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"  For two nights in 2008, I contemplated stabbing my boyfriend with a tiny needle while he slept, extracting blood, and sending it away to be tested for HIV. I&amp;#039;d purchased the test kit already; it was stashed in the closet. Trey was a deep and dedicated sleeper \u2014 he even wore a lavender sleeping mask \u2014 so I figured I could get away with it. Why would I plot to prick him? I knew far too much about his sexual history. He&amp;#039;d detailed it all on his blog, which I&amp;#039;d started reading soon after our first date, and in books (yes, plural). About six months into our relationship, his latest book came out. He asked me not to read it, but, needless to say, I downloaded an electronic copy as soon as I could, and discovered that aside from having had cyber-sex and indulging in a threesome at his bachelor party before his first marriage, he&amp;#039;d even slept with prostitutes (yes, also plural).  In one night, I devoured Trey&amp;#039;s sometimes funny, sometimes tragic tale of balancing fatherhood and single life after his yogi ex-wife left him and their two kids. I admired his writing, but I couldn&amp;#039;t stop thinking: If this was the dirt Trey was willing to disclose to the world, what was he hiding? And how could his secrets hurt me, physically and emotionally? I was his third official post-divorce girlfriend \u2014 the other two were a stunning French actress and an Italian countess. Flattering company, I thought; I&amp;#039;m a normal-looking girl from Boston who wears clogs and sweats and whose socks seldom match. The insecure part of me conjured images of their perky (or silicone-enhanced) breasts and long, tanned limbs, now replaced in Trey&amp;#039;s life by my weeks-old leg stubble and deflated bust, stretched and sucked to its limit by my daughter from my own first marriage.  Of course, those old relationships of his hadn&amp;#039;t worked out. A tiny smile crept across my face reading about the portraits the Italian commissioned of herself and the way the actress had broken off their engagement in an email. Still, I felt like a contestant on The Bachelor, comparing myself to these bitchy and high-maintenance \u2014 but also gorgeous and European \u2014 women. I shopped with coupons, taught writing to low-income single mothers, and got in fights at Yankees games. The kind of man I imagined appreciating me was not the same kind who wrote of meeting his last girlfriend: &amp;quot;Maria Cristina Margherita Savoldi d&amp;#039;Urcei Bellavitis arrived dripping in diamonds and watches that I had only seen in magazines\u2026. Not only is she heart-stoppingly beautiful but she manages to be both extremely sexy and extremely elegant at the same time.&amp;quot; At my most dolled up, I&amp;#039;m maybe sexy, but elegant, no, and never dripping with jewels.  And then there was the sex. Trey wrote about making love with the French actress twice a day for months. Seriously? Our sex was toe-curling, but I still only wanted it four times a week, tops. We were both busy parents, after all (my daughter was 2, and Trey&amp;#039;s kids from his first marriage were 7 and 10). Trey was only the second man I&amp;#039;d ever slept with, my ex-husband being the first. I was never self-conscious about my low number until Trey and his oversharing books. I tried to believe Trey when he said he wasn&amp;#039;t sleeping with anyone but me and that he&amp;#039;d been tested for HIV and other STDs. But this was my first relationship since my husband of two years, partner of seven, cheated and left me while pregnant to pursue a relationship with a coworker. I&amp;#039;d never believed he would lie to me either, so maybe my gauge was broken.  I told a friend about my HIV-testing plan over coffee. She said stabbing someone with a needle and stealing his blood might just be a crime. Hmm. Her reaction was enough to convince me I&amp;#039;d crossed the line into crazy, so I went to see a therapist and quickly uncovered my real fear: making another mistake in the lifelong-partner department. Duh. But while I talked the therapy-speak about learning to trust again by day, by night I was still checking Trey&amp;#039;s Internet browsing history (the way I&amp;#039;d caught my ex).  To get over it, I felt like I needed to know everything, not just the stuff Trey had been brave (or braggart) enough to put out there in print. So I made notes about which scenes in the book needed further explanation, and I called him. I told him I&amp;#039;d read the book, which he was somehow surprised by (he doesn&amp;#039;t think his daughter will ever read it either), then I told him I needed to know it all \u2014 including the drama that had escaped publication \u2014 before I could move forward with the relationship.  He came over, and late into the night we sat huddled on the futon making a list \u2014 partly joking, partly serious \u2014 of all his indiscretions over his 45 years. He&amp;#039;d slept with 27 women, hookers included. And he was willing to tell me about it all. Knowing was a relief, but the most important thing that came out of that night was my certainty that Trey was willing to do whatever it took to keep me in his life. &amp;quot;Those women, those days, are gone,&amp;quot; he said. &amp;quot;You are exactly what I want. I&amp;#039;ll do anything.&amp;quot; Two years later, we were married. Last month, after his computer crashed, Trey was going through all of his backed-up files \u2014 including a ton of photos \u2014 to see if anything had been lost. Our desks are side by side, so I could sort of see what he was doing in my peripheral vision. A few shots that looked like porn caught my eye. It was the French actress at a modeling shoot! There she was on the screen in lingerie, ass thrust in the air, her hands lightly resting on another woman&amp;#039;s chiseled belly. The backdrop was a lush garden. Trey said, earnestly, &amp;quot;If you got all dressed up, you&amp;#039;d look better than that. You&amp;#039;re more naturally beautiful. That&amp;#039;s all makeup and airbrushing.&amp;quot;  I laughed. Because it was funny. Because he was full of b.s. \u2014 she was more gorgeous than I&amp;#039;d imagined. But also because Trey makes me feel as beautiful as the woman in the picture.  Trey was devoted enough not only to bare all his secrets, but to bleed for me. After I told him about the HIV test I&amp;#039;d bought, and my cockamamy plan to stick him with a needle in his sleep, he did it himself. The best part? He agreed never to tell his friends about my plot, so that they wouldn&amp;#039;t think I was nuts. Now that&amp;#039;s love.  Amanda Lynne Freeman is working on a book about her (crazy) life and completing a Ph.D. in sociology. She and Trey have been together for four years, married for a year and a half.  "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.redbookmag.com/love-sex/relationships/advice/a12393/husbands-past/>