I’ve had to face up to the reality that men are not going to come and knock on my door on a Saturday night while I’m watching Bridgerton.
This is why I’ve decided to take dating more seriously. By seriously, I mean actually paying for an app and going on dates.
Things are off to a flying start being teetotal and living as a heterosexual woman in Brighton, the gay capital of the UK.
Almost every second profile seams to bear the dreaded acronym ENM (ethically non-monogamous), along with declarations of bisexuality or being kink-friendly. Whatever floats your boat as long as its consensual. Personally, I find that managing the complexities of just one close connection is a sufficient challenge for me.
My summary of online dating: fishing or fetish. Take your pick, Dear Reader, because that’s where we are now. Nothing screams come hither like holding a 10-pound asphyxiating fish. If freshwater fish is not your thing then perhaps a spot of fetish.
“Would you dress up as a school girl? Do you like rough sex?”
Call me old fashioned, I had thought BDSM and fetish was a negotiated practice involving clear practices, trust, and boundaries. Like many aspects of modern life, we want to skip straight to the climax.
Using dating apps as a way to meet men is mind-numbingly tedious.
I’m pretty sure online dating is the hopeless place that Rihanna sings about. Evenings are spent wading through a sea of mundane conversations about jobs, ideal types (“has a pulse” as the joke goes), and plans for the weekend.
Christ.
On.
A.
Bike.
For years, I’ve treated dating apps like an Argos catalog - flipping through casually with a cup of tea in hand, never intending to buy.
Occasionally, I would fold down the corners of items that could potentially enrich my life while never having any intention of making an actual purchase.
Unlike buying a foot spa, dating is a rollercoaster of mini-dramas, fear, and unhealthy self-reflection.
One aspect of dating that I had not counted on was spray-on hair and upholstery woes.
Suppose it’s only fair; women have been leaving their mascara on pillows forever.
As if I didn’t have enough on my mind, like the unsexy tan-colored bra I was wearing just moments before the horizontal dance with a hot Italian who resembled Michelangelo's David, I then had to navigate the totes awky moment of realizing he had sprayed-on hair to conceal bald patches on his head.
He looked sheepish.
I was speechless.
We were both naked.
I couldn’t decide if this was a rom-com or a horror movie.
My pristine white pillowcases resembled the aftermath of a chimney sweep’s visit, dusted with a fine layer of black debris. While the pillows were a mild irritation, my focus quickly shifted to my newly delivered blue velvet bed.
“MIND THE UPHOLSTERY” I shrieked inside my head.
One might assume that I’d have been better prepared for the second occurrence of this sort of mishap. Regrettably, no lessons to share with you, Dear Reader.
The most amusing conversations arise from those men in their late 20s or early 30s. These pop up from time to time as I now tick the “older woman” fantasy box for some.
“You look amazing for your age,” says Anthony, aged 28.
“I’m 46 FFS.”
“What are you doing hitting up older women?” I ask.
“Wait. What? Older?”
I find myself laughing, despite myself.
My favorite of late was “I wannabe a superhero. Should I be Superman, Batman, or Yourman?”
While I acknowledge the guffology, I appreciate the fresh energy and cockiness at times.
Despite the humor from younger men (like the ‘superhero’ guy), dating apps also leave me confronting rejection, fear, and vulnerability.
Last week, my rejection-ometer was off the charts.
There was every reason for me to believe that he was interested. We made some half-baked plans to meet at the weekend, but as the week unfolded, that all-too-familiar feeling of “you’ll never hear from him again” started to creep in.
Why was this bothering me so much?
I took this one great sounding guy and made him amazing in my head.
Feeling jilted and determined to take control of an uncontrollable situation, I resolved to push myself out of my comfort zone.
I confess to shelling out $40 for a 400-page PDF titled “How to talk to Men?” It’s a disappointing realisation for me - I thought I was beyond resorting to such tactics.
Be confident and assume the best is the advice. Well, this is not my first rodeo so excuuuuuse me if I’m a little cynical. I force myself to send the goddam message.
“Hello - hope you had a good week. Just wanted to confirm if we’re still meeting this weekend. I’m passing through London Bridge Station tomorrow evening if that suits?”
Straight onto the girls on WhatsApp.
“Why do I feel like vomiting and feel totally sick because I sent a message asking a guy to confirm if we are meeting this weekend?”
Despite my Catholic schooling, I have never felt shame in embracing a healthy sex life. However, I do carry a sense of shame in admitting that at 46 years of age I have never cohabitated with the male species. The feelings that there is something inherently wrong with me can be complex to navigate. Perhaps due to my Irish Catholic upbringing and witnessing my parents enduring a 65-year marriage, I find myself holding onto more traditional values than I may consciously acknowledge.
Jesus! Maybe I have more conservative inclinations than I previously realised. Wouldn’t that be some lesson to learn?
This feeling of inadequacy often stems from past relationships, but dating apps seem to have their own set of challenges. I feel seriously deficient in practice. Excluding my childhood sweetheart, I can count 2.5 significant relationships.
My most recent relationship was 8 years ago. Let’s characterize it as unhealthy, a blatant mismatch, a union that was born out of a drunken night in Farringdon and of my own insecurities about my own self-worth. By the end of our first year together, there were sufficient red flags signaling that this was not right. However, my mental state was in such disarray that I found myself unable to trust my own instincts.
Quitting alcohol spurred a profound identity crisis in my late 30s, and for a long time I didn’t know who I was. Embracing solitude was an act of self-preservation. If being alone was the price I had to pay to prioritize my well-being and personal growth, then so be it. I couldn’t afford to compromise myself again, neither to a substance nor someone else's idea of who I was meant to be. I wanted the relationships less than I wanted to be who I am meant to be.
Loneliness, much like rejection, often leaves a heavy ache in my chest. Yet, there were powerful lessons to be learned from this suffering - loneliness is the body’s trigger of telling you that you need to connect.
At a time in my life when I have laid witness to people making irreversible decisions about how to live, and with whom, then I celebrate my single choices.
The shifting social norms mean that life does not end for a woman if she remains childless. Truthfully, I don’t believe children and I would ever have been compatible together. I am a happy single, who is confident in my self-reliance, resilience, and financial independence so one might wonder why I’ve opted to delve into dating as a pathway of self-discovery?
“Because it’s there,” as Mallory replied to a reporter in 1923 about Everest.
Perhaps I’m choosing to explore dating to challenge any lingering doubts within myself, dispelling the notion that I am destined to remain a spinster. On darker days, I can’t help but psychoanalyse and think that this is inextricably linked to my parents' mortality. Perhaps my subconscious is seeking an alternative caretaker?
Maybe it’s as simple as I feel ready to embrace new experiences and enjoy life to the fullest, putting aside the introspection and looking outwards to indulge in some enjoyment and the thrill of feeling desired.
Who knows? Maybe I'll shock myself and become a fetish fishing enthusiast.
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