Part 3
Same goes for the strip club talk. Jeremy tells Jessica he wants to open a strip club. He says he's going to interview strippers. Is that a red flag? For Jessica, absolutely. She says outright, "I am not that type of person to be with somebody who wants to be involved in that type of industry." But here's the question: is Jeremy actually doing it? Or is he just talking about it? Because there's a difference between a guy who's secretly running a strip club and a guy who's loudly announcing he wants to open one—to his girlfriend's face. That's not secrecy. That's provocation. It's almost like he's daring her to leave first.
Now, the pawn shop. This is where the show really leans into its own mythology. Detectives follow Jeremy to a pawn shop. He walks out, stuffs a small package into his pocket. The implication? Drugs. Something shady. Something criminal. But what does the show actually show us? Nothing. No follow-up. No reveal. No confirmation. It could be cash. It could be a ring. It could be a watch. It could be a pack of gum. The point is, Cheaters uses ambiguity like a weapon. It plants the seed, lets your imagination do the rest, and never has to prove a thing. That's not journalism. That's storytelling. And it's effective—but it's not evidence of a double life.
[[AD]]
Then we get to the poker game. Jeremy busts out—loses all his chips—and leaves with Katie. They kiss in the car. Is that cheating? If he and Jessica were exclusive, yes. But is it the behavior of a man trying to keep a secret? Absolutely not. He's at an underground poker match. He's in public. He leaves with another woman in full view of anyone who cares to look. That's not a man protecting a double life. That's a man who no longer cares if he gets caught. That's resignation. That's the slow, messy, painful end of a relationship that should have ended months ago.
In relationship psychology, there's a concept called "monkey branching." It's when someone lines up a new partner before ending their current relationship. The idea is that they're afraid to be alone, so they swing from one branch to the next without ever letting go of the first. It's cowardly. It's selfish. It's unfair to everyone involved. But it's not the same as a calculated double life. A double life requires planning, deception, and effort. Monkey branching requires only weakness. Jeremy isn't evil. He's weak. And there's a difference.
Now, let's be fair. None of this excuses cheating if they were exclusive. If Jeremy and Jessica had an agreement—monogamy, fidelity, whatever—then he broke it. That's on him. But the episode never clarifies the terms. We don't know what they agreed to. We don't know if they were open, or exclusive, or somewhere in between. What we do know is Jessica's own words: "I'm not going to be used." That's not the language of a woman who just discovered a secret affair. That's the language of a woman who's been feeling used—financially, emotionally—for a long time. The cheating, if it was cheating, was just the final straw.
Jeremy's exit was messy. It was hurtful. It was cowardly. But it wasn't a masterplan. It was a slow fade, a public separation, a guy who couldn't say the words and instead acted out until the relationship collapsed under its own weight. That's not villainy. That's just sad.
And if you think that's letting him off the hook, wait until you hear what I have to say about the real villain of this episode: the Cheaters formula itself.
The Real Villain Is the Cheaters Formula—And We Keep Falling for It
Let’s be honest: Cheaters isn’t a documentary. It’s a machine. Created by Bobby Goldstein in 2000, the show has churned out over 600 episodes across more than 20 seasons, syndicated on VH1, MTV2, and now streaming on Tubi and Pluto TV. Each episode follows a rigid blueprint: a suspicious partner contacts the Cheaters Detective Agency, private investigators tail the alleged cheater, and host Clark Gable (no relation to the Hollywood legend) delivers the damning footage in a dramatic confrontation. The formula works because it taps into our deepest fears and schadenfreude. But it also constructs a narrative that leaves no room for nuance—and we, the audience, keep buying it.
Think about the editing. The repetitive narration (“You are about to view actual true stories…”) drills the show’s version of events into your head. The ominous music swells every time the accused so much as glances at someone else. The surveillance footage lingers on kisses, hand-holds, and whispered conversations, but conveniently ignores context—maybe the “cheater” was saying goodbye to a friend, or the “affair” was actually an open relationship. We never see the full picture. We see what the show wants us to see: a guilty party and a victim. It’s not journalism; it’s storytelling with a vendetta.
And then there’s Clark Gable, the moral authority. He sits with the victim, iPad in hand, and presents the “truth” as if it were handed down from on high. His calm, sympathetic demeanor makes him seem neutral, but he’s the one who decides when to reveal the footage, how to frame it, and what conclusions to draw. The victim’s reaction—shock, tears, rage—is the payoff. The accused never gets to explain. The show’s format ensures that ambiguity is crushed under the weight of dramatic revelation. It’s a courtroom where the verdict is already decided, and Gable is judge, jury, and executioner.
