I am married man bait, apparently. Or basically married man bait. My DMs (/phone/life) seem to be filled with men who already have a partner, chasing me down like I’m the rabbit in a greyhound race. Literally. Do I give off cheating POS vibes? How do I stop that? Because I. don’t. like. it. I am not garlic bread; I am lasagne.
The Men
Allow me to introduce you to the range of basically married, married, or otherwise taken men who have darkened my doors lately.
Are you ready?
The Neighbour’s Husband
Every now and then, this guy pops into my inbox, asking how I am and using my pet-name from back in the day, which is almost twenty years ago now. It’s a pattern, and a very familiar one. That’s probably why he’s been divorced twice already and has countless kids with two, three, four, maybe more baby mamas these days.
He has popped again very recently. I ignored the message, so he messaged again… and then again.
What the fuck does this guy want?
I know what he wants, of course. It’s the same thing he always wants: that little ego boost. He wants to know that I’ll still reply, that he can still ‘have’ me whenever he wants.
The thing is, though…
He can’t still have me. I’m not 21 anymore. He knows that, but still, the familiar pattern continues to run its course.
Like, why?
Doesn’t rejection get a little boring after a while?
Slots
There was the handsome, funny chap who wasn’t so handsome or funny once he’d started trying to “book a slot” with me, like I was some kind of sex worker – before, during, and after my situationship with Sambuca, and he did not give up. We’ll just go right ahead and call him Slots.
There’s absolutely nothing wrong with being a sex worker. I’d be the first in line to order dick from Uber if I could. I’m just not a sex worker, and nothing dries me up quicker than a man who doesn’t know me, treating me like one.
Mmhmm, so sexy, Slots. Well done. At least take me out for dinner before you expect to play my part in your slutty little fantasies. I don’t even know the script yet. Oh, no, wait… you can’t do that, can you? The wife would see the receipt on the bank statement, because she’s probably in control of your finances, right? (I bet I’m fuckin’ right.)
Mr. Interesting
There was also the really interesting fella who wasn’t so interesting once I’d made it clear that I wasn’t about to start a married man’s car, but he still repeatedly turned the conversation to sex.
Mr. Outspoken
Oh, and there was the very outspoken one who scared me a bit, but I absolutely adored his passion and ethics. I never heard from him again once he, too, admitted that he was, in fact, married.
Quantum: another fuckin’ cheater.
Bob: actually, let’s not go there.
Bear: the jury might still be out on that one.
Cheaters, cheaters everywhere. Don’t you people know that I’m trying to overhaul my slutty image? I don’t do that infidelity shit anymore. I don’t care how pretty your dick is. No. Stop it. Go and fuck your wife.
Garlic Bread
It’s my fault, isn’t it? I’m wearing attract-a-liar perfume. Rocking my best calling-all-pieces-of-shit outfits? Maybe, just maybe, my makeup screams home-wrecking whore? Or perhaps it’s because I write some stuff about sex, so now every man who ever learns about it thinks I’m… what? Up for the taking? Open for anyone? Open all hours? [hums the theme tune]
What do these fellas think is going to happen? Romeo, oh, Romeo, wherefore art my basically married men?! I suppose it has a certain appeal to some… like me, in my early twenties, when I was a self-confessed attention-seeking slut. Back then, garlic bread sounded like a fabulously fun idea to me. I didn’t need a full-time boyfriend; plus, married men had a secrecy factor to them that made them super enticing.
But if you want me to go back to that self-confessed attention-seeking slut era, you must also accept that I’m probably going to tell your wife at the first family event I find out about. I’ll dress up all pretty as I ruin your entire life, though. You know, like the good little other woman, you wanted me to be.
What makes these men think that I’d be a perfectly acceptable ‘other woman?’ Like, don’t they know me at all? I’m fifty different women; all rolled into one… and at least 80% of those personalities are petty enough to want to wreck a life or two. Probably the same percentage are IDGAF’y enough to actually do it.
I am not garlic bread. There’s nothing side dish about me.
I am lasagne! I am a full fuckin’ main, and how dare you treat as anything other than that?
Lasagne
I’m loud sometimes. I can’t keep a secret for shit. I can’t lie, and I definitely can’t lie to the people who know me best. My BFF would know, FOR SURE… mostly because I would immediately tell her. If you think she doesn’t know, she does. She has seen the chat screenshots, your social media profiles, and (if I can find her) your missus too. Oh, and she is judging the SHIT out of you for it.
I also feel injustices deeply, so the second that ‘my’ married man chooses the wife over me, I’m upset and there’s nothing that anyone can do about it. And what happens when I’m upset? Oh, yes: I get PETTY AS FUCK. See above.
You men can’t handle one woman, so what on this fabulous, green Earth makes you think that you can handle me on top of your regularly scheduling programming?!? More than one man has called me a “hurricane.” Do you really need a hurricane in your marriage? A garlic bread-flavoured hurricane?
Are you mad? Deluded? Fucking insane?!
I don’t share my toys. I can’t share my toys. Polyamory isn’t my jam. (You do you, though.) I’m a one-person woman, and I get real jealous, real quick. Overlaps are due to already waning interest, not because I’m greedy. (Though, I’m definitely that, too.) I don’t like cheating (anymore.) I don’t like people that cheat. I’m no longer in my youth, so I can’t blame my misbehaviour on the exuberance of it.
More than that, though…
Isn’t cheating a little tacky nowadays? That’s 1990 behaviour, and we’re now in a 2026 world. Screwing people over isn’t funny, and it definitely isn’t cute.
Then What?
Let’s just say for a moment that the basically married man leaves his wife. Then what? How am I meant to trust a partner that cheated on a former partner with me? I know the specifics, the ins-and-outs… well, as much as the one-sided story I’m fed allows, of course. So, I know that he’s a lying, cheating prick already. I’m the person at the end of said lying, cheating prick. Digitally, at least. (Still fuckin’ abstinent… mostly because of basically married men like this.)
Am I meant to trust the cheating bastard now? After everything I know? I’m not deluded enough to think that I can keep the attentions of an already wandering man. What happens when they’re late home for dinner one time? I’m automatically going to assume that they’re being a cheating bastard – because history loves to repeat itself.
Exhibit A: I’m like, 75% convinced that Sambuca cheated on his work trip, and he assumed that I was fucking every man that dared to talk to me. Why? We cheated together.
And yes, I’m also a lying, cheating prick. Don’t worry; I’m not skipping myself in this public chastising. I deserve to be thrown in the stocks and pelted with tomatoes just as much as the basically married men who always seem to end up in my DMs/messages/face/life/whatever. In my very feeble defence, though, I at least shut that shit down as soon as I find out about it… except for Sambuca… oh, and Quantum…
See: I’m a whole piece of shit. You pelt those tomatoes at me, and you do it hard! I deserve nothing less.
Anyway, I think I’m nearing the end of my rant, so I think I’ll finish things off by saying this:
Dear Santa, if you’re listening, can I please have a man of my own for Christmas? It would be really nice if, for once, I didn’t have to fucking share.
Cheers, mate.
The next blog post in the dating timeline is this one: Ask Me a Fucking Question!
Thanks so much for reading my blog today! 🖤
You can read all about my disastrous dating history, right from the beginning, right here: Table of Dating Contents.
Alternatively, why not have a little peek around here:
