From the moment I started dating The Ex (dated for two years, lived together for one of them) I trusted him implicitly. It was just one of those things, I innately knew that he would not cheat on me. Like me, he dated rarely, was more inclined to remain single than to date casually. He also insisted on waiting a period of time past the three-date rule before having sex, to really give ourselves time to decide if we really wanted to be together. He believed that sleeping together too early could potentially cloud my judgment.
I gotta tell you, knowing that sex was not his highest priority really allowed me to relax and get to know him. It definitely worked.
So as I mentioned, when we were together I trusted in his fidelity. Hands down.
About a year and a half into the relationship, I found a pair of panties wedged in our couch.
They were not mine.
Never had I doubted him, but how do you ignore something like that? Every movie, every book, every song SCREAMS that I just caught him in the act. I confronted him. Questioned him, over and over and over. He insisted that he knew nothing about the found underwear. I pushed, I cajoled, I threatened. After a very long and arduous grilling, I decided to believe him. What else could I do? I, however, remained unsettled.
Two days later my sister called - and mentioned that she thought that she had potentially accidentally left a pair of panties at my place the week before when she had spent the night.
That was the best tasting crow I ever had.
The History Of Yoga
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