So there I was, proffering the French arch angel another date. Tonight he offered me truffles illegally sent in the post by his TonTon in Provence, delighted me with stories about his childhood holidays in the Alsace Lorraine, and was genuinely candid about how he was going to sex me up later on in the evening.

I was so insanely bored.

What is it about The Perfect Man? I delved further to establish whether this specimen had any sort of depth that I could relate to. That is, had he ever been hurt before?

After a bottle or two of velvety wine, it turns out Frenchie isn't so perfect.

My gentle enquiring of previous heartbreak had unwittingly opened the floodgates to reveal a man who was (a) not ready for a relationship, and as a result (b) someone way more interesting than a saucy European who had a penchant for tai chi and good food.

I'm always surprised by a hurting man. The male species never fails to fascinate me.

Male coping mechanisms

How do they hide it so well? One has to chip away layers and layers using the accountable force of alcohol to reveal a soul that has been scorned, or at the very least, hasn't healed yet.

Then the tears start, and the babble about the woman who suddenly professed she didn't love him anymore and turned her heel, never to look back again, leaving him in a grieving stupor.

Just two months prior to this date, Frenchman's girlfriend had packed her suitcases and headed for greener grass in the form of a bigger penis, give or take.

Women are far more open about "that bastard" and implore endlessly, "but how did things suddenly change?"

Often they surrender to months of therapy, trying to come to terms with the break-up in a fashion that will ensure they are better people at the end. They reason with God, they bargain with themselves.

Men, and they all deserve a standing ovation for being blessed with such thick-skinned apathy, just carry on carrying on.

One needs a jackhammer to gain any sort of clue as to what goes on inside, and even then, it's always hazy ground.

Frenchie was no different. He'd pushed his most recent ex to the back of his latent skull, and only gargantuan amounts of wine unlocked some of the sadness that he clearly hadn't dealt with yet.

This is when I wish I could be a man. Men don't seem to need a healing period. They just stuff their woes, or rather 'inconveniences' into a storage vesicle at the back of their craniums. They get on with things, while women need time.

Surprising end to a second date

Perhaps I am wrong, but I don't find even 'The Perfect Man' attractive until I have truly got over the last relationship and found peace with the whole ordeal. Frenchie, like many others, throws himself into something almost straight away — simply because they have no reason not to.

Suddenly, I found myself holding this fragile boy in my arms, rocking him to sleep as he cried on my shoulder. Quite a phenomenal ending to a second date, you'd agree.

I'd been in this position before, of course, except it was one of my best friends wiping away my tears and stroking my hair, just after a break-up had occurred.

Hurting men don't like to be vulnerable. It messes with their power, and turns them into a deplorable subject of ridicule amongst their friends. Boys simply don't cry.

That's not to say that I don't agree with how men deal with hurt — because I've pretty much made it my life goal to deal with grief just like a man does.

Sure, I have some work to do — in that I find it difficult not to wear my heart on my sleeve and display a monumental amount of vulnerability in everything I do for a while. In addition, I don't wish to burden a new lover with tears after the second bottle has been uncorked.

Have I become one of those women? The nurturing motherly type that allows a man nestle in her bosom and cry?

I certainly hope not. However, us women can learn from men, and how they manage to be so stoic in situations not involving fermented grapes.