Today I got a text message from my fiancé Brenda that simply said, “You’re a fucker.” When I asked what I did wrong, the next text read, “If you still want to marry me, you have a lot of explaining to do.” It was difficult to concentrate on work, wondering what horror I would come home to. I was really clueless.
When I cam home, there was a note on the coffee table saying, “I’m staying at my mom’s.” Next to the note was a women’s thong, which Brenda does not wear. I was bewildered until I remembered the origin of the thong.
Before I met Brenda, I lived with a roommate named Tim who had just broken up with his girlfriend. I was dating a girl named Lowen. Lowen loved to have sex, and I was happy to accommodate. At the same time, I was cognizant of Tim’s state, so we had sex when Tim was out of the apartment so as not to taunt him with ecstatic moaning.
Tim once took a week off work but mostly stayed in the apartment. Lowen was over one night and was feeling horny. I told her that we could have sex as long as we were quiet. Our attempts to keep silent were thwarted by the box spring rubbing against the bed frame, which made an obvious squeaking noise. Not wanting to stop, I took what was handy (Lowen’s thong) and jammed it in between the box spring and frame, which muffled the squeak. Years later, I totally forgot about the thong jammed in the bed.
Now I have to figure out how to tell Brenda this. “…Yes, I know they’re not your panties…. Yes, I did have sex with the owner of the panties…. It’s not what you think!”