He's the cutest thing since a sweet-cheeked tabby soulfully cozied up to the ivories on a piano. He makes you laugh harder than that time an errant seagull dropped a big ol' load in your sister's ice cream at the Pasadena Strawberry Festival in 1984. He looks good on paper...and from behind, too. And you're already hoping your kids will have his lips and your eyes. And his ears and your nose. But definitely not his hair.
So you exchanged numbers under the thinly-veiled guise of "if you ever need anything." Pretty soon, he's become a permanent fixture in your bedroom and in your vocabulary, and his can of Barbasol has left a rusty ring on the rim of your bathroom sink.
Sigh. It's love! Or is it?
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Something's amiss, but you're not sure what. He's been nothing but faithful, loyal, and most importantly, obedient. No one's ever witnessed him carousing with your slutty equivalent, and even the most far-fetched of his stories can always be corroborated. But you still have the nagging feeling that you've given him the benefit of the doubt one too many times, and now, you need some answers.
Girl, is he cyber playing your ass? Ask yourself:
How frequently is he picking up that Blackberry, iPhone, or some almost-extinct device called a "phone" to text? At dinner. Type type type. Ding! During a movie. Type type type. Ding! After sex. Type type type. Ding! Girl, if he can't wait long enough after blowing his load to check his text messages, there's someone else lighting an even hotter fire between his loins. And it ain't his mother.
Who is Bianca? Caitlin? Miranda? And why are they dominating his Facebook wall? Um. Doesn't "Tricia" know that his name isn't "babe"? Why is Alaina saying it was good to see him last night at Pub Fiction when he told you he'd be out with the guys at Tipsy Clover? Why are women you didn't even know existed and never heard mentioned before tagging him in photos? Moreover, why is he responding to their posts with, "If you're lucky, you'll get to see my tattoos...all of them"? Yo, listen up. You don't need a blog post to tell you that you've got a serious infestation of unwanted femalepods, and your dude is the willing and able bait.
Why is his Twitterstream exclusively back and forth replies with one individual? Look. Twitter isn't email, and Twitter isn't a chat room. At no point should one person's Twitterfeed be completely consumed with "@sexysheila, I want to check out your six-pack ;)" and "@sexysheila, I'd love to get you upside down." Unacceptable. Abominable. Abhorrent! You don't even need to know what was said in response. Twitter's a conversation, but it ain't one-sided, and it ain't an ongoing innuendo.
Does he get squeamish when you catch a glimpse of his email inbox? You're casually checking your email on his laptop, when his email inbox appears in the browser you've opened. Instead of allowing you to make the transition to the proper page, he springs into action from where he was creepily hovering behind you and claims an emergency need to email his second cousin about a family reunion he was hoping to plan in two years. Uh, what's he hiding? His philanderin' dick between his legs, girl.
Do his URLs make your insides flip? Piggybacking on the above, when you go to enter a web address and inadvertently notice that www.chattingtocheat.com and www.virtualvaginas.com show up in his browser history, well, you can't quite dismiss those as sites he peruses "for research purposes only." Not even if he's a gynecologist.
Any of these inquiries ever crossed your mind? Launch a full scale investigation (or interrogation, for those of you unafraid to strap a pair on) immediately. 'Cause your sweetie may have a few more technological tricks than treats up his sleeve.