During the winter before my wedding, I was on assignment in Sicily, where I met Diego, a photojournalist with black hair, a scruffy beard, and warm brown eyes that could liquefy concrete. He was my guide in Palermo, driving me around the city on his motorcycle. On my last day, as we stood in a bombed-out cathedral -- him talking about World War II, me trying to focus on his words -- he started inching closer. Another inch. Then a fraction more, and he was in my personal space. The slightest gesture from me would have been an invitation. I froze. I was madly in love with my fiancee, so what the hell was I doing?

The desire to cheat is hardly a new emotion for me. In fact, I can fairly say that if you've dated me, there's a pretty good chance I was unfaithful. (I'm really sorry!) You might even call me a natural-born cheater -- and I think I get it from my father.

Are dads to blame for cheating? Read more on the next page.


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