But she had gotten used to it, much like every other girl. At 17, she got her first kiss. She was delighted. At 17 and a half, her first dick. She was scared at its first sight. He did it until she barfed. She tried again, barfed again. Three times in a row, she was already accustomed. To love is to sacrifice, he told. She was a gullible girl, she loved him. She looked at his eyes. They were closed, as though experiencing heaven, while she was tasting hell. At 18, she caught him experiencing heaven once again. She didn’t have to barf this time. Tears were enough. She didn’t talk to the darker sex for one long year. Her desires died with the tears that went out. She clang to the four walls of her ancestral house, where her ailing grandmother couldn’t get her parents to come back to life and ultimately, she herself decided to go to heaven.

But it wasn’t what she went through when she was 18 that makes her crave to die now. It wasn’t even 21, when he met him. He was her uncle, who inherited the house from the late ailing grandma. He never visited the sprawling bungalow earlier, not even on Grandma’s death, but now when he managed to get a fortune worth a million, he couldn’t resist coming every weekend. He was sweet, flirtatious and charming. That’s what it looked to her. She didn’t see his reflection on the mirror, which was vile, venomous and knave. And married. She was a gullible girl, she loved him. She didn’t mind his real qualifications. She didn’t mind betrayal, as long as it was for her. 

He always used to bring her ice-creams, never with a spoon though. His fingers were to be licked, which would go to explore all her body. She didn’t mind. It took him just a long sentimental conversation about her past to shed all her inhibitions, to shed all her clothes. To shed all her emotional burden, to a man she loved. She was a gullible girl, she loved him. When clothes were not around, bruises covered her body. He was rough. He was stronger. She liked it. She liked the pain. She felt safe with him. In an unsafe act on a mesmerizing Saturday night, she got a jar-full of tails inside her womb, one of which accidentally made her a woman from a girl.

She was carrying a life inside her. She didn’t tell him. She was a gullible woman, she loved him. She knew he was married and he would negate. The next time he came to do it, she wasn’t in a mood. He found out. He asked for an abortion. She didn’t comply. He forced her. She didn’t comply. He slapped her, puller her hair. She didn’t comply. He yelled that her wife would be devastated if she ever comes to know about an illegitimate child. She didn’t comply. She promised that she won’t bother him, if he could just let her have the child. He tried to burn her. She ran away. She wanted the child. She was a gullible woman, she still loved him.

Eight months later, she gave birth. Love had faded away, by now. She was a mother to a daughter, who could be a victim to another assault, another struggle and another betrayal. She had no money. She decided to let her child see his father. Tattered, she went to his place. She shouted at his gate. His wife came out. She yelled his name. His wife threw stones at her. She bled. She wanted to see him. She called his name again, asking him to come and see his child. He came out. Her face brightened at the sight of him. She was a gullible woman, she still loved him. He was bewildered. He went inside and came out with a wooden-stick and started to batter her, shouting ‘SLUT’ all the while. She carried her child close to her bosom, saving her from the fatal beating. Blood was dripping from her forehead. She was smiling. She liked the pain. She missed it all the while. Blood entered her mouth. She wanted more. She turned to him. The stick hit the two days old girl. A moment later, her little breath got tired of itself. She howled, moaned, until the entire neighbourhood came out seeing what was happening. People called her a maniac and asked police to take her into custody. She had already fainted. They got rid of her, forever.

However, she couldn’t forget what had happened. Every little incident seemed to be a dark spot in her memory. When she got her senses back, she realized that her clothes had been ripped off. She was in a dark room, on a darker steel chair. Her lower half was senseless. She touched it. It was wet. She smelled the fluid. It seemed familiar. She tasted it. It tasted red. Rape. It took her forty minutes to drag herself to the nearest steel grill. Dark red stains followed on the floor behind her. She moaned. She engraved SLUT in her arm by rubbing it with the grill’s edges. It sparked a smile on her face. Smile for the realization that she was no more a gullible woman, she no more loved him. 

The grill opened. Three policemen, laughing. Three hours later, amidst echoes of her tired groans, blood was her only companion, holding her tightly. She lay there for another day. The door creaked open. This time they were two. One from yesterday, another one new. She didn’t groan this time. 

Three days later, she was allowed to go, in her tattered clothes. She didn’t know where to go. The lonely street became her home. Thoughts of her past clouded her mind. College going teenagers who used to cross her shouted ‘whore’ at her, young gentlemen intentionally used to pee alongside the wall, wagging their dirty penises at her, some of the older gentlemen tried to be decent by just peeping into her tattered top to get a glimpse of her contused nipples, while small children provoked by horny men aimed marbles in between her legs. She didn’t reciprocate. They never got tired. They had a lot of testosterone to run their lives with, forever. School children on their way back to home, when they saw the word SLUT engraved on her hand, wrote ‘SLUT’ on papers and threw at her, giggling when she picked them. She picked them up, opened them and crushed them. She opened them again and again, saw the four lettered word every time and crushed them aside. 

Two days later, she went missing. The crumpled papers went missing as well. She had a lot of anger inside her.  She had experienced so much pain that it hurt her no more. So much that it could have easily made her kill every single man who came into her life, who dared to grab her bosom, who had penetrated deep inside her without any feeling for her, who had ever dared to touch her. But she didn’t do that. She didn’t want to kill anyone. Blood was her companion, not somebody else’s. She wanted to die. But, before that she had a mission to fulfill. 

I had a similar mission. And that’s how she met me. She came to me and asked me to fulfill her one last desire. The desire to change a definition. Definition of SLUT to ‘a promiscuous or disreputable MAN’. She awaits with me, to see this letter reach each and every woman present in this world, and this movement surpass the borders to make lexicographers succumb to her last wish, so that she dies a painless death.

Love.
Never.

Twitter Handle:

@diaryofaslut 

---
June 30 2011
Jaipur:  In a huge embarrassment for teachers across the country, a professor at the Rajasthan University has been arrested for allegedly demanding sexual favours from his student. 

The victim has alleged that her research guide Dr R K Singhal of the Physics department was harassing her for months. 

The professor asked the girl to have sexual relations with him if she wanted to complete her PhD. Besides molesting her in February, Singhal and his colleague S N Dolia allegedly even blackmailed the student by morphing her face onto some obscene pictures.

"While submitting her PhD thesis, the victim was asked for sexual favours by the teacher. Our preliminary investigation has found that the allegations are true and so we have arrested the Professor," said BL Soni, Commissioner of Police, Jaipur.

Students at the Rajasthan University are enraged. "The way a teacher has asked for sexual favours is shameful for our university. We won't tolerate this," said one of them.

Outraged students organised a 'bandh' on the campus, demanding the sacking of the accused teachers. Shockingly, despite the victim complaining about the teacher's misconduct, the university authorities took no action initially. It was only after the girl lodged a police complaint that the accused teacher was arrested. Both Singhal and his colleague Dolia were later suspended from the university. 

Besides suspending the two teachers, the university has also asked two retired Judges of the High Court to probe this shocking issue.

The sordid case has shaken everyone at Rajasthan's oldest and most prestigious university. In a country where teachers have been revered as 'gurus' and the relation between a teacher and a student has been considered as a 'sacred' one for centuries, this incident represents a terrible breach of trust.

NDTV