If you’re ever fool enough to believe that a “man’s” affections are genuine, remind yourself of the last time the “special one” in your life actually did something for you or expressed tenderness of any kind without some underlying ulterior motive. If you can think of one, chances are, you’re in a mental institution like Audrey Tautou’s erotomaniac character Angélique, or, indeed, he simply needed something like money or a blow job (though, admittedly, don’t we all?).
After a “man” gets over the novelty of “knowing you” (alternately, grows bored with fucking you and starts to notice your personality is more annoying than he previously had the attention span to notice), his interest in displaying anything resembling sentiment will wane, leaving him as the sole breadwinner, rich in receiving but not giving any caresses.
Then, one day, when you least expect it, he’ll bequeath you with a love burst that simply doesn’t compute. Seconds to hours later (you know how “men” are in their arbitrariness with time), he’ll finally reveal the true reason behind his sudden ardor, and, whatever bullshit it is, you best dangle the promise of forgiveness or a yes for as long as you can if you want to capitalize on the last glimmers of his effusiveness before they’re gone.