Boris came to me at the behest of his new girlfriend, Cecily, whom I'd known for years. Since most people dislike being pushed to see any sort of adviser, I expected Boris to be reticent, if not downright hostile. How wrong I was! After a few minutes of chitchat, Boris himself raised a very personal issue.
"I know why Cecily's confused," he said sheepishly. "We've been dating for months, and we still haven't slept together."
"Okay," I said cautiously, not wanting to disrupt a delicate moment.
"You see," Boris said, looking at the floor. "Ten years ago I had a cancer scare. My, um, prostate. It turned out to be benign, but mentally, it affected...you know." Eyes still averted, Boris described his sexual difficulties and the vicious mockery he'd endured from his former wife. I felt terrible for Boris but also secretly pleased that he'd felt safe enough to divulge such personal information.
The next day, Cecily called to thank me. "Boris seems happier," she said. Then her voice dropped. "You know, ten years ago..." She repeated Boris's prostate story, including all the gory details. "I know we have a really special connection," Cecily said, "because Boris shared that with me on our very first date."
"Ah," I said, developing suspicions.
Weeks later those suspicions were confirmed when Cecily called me in tears. "Boris hit on my best friend," she sobbed. "After I introduced them, he called her and they talked for hours. He told her about his cancer scare and everything."
I felt myself blush. How many other girlfriends, counselors, taxi drivers, and random airplane passengers had Boris seduced into intimacy with the mournful ballad of his achy-breaky reproductive apparatus? It called to mind Broadway megastar Dame Edna's comment about her (fictional) late husband Norm: "Oh, the years I spent with that man's prostate hanging over my head." Boris, it seemed, whipped out his, uh, issues every chance he got. He wasn't just a sharing person. He was an emotional slut.
Of course, I was less upset about this than Cecily, partly because Boris wasn't my significant other, and partly because previous experience had taught me to recognize and cope with people like him. To help you avoid falling for an emotional tramp—or, worse, acting like Boris yourself—I'll give you the same advice I gave Cecily.
But first, maybe I should explain what I mean by emotional sluts: They aren't sexually promiscuous folks who also tend to be moody, like, for instance, every single character on Sex and the City.
True emotional sluts are psychological wolves in sheep's clothing. They consciously or unconsciously manipulate others with displays of openness and vulnerability.
Next: How to avoid emotional sluts