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Girls Gone Wild Blog

My Cheating Heart: Why I’ve Lost Faith In My Ability To Be Faithful

Cheating Heart

IT’S MY GIRLFRIEND CALLING…

 

I can tell it’s my girlfriend, because it’s the only girl I’m currently fucking whose REAL NAME is displayed on my cell phone when she calls. Mistress #1, who slept with me last night, is identified as my friend Steve when she calls. Mistress #2, whom I nailed the night before, pops up on the display as my good buddy Phil. Cell phones are made for cheating. My camera phone is also good for snapping photos of my cock, which I forward to my email account and then on to other women in the hope that I’ll have more and more covert affairs without my girlfriend’s (or mistresses’) knowledge…..READ MORE

 

MISTRESS #1

 

Everything’s cool as long as they don’t know. I want them to suspect, but I don’t want them to know. There’s too much trouble when they know.

 

That’s why I’ve spent the last three hours washing the bed sheets and sweeping the floors and emptying the wastebaskets and running long strips of clear packing tape over the couch and pillow covers, hoping I caught every last long strand of Mistress #1’s hair. And just when I thought I’d cleared all the evidence, I took a piss and saw one of her hairs stuck to the toilet. And while showering all of last night’s sweat, cum, and girl-juice off of me, I found another one of her hairs tangled around my fingers. Can’t ever be too careful about hair evidence. I could sweep the place 100 times and I know there’d still be one renegade strand out there.

 

After Mistress #1 left a couple of hours ago, I hung pictures of my girlfriend back up all over the apartment. I vowed that when she came over, I would not accidentally call her by one of the other girls’ names. I turned off my cell phone’s ringer and removed all suspicious middle-of-the-night calls from “Steve” and “Phil” from its history log. I cleared my email inboxes and outboxes of all flirtatious and/or explicit correspondence with other ladies, especially the married one who flew cross-country to stay at a hotel a block away so I could fuck her. I purged my Web-browser history of Mistress #1’s naked pix and weblog, plus the blogs of the girl in Minnesota who says she pretends it’s me when her boyfriend’s fucking her and the gal in the Bronx who actually PayPal’ed me $25 for the privilege of seeing my cock pictures. Last thing I do before answering my girlfriend’s call is hide my notes for this article. When she asks me what I’ve been doing all day, I can hardly say, “Writing an article about cheating on you.”

 

BAD HISTORY

 

Let’s say I have a bad history with women. Imagine the worst, because it’s far worse than that. I’m a serial faller-in-lover. I fall in love easily, fall out of it even easier, and fall in love with someone new while the old relationship is still flailing and half-alive. I start off collecting their love letters and wind up documenting their death threats.

 

I mean, I promised myself I’d be a good boy at least while writing this article, and I couldn’t even do that. As I’m typing this, if some naked chick were to fall out of the sky and crash-land on my cock, odds are that I wouldn’t pull her off of it.

 

I’m a strong man. I can usually last a few hours without female company. After that point, I become achingly, gnawingly, desperately lonely. It always feels worse when the sun goes down and I realize no one will be sleeping next to me tonight. My crushing fear of romantic isolation sends me out into the darkness, seeking to pair up, to find a body, any warm body, to drag home next to me. Soon enough, sooner than I’d prefer, I’ll enter a postmenopausal void of pain and decay. Loneliness is the true death, and I flee it like a shrieking woman.

 

But as much as I fear being alone, I also dread being smothered. I use women to stave off loneliness, but I never let them get too close. I walk a tightrope strung between loneliness on one end and suffocation on the other. I’ll keep one girl at arm’s length until I find another one within arm’s reach.

 

I believe in love. I know I’ve felt it. And I’ve found a way to destroy it every time. Love is unstable like plutonium, and I won’t allow myself to get hurt. So I wrap myself in armor and seek love. I’m a steel-claw equipped lunar land probe, scuttling over cold rocks looking for someone to cuddle.

 

RISK TAKING

 

I’ll risk STDs and legal charges, but I won’t risk a broken heart. Better to be a bastard than a sucker. I have found, against my better wishes, that the nicer you are to women, the less they desire you. Their pussies are likelier to lubricate if you forget their name than if you send them flowers. If you were to become the sensitive guy they say they want, they wouldn’t want you anymore. So I never spend money on them. I never make the first move. I never make them feel remotely secure that I’ll be around tomorrow. And precisely because—not in spite—of all this, I’ve never been dumped.

 

WHY CAN’T I BE HONEST WITH THEM?

 

Most of them wouldn’t fuck me if I were honest. So I maintain the charade. I don’t trust myself to be trustworthy. And I don’t believe that absolute trust is possible. During nasty breakups when all the mean things are said, you realize that most of your suspicions were right. There’s always SOMETHING—even if it’s only a mildly  negative opinion—that you’re going to hide from them and something they’re hiding from you. You really can’t share everything. If you told the whole truth, the whole world would fall apart.

 

And no matter how much you love somebody, somebody else will catch your eye. It’s         nature’s way, and it turns the idea of love into a sad, sick joke. Dad never cheated on mom. They stayed miserably together for nearly four decades until cancer gobbled him up like a Pac-Man food particle. I observed firsthand their faithfulness. And their unhappiness. I never cheated on girlfriends as a teen, mainly because none of those blessed unions lasted for more than a few weeks. And I can proudly announce that as an adult, I never cheated on my first long-term girlfriend. And, uh, that’s about it.

 

THERE  ARE SEVERAL REASONS WHY I CHEAT

 

Sex. Boredom. Spite. Ego. If my girlfriend begins withholding sex, I feel a near-moral obligation to cheat on her. Or even if she doesn’t and her pussy’s starting to taste a little stale, I’ll get some action on the side. If she’s being bitchy, I’ll subvert her attempt at domination by fucking someone else. If she’s trying to make me jealous, I’ll fuck every girl she knows.

 

The vagina is a wonderful thing. Some are better than others, but most are fairly spectacular. But none is so good that it made me forget there are more than three billion other vaginas out there. Women wield considerable power over men due to the fact that we like their pussies. But the surest way to short-circuit this power is to continually remind women that their li’l fishy isn’t the only one in the ocean.

 

I met my girlfriend and the two mistresses in the same bar. All three of them had boyfriends when they met me. And all three of them made the first move, leaving their boyfriends when I took the bait. At different times, I’ve called each of them my girlfriend. And I’ve cheated on all of them…with all of them.

 

Mistress #2 was my girlfriend for a year and-a-half. A few weeks after we broke up—and after I’d neglected to change the locks on my apartment—she busted in on me and Mistress #1 only seconds after we’d finished rutting. She lunged at Mistress #1, who narrowly escaped down the hall in her panties. Screaming, she kicked my shins, smashed a coffee pot against the wall, threw all of Mistress #1’s belongings out the window, and then summoned the strength to carry my mattress out of the apartment and into a nearby parking lot. I felt so bad seeing the pain in her eyes, I dumped Mistress #1 and made Mistress #2 my girlfriend again.

 

Months later, when Mistress #1 saw me walking downtown hand-in-hand with Mistress #2, she cried so much i dumped #2 and made #1 my girlfriend again. And then for a while, I was calling both of them my girlfriend. Then I met the current girlfriend and dumped both of the others.

 

MOVING ON…

 

The current girlfriend and I were evenly matched in termsof narcissism and our indefatigable will to make our partner jealous. She never let me forget about all the b-level rock stars who wanted to fuck her, and I made sure she knew about all the literary groupies who were batting their eyelashes at me. Possible infidelity became the obsessive focus of our relationship, and many was the night we spent together not because we enjoyed one another’s company so much, but merely to prevent the other from cheating.

 

For more than six months, I was faithful. But at one point during an argument when we’d gone for a month without having sex, I told her I was headed back home to fuck the best piece of pussy i’d ever had—Mistress #1. my girlfriend threatened to call the cops and tell them I’d raped her.

 

She apologized days later, after I’d already shagged Mistress #1…and Mistress #2 dozens of times. And I took her back. For most of the summer and into the fall i juggled all three of them. Then two weeks ago…after I’d started writing this article…we quarreled into the night, finally spitting out that we’d been cheating on one another with exes for months. Within an hour, Mistress #1 was back in my bed. and now she’s no longer Mistress #1. She’s my girlfriend again.

 

ROUND AND ROUND

 

The old girlfriend sent me relentlessly nasty text messages about my new ugly pudgy loserprostitute stripper satanic girlfriend until I finally changed my phone number. And although I hadn’t contacted her, she then emailed me a threat to take out a restraining order against me. Right now the new girlfriend is across town, and I’m not sure what she’s doing. And I’m here all alone.And here’s my cell phone and the internet, begging to be used.

 

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