Esquire, April 2010: It is late afternoon at a Hampton Inn in a nameless suburb and the charmless philanderer is going through the purse of the unfamiliar woman awaiting him on the bed.
The woman on the bed is not his wife and not a coworker. She is not too young and not schizophrenic because those are the rules.
He is going through her purse looking for the partially-unwrapped Hershey's kiss which he will offer to her on a dirty room-service plate "like an altar boy."
This is meant to establish his cred as a sensitive lover in contrast with her husband, who has allegedly been withholding sex as a weight loss incentive. Which makes the husband kind of a dick, but is still less creepy than going through her purse. Let alone the whole "altar boy" thing. WTF Esquire?
Also by way of comparison: The philanderer treats women as "planetary objects" whereas other men have no idea what that even means.
He shares these and other details of his inexplicable mating success in an anonymous 1800-word apologia: Why Men Cheat: An Explanation. The explanation part takes up four words.
The rest is romance, assuming that your idea of a good time includes being slammed against the soda machine in a discount hotel chain stairwell by a guy who has just compared you to an asteroid, or possibly a meteor. Because he needs to.