Archive | August, 2011

To Love, Honour and Betray (How to Spot a Married Man)

6 Aug
Wedding Rings 2

flickr image by firemedic58

Recently, I unwittingly had a one night dalliance with a married man.

However, I was not made aware of his marital status until the following day. When I discovered the shocking news I felt a range of emotions; anger, disgust, shame and remorse, mingled amidst pity for his oblivious wife.

The thought of fucking his genitalia up with a swift kick to the nether regions may have also crossed my mind once or twice.

How had I not realised he was married? Surely I should have spotted a thin silvery line where his wedding ring usually resides. Or perhaps noticed the ball and chain attached to his ankle.

Alas, at the time I didn’t notice that anything was amiss. But looking back now and analysing the night in typical obsessive female fashion, there were a range of indicators that pointed to his marital status.

If you’d like me to save you from unknowingly bestowing sexual favours upon a cheating fuckwit, please accompany me as I relive that regretful night and highlight the abundance of red flags that were waved in front of my vodka-numbed face…

I spotted him early on in the night. I was undeniably enraptured by his rugged good looks, sexy brown eyes and generous helping of dark tresses. We made sexually-charged eye contact a number of times; his retinas molesting mine like a fifteen year old Asian kid eying up a new Xbox game.

Somehow our two groups of friends drunkenly merged on the dance floor as the band massacred a Jimmy Barnes classic. Spying the green light and ploughing my foot on the accelerator, I snatched a packet of chewing gum from an acne-infested youth attempting to grind on one of my friend’s behinds and proffered the contents to the group of guys now dancing with us.

The guys heartily accepted; placing the strips of gum behind their ears, as a greaser would a cigarette. Taking a strip of gum for myself and planting it between my lips, I brazenly approached the guy I’d had my eye on.

“Got a light?” I queried, removing the strip of gum from my lips and holding it between two fingers as one would clasp a cigarette.

Without missing a beat he grabbed a lighter from a friend and pretended to ignite the end of my gum, cheekily winking as he did so.

At that moment the band finished their set, causing the crowded dance floor to immediately thin as patrons fled to refresh their drinks.

I bided my time and as the band began their next set, I spotted the object of my affection, conversing cosily with another girl.

Trying not to feel too disappointed, I began drunkenly swaying to a tragic rendition of a Red Hot Chilli Peppers tune.

Suddenly, there he was, standing beside me.

“Hi,” he rasped.

“Hi,” I replied nonchalantly.

“I’ve been watching you all night and I find you really attractive,” he continued.

By now we were circling each other; like hungry jungle animals preparing to pounce on their prey. “Is that right?” I questioned, sneaking a sideways glace at the girl he had just been talking to. She murderously peered back at me.

“Yeah,” he replied with enviable eloquence.

“Are you going to grow a big head if I tell you that I find you attractive too?” I asked.

“Probably,” he replied cockily, lunging forwards.

Game on.

We pashed like horny teenagers for a good thirty seconds before he whispered something in my ear about going somewhere to talk. Assuming he meant the beer garden, I allowed him to lead me outside by the hand. However, instead of heading towards the beer garden, he began to walk determinedly towards the exit.

Possible indicator he may in fact be a cheating fuckwit married guy: He wants to leave the pub immediately for fear of being spotted by someone who knows his wife.

Loophole: Many unmarried guys are just out for a shag and will try to whisk you home as quick as humanly possible. They can’t be bothered with any of that tedious shit-chat like getting to know a girl’s name nor discussing any of her meaningless hobbies. And God forbid they have to fork out some cold hard cash in order to buy her a drink. No, best they get her straight home and try to get a shot away with her before she sobers up.

I immediately hit the brakes. “Where are you going?” I asked.

“I thought we could head to your place?” he confidently inquired.

Possible indicator he may in fact be a cheating fuckwit married guy: He insists on going to your place. Well, he can’t very well shag you in his marital bed with his wife peacefully slumbering beside you, can he? But don’t worry, he’ll have plenty of fabricated excuses at the ready. These may include, but are certainly not limited to, his place being a mess and him being mortally embarrassed for you to see it in such a state. Or his flatmate starting work early the next morning and him not wanting to disturb them. Or the age-old gem that he’s actually living with his parents at the moment while he’s searching for his own place to buy.

Loophole: His place actually is a mess and he would be mortally embarrassed for you to see it in such a state. Or his flatmate is starting work early the next morning and he considerately doesn’t want to disturb them. Or that he actually is living with his parents at the moment while he’s searching for his own place to buy.

I can’t recall the exact wording, but I informed him that if he wanted to find a girl to have sex with that night, it wouldn’t be me. (Quite out of character, I know. Perhaps I was surfing the crimson wave at the time). I told him there would be no hard feelings if that’s what he was after and I’d understand completely if he’d rather go and find a girl who would be willing to bump uglies with him.

I also can’t recall his exact response, but I think it went a little something like this, “No, of course I don’t want that, I just wanted to go somewhere quiet to talk blah blah bullshit bullshit. You seem like a really cool girl bullshit bullshit. I just want to get to know you blah blah I can’t believe you don’t have a boyfriend bullshit blah blah. You’re so gorgeous bullshit, I wish I could be your boyfriend bullshit bullshit bullshit.”

We walked back inside the bar and he led me to a dark corner where we continued to enthusiastically pash, while every now and then he inflated my ego with false compliments.

At one point, through my persistent questioning, I discovered there was only six days difference between our ages. Demanding proof, I insisted he show me the date of birth on his licence.

He dutifully obeyed my request. However, when he displayed his licence, he purposefully placed his thumb over his name and address.

Possible indicator he may in fact be a cheating fuckwit married guy: He doesn’t want you to know his full name. The reason being, he does not want you using it to google-stalk the shit out of him. Through a medium such as facebook you’d no doubt discover he was married. Then, because you are a female, and therefore a crazy bitch, you would probably facebook message his wife, mischievously causing an avalanche of shit.

Loophole: He fears that because you are female, and therefore a crazy bitch, if you were to discover his address you may take up temporary residence in your car parked across the street from his house, with only a thermos of gin and your heat-seeking goggles for company.

There wasn’t much in the way of deep and meaningful conversation that night. I can recall asking him questions about himself and receiving rather evasive replies. Basically, he agreed with everything I said, rather than actively contributing to the conversation.

Here is an example of our script:

Me: So where do you live?

Him: Not far from here.

Me: I’m a local too! What street are you on?

Him: That one. (Executes a vague pointing gesture).

Me: Beach Street?

Him: Yeah.

Me: I used to live on Beach Street, right near Anderson Avenue! Are you up near there?

Him: Yeah.

Me: So who do you live with?

Him: A flatmate.

Me: Do you live with him? (I indicate towards his wingman whom is currently mauling my friend’s face with his face).

Him: Yeah.

Possible indicator he may in fact be a cheating fuckwit married guy: He wants you to know as little about himself as possible. The more you know, the greater the risk of him being ousted for being a cheating married fuckwit.

Loophole: He’s merely too drunk to make decent conversation.

Loophole: He’s too unintelligent and uncharismatic to make decent conversation.

Loophole: He’s a boring dickhead.

Loophole: He’s a male, and therefore talking to a female when you could instead be shagging her is pointless.

Sorry, I’m clearly a tad bitter at the moment.

Somehow we got onto the topic of his amazing muscles (as you do), and he flexed his impressive bicep. Luckily for him he refrained from making a predictable Anchorman reference about tickets to the gun show, or I would have had to punch him in the face. Hard.

However, I instead pretended to bite his bicep. (Please note the key word used in the previous sentence: pretended).

I, in response, jokingly flexed my own unimpressive girly bicep, only for him to bite it. And not in a pretend way, either. His teeth sank into my flesh like Cujo attacking one of his victims. Thank God I was wearing a cardigan that slightly cushioned the impact from his razor-sharp incisors.

Yelping in pain, I pushed him away, only for him to laugh cheekily. I determined he was too drunk to realise how hard he had just bitten me. And luckily I was too drunk at the time to register the damage he had caused to my arm.

Finally, the band completed their last set and I informed him I needed to catch a cab home. Despite my protests, he insisted on hailing a cab with me to ensure I “got home safely blah blah bullshit bullshit”. He wouldn’t take no for an answer and informed me he would chivalrously pay for the cab to my house, give me a goodnight kiss on the doorstep then walk home from there.

Once the cab had dropped us off, he escorted me to the front door, then asked if he could use the toilet before he went on his merry way.

Ha. Likely story.

After his sojourn to the bathroom, we began mauling each other on the lounge. I’d only moved into the house the day before and was frightened one of my new flatmates would walk in at any second.

I suggested we head upstairs to the safety of my bedroom, once again assuring him nothing untoward was about to take place.

I led the way up the stairs, with him trailing behind. When I made it to the bedroom I turned around and saw he was now clothed only in his underwear. Clearly he had optimistically undressed himself whilst climbing the staircase. I quickly ushered him inside the bedroom, paranoid one of my new flatmates could appear at any moment.

We continued to tongue-lash each other for an hour or so, with me deflecting his octopus-like extremities. During this time his phone kept incessantly ringing from the pocket of his jeans, which he’d left strewn on the other side of the room.

Possible indicator he may in fact be a cheating fuckwit married guy: His phone rings approximately twenty-seven times in the space of an hour; the telltale sign of a scorned wife desperately trying to locate her unfaithful spouse.

Loophole: His flatmate has locked himself out and needs the house key.

The whole time he continued to beg, nag, plead for me to bestow sexual favours upon him. And finally, in a moment of weakness, I agreed to “kiss him down there”.

Classy, I know.

As soon as he orgasmed (in my mouth, with absolutely no warning, causing me to spit the contents on his stomach in shock) he jumped up, cleaned himself off, redressed, gave me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and left.

What a fucking cunt.

Feeling upset, used and dejected I sent a text to one of my friends I’d been out with that night, informing her of the whole sordid tale, before falling into a drunken slumber.

A reply text arrived from her the following morning. She’d gone home with his mate, and when she’d told him what a prick his friend had been to me, he admitted to her that his friend was actually married. Picking up girls is apparently just something he does from time to time.

Lovely.

I felt stupid. Used. Angry. Ashamed.

Following the incident I sported a large nasty bruise on my arm for a lengthy period spanning about six weeks. During a fucking heatwave. Meaning I had to cover my arms whilst at work and pray I didn’t pass out from heat exhaustion. I’d post a picture of the damage he caused to my arm (which has elicited many a shocked gasp from all whom have viewed it), but I’m far too paranoid of my true identity being uncovered.

But despite all that, I’m mostly disappointed.

I’m disappointed that yet another fuckwit guy has given me something else to fear when meeting new men. They may be married. The thought had naively never crossed my mind before meeting this tool.

It’s like cruelly shattering the magic of Christmas for a child by telling them Santa Claus doesn’t exist.

I’ve since seen him at the same pub, brazenly flirting with girls. My heart goes out to his wife, whom in my imagination is sitting at home on her lonesome, angelically knitting booties whilst her unfaithful husband is trying to stick his penis in anything that moves.

To love, honour and obey indeed.

%d bloggers like this: