Can’t stop cheating on my GF [MF]

After the truth came out again, I went to see my girlfriend. It was a good trip. She was hurt at first, obviously, considering the number of times this had happened, but I really did feel bad and I think she heard it in my voice. I swore up and down that I loved her, that it would never happen again—this was in her apartment, right after I arrived—she was hard as a steel girder until I went up behind her and cupped her breasts, at which point she melted against me. And then we fucked.

Afterwards things were back to normal, her bustling happily in the kitchen, me lying in bed naked with my dick floppy in the damp tangled sheets, wondering what the fuck I was doing, and why I said I loved her when the truth was I only loved her about two thirds of the time, and never after we fucked.

We had three great days together, went for long walks holding hands, I took her out for three-figure Italian, we went to Six Flags and I didn’t throw up once, although on one ride it was close. And we fucked, a lot, which was great while it was happening but always that same dreary feeling afterwards, which I typically hid by going out on the balcony for a smoke. By the end of the trip I was determined to make it work again, and I said as much, but the truth is I only lasted until airport security. The girl in front of me with cinnamon hair looked me up and down and I couldn’t help myself, I told her I’d never seen eyes like hers and by the way I was an author and could she spare a few minutes after security to talk over drinks or something, I wanted to base a character off her. We talked over drinks and I said some legendary bullshit and when I walked her to her gate I received a phone number, a promise to visit me if she was ever in Austin, and a kiss on the cheek with just slightly more tongue pressure than could probably be considered platonic.

On the Uber home from the airport, my fingers flew on their own, whipped out Tinder, started swiping, all while I looked on helplessly. I was horny as hell. By the time I got home I had a good conversation going with a girl who looked like a pint-sized Kate Upton—tits like asteroids, it looked like—and I figured what the hell, I’d gone this far—

I didn’t feel guilt until I had my fists full of those gargantuan tits, my balls slapping against her ass—but I was too deep to stop, so I didn’t. After I came, the rest of the guilt hit me square in the gut, and I went to the bathroom thinking I had to hurl, but nothing came out. I stayed there a while, cheek on the seat, counting the triangles in her tessellated shower curtain. She started knocking and talking through the door, but I had the fan on and couldn’t hear. I remembered her saying something beforehand about needing to be quick, about me having to vacate the premises by a certain time, and I figured maybe her roommate was coming back—the thought of the hypothetical roommate, I’m ashamed to say, made my dick perk up a bit, like a drowsy sailor called to attention. I imagined the roommate as a tall redhead whose legs just went on and on. That image was coalescing and undressing itself in parallel to my other line of thought, which was bemoaning my sorry situation and regretting every single solitary thing I’d done in the past five years. Meanwhile the girl had started pounding and rattling the door handle and such, shouting something I couldn’t or didn’t care to understand, but I ignored her, she could fuck off, in retrospect her tits were only big because she was kind of fat, I got even more sick thinking about the rolls of fat I’d been holding onto and sort of sloshing as I pounded her, this fat horrible creature who was nothing compared to my beautiful sweet adoring caring girlfriend, who’d forgiven me so many times and here I’d gone and cheated on her again my first night back.

Eventually I sighed and picked myself up and opened the door and walked out with my dick hanging down half-engorged. The girl leapt back—she’d put her clothes back on, and her face was even more red and sweaty than it had been while we were fucking—and then the door to the apartment opened and the biggest motherfucker I’d ever seen came through. He was one of those meatheads who drop deadlift bars with more disks than you can count to thunder against the floor, and he was as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

“Katie, you bitch,” he said.

“I had no idea,” I said, and then the fist hit me in the stomach and I doubled over and the next few moments were lost in a red shatter of pain. I blacked out and woke up in the hospital with my nose snapped about thirty-five degrees off center and a godawful concussion, and the only solace I ever got out of the whole situation was that when the herpes erupted a few weeks later I knew that that motherfucker had them too.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/51uqds/cant_stop_cheating_on_my_gf_mf