The Fake Italian – Meet Number 11

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So Facebook tells me, the Fake Italian (Number 11) is now a newly married man with a couple of springer spaniels and a few horses. Six years ago however, he was a horny, young soldier boy, and a pretty hot one at that. Not my type – thin, short (my height), too pretty. I prefer my men a bit gruffer around the edges. He was far too much of a pretty boy for me.

The Fake Italian - Meet Number 11

It didn’t stop me sleeping with him though. Not much would have stopped me that night to be fair.

I had just come home from the War Zone. I’d already left the Hubby, although I don’t think he was aware of that yet, and in a brand spanking new relationship with Big Love, I was in a weird place when I first got back home. I say home, I still wasn’t home. It would take me just two weeks to pack up my stuff and leave the marital abode. Just two weeks to bag everything up and pile it into the back of a big, white transit van. I didn’t care about much by that point. I couldn’t wait to get out. I had made my decision. After years of being cheated on and abused by the man I loved, I had finally reached breaking point. It was painful. Devastating, in fact. But I did it.

In the two weeks between getting back from the War Zone and moving back to my home country for the first time in five years, I didn’t just pack. I got drunk a lot. I took a lot of drugs too. Mostly coke but if I’m honest, I didn’t really have a clue what I was shoving up my nose. I didn’t care. No fucks were given. If it made me happy, I’d take it. I’d do it. Another glass of wine or another Jaegarbomb. Another gram, another tab. Another guy in my bed….

I was emotional that night. I don’t remember much but I do remember crying a lot. I’m pretty sure he took me home that night; the Fake Italian. The Hubby was still in the War Zone and I had the apartment to myself. I remember us both being sat in the middle of my living room floor, me sobbing my eyes out and him trying to wipe the tears away. I don’t know if he was being kind, or if he was just trying to get into my pants, but it worked. I leant in to kiss him. He kissed me back. Then we were in my bed and he was tearing my clothes off. The only other thing I remember was being on top of him, riding him, pretending to cum because it was near impossible when I was high.

I don’t remember much after that. I don’t remember falling asleep. Or waking up. Or him leaving. I don’t even think we talked after that. It was just another one night stand. Another meaningless fuck. I was scared that night, faced with the prospect of leaving my husband, being separated, packing my life up, and leaving my friends and the country I had fallen in love with over the previous four years. I wasn’t just leaving my husband. I was leaving my entire life. The job I loved to death, to the point where I followed it to a war zone. My home. My everything. I was leaving it all behind. I did leave it all behind.

That night I needed to fuck someone, anyone. I would have taken someone home, although he probably wasn’t the smartest choice I could have made. But I cheated on my husband, and my boyfriend, all at the same time that night and for once, I didn’t give a fuck. I didn’t feel bad, or guilty. I didn’t feel the need to spill the beans. I never told anyone about it. It wasn’t important. I don’t even think it was that great. Definitely not great enough to remember. I didn’t give a shit about him. That night, I didn’t even give a shit about me.

I think I hit a pretty deep low for me that night. Giving myself away to a man I didn’t know, a man I didn’t even like that much, when I was leaving behind a shitty past to make way for a beautiful future… That wasn’t the kind of person I wanted to be.

So I changed. 

The years following that have been a journey, and one I’m glad I went through despite how emotionally exhausting it has been. I’m now a person I like. I think I’m a good person. I don’t open my legs for anyone, and I definitely don’t cheat. I don’t want to be a person like that. I like to think I left my slutty self behind in that bed with the Fake Italian.

I don’t know why he popped into my head, but I figured I might as well tell someone about the guy I had never told anyone about.

So there you have it – the Fake Italian.

Number 11.

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