All men cheat. Some men cheat between their ears and keep their little head in their pants. Some men chase women like it's an obsession. It is an obsession when you think about it. And some men cheat and don't admit it. Eatin' ain't cheatin', it ain't no disgrace. But if her lips are on your willie, it's cheating even if you are the president.

All men cheat. The good men and the bad. The smart men and the dumb. The handsome men and the ugly. A few years ago Miami decided to publicize the names of men getting busted chasing hookers on the streets to discourage such pursuits. Well, the first week they caught the local Catholic bishop, a police Captain and the head of the FBI office in Miami. After that, they decided to no longer publicize the busts. Clark Gable was known to use prostitutes. When asked why he paid for sex when he could have any woman in America he answered, "I don't pay them for sex. I pay them to leave afterward." Or how about the Dean of the Harvard Divinity School having to take a sabbatical because of the porn they found on his office computer? Or Hugh Grant getting busted in his car with a hooker while he was bedding one of the most beautiful women in the world? Makes no sense you say? You're right unless you realize men have no more control over those desires than they have over breathing.

I was sitting with a bunch of guys on a coffee break one morning. A statuesque blonde in a tight dress walked through the cafeteria. All our heads turned to follow her out the door. Before I had a chance to turn back I heard Eddie saying, "I don't see how she can even walk." We all looked at Eddie with brows furrowed. "Yep," he said. "She just got fucked twenty times in five seconds." We all broke up. It was true. I looked around and there were twenty guys all looking at the door and every one of those guys had humped that blonde as she walked through the cafeteria.

Men are polygamists all the way down to the bone. Nature has designed us that way. We are designed to spread our seeds far and wide because that has always given our ancestors the best chance to pass on their DNA. The more women you hump, the better chance your genes have in making it to the next generation. We are the products of a thousand generations of cheatin' men. And the cheatin'est men were the ones who passed on their traits. Natural selection has worked its way and men just want to have sex all the time with all the women. For us modern men the best you can do is keep your cheatin' bone in your pants and keep your cheating between your ears. I was always able to do that until one day...

I was browsing my usual porno, I mean adult oriented, sites. I used a fake e-mail address for signing up for these sites to keep the endless Spam away from my real e-mail. I'd check it every few days and delete the endless solicitations for Viagra, penis enlargement and teen sluts who wanted to take it up the ass.

Hmm, if you got the penis enlargement pump, took Viagra and found that teen slut would she really want to take your mechanistic, chemically altered MASSIVE STEEL HARD cock anywhere at all yet alone up her ass? Or would she laugh her ass off at the bruises from that magic pump on your pathetic wiener? Somebody doesn't think very much before they write that crap do they? Or maybe there are men who send off the $39.95 guaranteed to make them a horse-hung stud. Maybe.

One e-mail caught my attention. Hi. Did You Post On ASSD Last Night? What the hell? I tried to remember if I had left my e-mail address. I try not to as the damn spambots just pick it up and increase the deluge of ridiculous spam. I clicked on the e-mail.

I really liked what you said. I found it witty but also very true about a serious topic.

Hope you don't mind me e-mailing. Do you?

Samantha

Who the hell is Samantha? I didn't know anyone named Samantha. It didn't feel like a spam come on. It was certainly flattering to the ego to be told I was bright and witty. So I answered.

That's how it started. An innocent e-mail. That's all it took to end up... But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Samantha was an interesting and exciting woman. We liked the same things; Kubrick was the greatest director, Walton the finest symphonist, Syrah the best wine. She and I seemed like the same person. She always seemed to know exactly what to say to make me feel better. Then she started to flirt, just a little. I assumed she was across the country. Hell, she could have been in another country for all I knew. I flirted back. Then one day she sent me a fantasy. A very graphic fantasy. One that ended up with me between her legs madly fucking her. Not that I minded having a woman desire me, but it scared me a little.

I confessed to being married thinking that would put her off. I mean women don't like to flirt with married men, right? Wrong. She said that was fine. She didn't mind at all. In fact, men need some freedom and she understood that. She wasn't interested in stealing me from my wife. She just wanted to use me for pleasure. She asked me to send one of my fantasies about her. I was still feeling a little unsure, but it was so heady. Almost like champagne to have this women desire me so. I sent her the fantasy that had been going through my dreams nearly every night.

In my dream we were both naked. I was behind her kissing her neck. She turned and pressed her body against mine. I kissed down to her breasts taking her nipple in my mouth. My hand cupped her pussy, finding her wet. I worked my finger into her; slowly fucking her while massaging her clitoris with my palm. She begged me to make her cum. I carried her to the bed and fell between her legs, my face buried in her pussy. I ate her until she screamed out her orgasm and flooded my face with her cum.

She loved the fantasy telling me that she had made herself cum with her fingers while reading it. But she thought it was too bad that I hadn't cum in my dream. But she knew what that meant. It must be that I was a considerate lover whose concern was making sure my partner's satisfaction came first. It made her want me to see for herself if that was true.

I was feeling funny. I was getting too involved. I too wanted to see her. She was invading my waking hours with her fantasies. Her fantasies were becoming mine. I was addicted to the e-mail on my computer, waiting for her next missive, waiting for the next jolt of Samantha drug. She was a drug providing pleasure and becoming irresistible and essential in the process.

She sent me a new fantasy about a masquerade ball in her town. I recognized it from the ads in the paper. It was happening here in three weeks. My God. Samantha lived here. Maybe she lived down the street from me. Maybe she was a check out lady at the supermarket. Maybe she was the mayor. Oh God, I hoped not. That was one battle-ax of a woman. I shuddered at the thought.

The next e-mail from me described the masquerade ball so that Samantha would know that we lived in the same city. I waited in horrid fascination wondering what would happen. I could think of a thousand outcomes. Everything from, she would be frightened that I was stalking her and I'd never hear from her again to she'd send me her address and invite me to come over tonight. I waited.

When it came she was practically screaming in response. We were in the same city. She was so excited and happy. We had to find a way to get together. Then she said that she had the perfect idea. Why not get together at the masquerade ball? Nobody would know who we were. We could meet and nobody would be the wiser.