post thirty-three: men

Men.
Haven't talked about them for a while. Maybe because there wasn't much to talk about.
What I thought was a secure and happy relationship ended horribly in January, nearly a year ago. Even though he was still bothering me at the start of the summer. Hell, I even got a bunch of flowers from him, while I was in hospital, as if he was still trying to prove that he was a 'nice guy'. Not to mention the reason why I was in a car wreck in the first place was because I wanted a weekend at home where he couldn't bother me.

I have had a couple of dates since our breakup, but nothing substantial. Most were ended with 'But you are going away, is there much point?', and one date ended terribly when the Ex walked through the door of the pub I was in, deliberately sat behind me and made faces at my poor date all night. And throughout the summer I wasn't really up for 'dating'; I just spend my time concentrating on becoming physically and emotionally fit for my time abroad.

And now the men in Corsica. They are gorgeous. And they know it. And all the girls here are as thin as rakes. If you want to feel better about the way you look, do NOT come to this island. But nevertheless (great word, should be used more) I met one. Let's call him Frenchman. And he seemed genuinely interested in me. Hurrah! I thought.

I went to the pub a few times with Frenchman, saw a few live band, and we even met up in the French half term when I went to Nice for a few days with a friend (he is from there originally) and it was great. So last week after my adventures on a horse, he came and picked me up, took me back to his apartment in the next town, where he had prepared this amazing chili con carne, which is always a winner, and I stayed overnight.

The next morning, we were sitting down with our croissants (of course) when there is a knock at the door. He opened it, and in walked his girlfriend, 'surprising' him as a romantic gesture.
She turned on me.
'Who is she?' She shouted at Frenchman.
'She is my friend,' said Frenchman. 'She came by for breakfast. She is an Erasmus Student that I look after.'
I have never been so horrified by anything in my entire life. He didn't even make eye contact with me, and he just expected me to lie for him as well.

She believed him.


The worst of it is, he had to drive me home, and she still believed him. It is a forty minute round trip, so there was definately no possibilty of me 'popping around' especially at 10am on a Saturday. The car journey was a silent one.

When I confronted his friends later about it, they were shocked as he had seemingly never mentioned her existance.

Even worse, last night I got absolutely rat-arsed and went home with an Italian man, another man who I later find out has a girlfriend.
I have moved from being cheated on, to being the other woman. And I don't like it.

Roll on Christmas.
The only two men I'm trusting from now on: Daddy and Santa.