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xmag.com : February 2006 : My 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 pops up on the display as my good buddy Phil.
Cell phones are made for cheating. My camera phone is also good for taking pictures of my cock, which I forward to my e-mail 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.
So 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 bedsheets 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 saw one of her hairs stuck to the toilet while I was taking a piss. And while showering all of last night’s sweat, cum, and girljuice off me, I found one of her hairs tangled around my fingers.
Can’t ever be too careful about hair evidence. Could sweep the place a hundred times and I know there’d still be one renegade strand out there.
After Mistress #1 left a couple 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 on 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 e-mail 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.
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.”

I’m not proud that I’m a triflin’ man and a serial
philanderer. It makes me feel all ghetto, and not in the cool, MTV kind of way. I know it’s juvenile. I know it’s contemptible. But I don’t know whether it can be cured.
I mean, I promised myself I’d be a good boy at least while writing this article, and I couldn’t even do that. I nailed Mistress #1 last night and Mistress #2 the night before. And as I’m typing this, if some naked chick were to fall out
of the sky and land on my cock, odds are that I wouldn’t pull her off it.
Let’s just 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’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 worst 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…when it’s good…is the best thing in the world, the only thing that feels better than sex.
But 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.
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.
“He’s a great fuck, but emotionally unavailable,” one of my exes told another girl. “He’s absolutely worthless as a human being, but the best fuck of my life,” said another. I savor such comments. Better a great fuck than an open, bleeding, emotional wound.

Why can’t I be honest with them? Most of them wouldn’t fuck me if I was 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 tell the whole truth, the whole world will fall apart.
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.
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. Or if some other girl is making moves on me, nine times out of ten I’ll take her out for a test drive.
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 crave their pussies. But the surest way to short-circuit this power is to continually remind women that their li’l fishie isn’t the only one in the ocean.
Right now my girlfriend is across town, and I’m not sure what she’s doing.
And I’m here all alone. And here are my cell phone and the Internet, just begging to be used.






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