So. I was on a date tonight.
It started innocent enough. Out with Lisa yesterday in the pub in Hackney, the usual one, Yuki Bar, and there he was. Proper Greek god. Muscles that looked like they had their own postcode, nice face, easy smile when we got chatting. I said yes to a proper date. Why not? It’s been a while. Ages, actually. And he seemed… fine. Normal. Fit. What could go wrong?
Tonight we went to The Marksman in Hackney. Proper place for it, cosy gastropub vibe, good food, not trying too hard, that East London edge that feels right without being wanky. We sat down, ordered drinks, waited for dinner. At first it was okay. Chatting. Surface stuff. My work, his work (personal trainer, obviously, that’s what they all say), the usual first-date dance. He asked a couple of questions. I answered. He nodded. Laughed in the right places. I thought, “alright, this might not be a total car crash”.
Then we hit the wall. Hard. Like, brick-wall, dead-end, nowhere-to-go wall.
I’m not sure if it’s the company I’ve been keeping lately or if it’s just me who’s changed. But I’ve got used to talking to a guy like there’s no fucks to give. Not rude. Not cold. Just… normal. Like you’re chatting to a mate who happens to be the opposite sex and that fact doesn’t even register as a thing. Effortless back-and-forth. Real laughs. Actual curiosity. Questions that lead somewhere. Silences that don’t feel like someone died.
I’m not going into details about that because this article isn’t about him. This is about tonight. And just assume from here, tonight was the opposite of all of it.
We ran out of things to say so fast it was embarrassing. I could’ve filled every silence, ranted about work, told stupid stories about The Coven group chat, moaned about the patriarchy or why reality TV is rotting brains, whatever. But on a date I wanted to hear ‘him’. What he thought. What made him tick. What he’d actually say when he wasn’t performing. He’s job is to sell himself to me.
Spoiler: not much. And what was there was painful.
First, the over-eager thing. His reactions were so over the top you could smell the fakery. I’d say something mildly amusing, “That couple over there look like they’re negotiating a hostage situation over the wine list”, and he’d throw his head back with this roaring laugh like I’d just headlined the Apollo. “HAHAHA YOU’RE SO FUNNY!” Eyes wide, teeth bared, whole body shaking like he was having a religious experience. It wasn’t laughing ‘with’ me. It was auditioning. Performing “enthusiastic date guy” at volume ten. People at the next table actually turned to look. I wanted the floor to swallow me. The irony here is though, I was talking about us. I wanted to see if he had self-awareness to connect the dots and apply it to our own spiralling hell. Well, he had no self awareness.
Teeth are also a big thing for me. A guy needs adequate teeth. They don’t have to be perfect, but I’m hitting 30 next month, and the older a person gets the worst the teeth get. I don’t want those horrible false European ones either, I tried kissing a guy once with Turkey Teeth, it doesn’t feel right at all. I think with two or maybe three exceptions, I’ve not met guys over 30 with decent teeth. And out of those exceptions one of those guys has his own teeth, but that’s a whole other story. So my date was 43 years old, and his teeth were okay, not wonderful, but you can tell he spends all his time on his biceps and not brushing his teeth. But they were fine, I could kiss him no problem.
Then the flexing. Oh my actual god, the flexing.
Every single time he reached for his pint, adjusted in his chair, leaned forward to “listen,” his elbows went on the table and his biceps popped like they were trying to escape his shirt. Not a subtle “these guns are here if you want them” flex. Full-on, deliberate, mouth-twisting, constipated-face flex. His mouth would distort into this weird shape every time, like he was simultaneously trying to smile and hold in a massive fart while his arms did their own separate performance. It was constant. Like his biceps had main-character syndrome and were desperate to be noticed. I kept waiting for him to knock the salt over or accidentally punch himself in the face. Please, men. Don’t do that. It’s not hot. It’s distracting and a bit tragic and makes you look like you’re constipated and showing off at the same time.
He had zero real interest in anything I was saying. You could see the glaze settle over his eyes the second I went beyond surface level. I’d be mid-sentence about something actually interesting to me and his face would do this polite-but-dead thing. Then he’d pivot straight back to himself, latest PR on bench, protein intake, how “cool” my job sounded (two words, no follow-up), or another generic compliment about how pretty I looked tonight. Over and over. No curiosity. No “tell me more.” Just performative nods and arm porn. I mean, an argument could be said that’s on me, he doesn’t find me interesting and that’s fine, that’s not he’s fault. But clearly, he’s after sticking his dick in me which I don’t do off the bat, but if he were honest, and just relaxed, it could of led there one day.
The thing is, and this is the part men don’t get. When we’re talking, we don’t need you to be interested, we don’t want you to keep butting in just to show us you are there. We don’t want you agree with us on everything. All we want is for you to listen. If men proper listened on dates, instead of performing and trying to say the right thing, good wholesome chatting will happen naturally.
Opposite that… the silences.
The silences were the worst. Not the comfortable kind where you can just sit and people-watch the other tables. These were heavy, awkward, ‘someone please say something’ silences. He’d just sit there with that big fake smile, chest puffed out, waiting for his next chance to talk about the gym or how “you must get hit on all the time with a job like yours.” I tried. I really tried. Asked about his interests beyond lifting. Got two-word answers then straight back to me or his gains. I even brought up Lisa’s birthday, the big 30 this week, the gift I’d sorted for her, something proper special and unique she’s been banging on about for ages, just to have something to say. He nodded. Said “nice.” Then flexed again.
By the time the food arrived I was already mentally checked out. Eating on autopilot. Making the right noises. Laughing at the right times. Inside? Bored. Tired. Already planning the quickest polite exit. Checking the clock like it was a hostage situation.
And then the end of the night came and I made the stupid decision.
We kissed because why not. I was bored out of my actual face, a bit wine-tipsy from the second glass I’d necked too fast, and just wanted to get it over with so I could go home, shower the whole evening off my skin, and pretend it never happened. Part of me thought, maybe it’ll be alright. Maybe the kiss will save it. But I was soon going to find out not all kisses hit the spot.
I went for it anyway. Stood there on the pavement outside The Marksman, the streetlights doing that soft orange thing Hackney does at night, and let it happen.
I’m used to really good kisses these days. Proper dreamy ones. The kind that start slow and dry, lips just brushing like they’re checking the weather first. Then this subtle, playful tongue, not shoving, not exploring like it’s on a bloody expedition, just… present.
Suggestive.
Hands that stay where they’re supposed to, above the neck, cradling the back of your head or cupping your jaw like you’re something worth being careful with. The kind that make the rest of the world go quiet for a second. Effortless. Connected. Good. The kind that feel like the other person is actually there with you instead of performing at you.
This guy?
Tragic doesn’t even begin to cover it. It was like someone had let a slug loose in my mouth and told it the rent was due.
Wet. So wet. Like he’d been saving up saliva for this exact moment. His tongue came at me like it had a personal vendetta against my tonsils, rolling, pushing, mapping every single crevice like it was on a reconnaissance mission for buried treasure. No subtlety. No playfulness. Just aggressive, determined, I’m in charge here energy. I could taste his dinner. The beer from earlier. Something vaguely minty that was losing the battle. It was noisy too, these wet, smacking sounds that made me want to laugh and gag at the same time. Not in a hot way. In an “is this actually happening” way.
His hands were the next disaster. One went straight for my chest like he was doing a stocktake on flat land. Proper grope. Not even a gentle exploratory touch, a full grab, like he was checking if the rumours about my non-existent boobs were true or if he’d been lied to. The other hand clamped onto my waist so tight I could feel his fingers digging in through my top. No tenderness. Just ownership. And his body? Rigid. Tense. Like someone had replaced his spine with a steel rod and then told him to act passionate. Kissing a mannequin that had come to life and was very, very excited about the opportunity but had no idea what to actually do with it. His whole frame was locked up, shoulders up by his ears, back straight, legs planted like he was bracing for impact. Every now and then he’d twitch, like his muscles were trying to remember how to be human.
His eyelids were fluttering the entire time. Not in a sexy, lost-in-the-moment way. More like a broken moth caught in fairy lights, rapid, twitchy, almost spasmodic. I kept catching flashes of white through half-closed lashes and thinking, is he having a stroke? Am I killing him? His mouth was working overtime, too much tongue, too much pressure, and at one point I swear he tried to suck my bottom lip like it was a straw.
I pulled back slightly, polite, gentle, the “easy there, tiger” pull, but he just followed me, leaning in harder, like retreat wasn’t an option on his menu.
I lasted maybe twenty seconds. Maybe less. Long enough to register the string of spit that connected us when I finally yanked my head away, this glistening, disgusting spider-silk thread stretching between my mouth and his like some low-budget horror film. I could still feel his saliva in my mouth. On my chin. A bit on my top lip. I wiped it with the back of my hand immediately, then instantly regretted it because now my hand was gross too. “Right,” I muttered, voice a bit hoarse from the assault.
“Well… night then.”
He was still standing there looking pleased with himself, chest puffed out, arms doing that weird half-flex thing even now. I turned and walked. Fast. Not running, I’m not that rude, but definitely power-walking like someone who had somewhere urgent to be that wasn’t here.
Five minutes into the journey home the text arrived.
“Had a great night, you’re a great kisser btw, I noticed you weren’t complaining!”
Oh. My. Actual. God.
I stopped dead on the pavement, read it twice, and let out this involuntary snort-laugh that probably scared the fox rummaging through a bin nearby. You weren’t complaining. Mate. I was internally screaming the entire time. Planning escape routes. Trying not to laugh at the wet noises. Counting the seconds until I could pull away without it being awkward. Complaining would’ve required energy I didn’t have left after that performance. And now he’s texting me like we just shared the most magical, reciprocal, earth-shattering kiss of the century. Like my lack of immediate vomiting was enthusiastic consent.
I could still smell his slobber on my top lip. Taste it at the back of my throat every time I swallowed. I kept wiping my mouth with the sleeve of my jacket as I walked, but it didn’t help. The ghost of that kiss was clinging on like it had paid rent.
By the time I got home I was properly defeated. Stripped everything off in the hallway like the clothes themselves were contaminated, got in the shower, and scrubbed my face and mouth like I was trying to remove crime-scene evidence. Stood under the hot water for ages just letting it run over me, replaying the whole thing in slow motion, the slug tongue, the rigid body, the fluttering eyelids, the groping, the spit string, the text. And the worst part?
The part that’s sitting heavy in my chest right now?
Six months ago, even two years ago, that kiss would’ve been… fine. Or at least excusable. He was fit. Greek-god fit. I would’ve laughed it off in the group chat. Made jokes about “enthusiastic but needs direction.” Maybe even given him another chance because “at least he tried” and “the visual was there.”
Now? It’s tragic.
And I can’t unsee it. Can’t un-feel a decent kiss, the kind of kiss that feels like the other person is actually paying attention to you, not just going through a checklist of moves they saw in a film or read in some dodgy forum.
I’ve fucked my own standards. Raised the bar so high it’s basically in orbit. And now things feel lacking and I don’t know why. I’ve ruined kissing for myself. Ruined the ability to just enjoy a mediocre-but-harmless snog.
And I don’t even know how to walk it back. Or if I want to.
I got out the shower, wrapped myself in the biggest towel, poured a very large glass of wine, and sat here typing this. Still tasting it. Still feeling the phantom pressure of that rigid body against mine. Still seeing those fluttering eyelids in my head.
What a night.
What a fucking mess I’ve made of my own expectations.
And the part that’s sitting heaviest? I’ve fucked myself up. My expectations and reality are proper blown out of all proportion now. Six months ago, that date would’ve been a pass. He was fit. God-like fit. Muscles, face, the whole visual package. I would’ve made excuses. “He was just nervous.” “The laughing was cute, really.” “Maybe the kiss gets better with practice.” “At least he tried.” “He’s fit though, right?”
Now? It’s tragic. And I can’t unsee it. Can’t un-feel the difference. The contrast is just there. I’ve had communication that feels like breathing, easy, natural, no performance, actual back-and-forth like you’re talking to a human who gives a shit. Kisses that feel like they were invented for the moment. Attention that doesn’t feel like a checklist or a performance. Even silences that are gold. Just smile or a grin thrown my way, that speak thousands of words. Silence doesn’t need to be filled all the time.
And now blokes feel… lacking. Is it the feminism? Have I changed? Or don’t men research any more? Even the fit ones. Even the ones who look like they stepped off a billboard. Those especially.
I’ve really fucked things for myself.
I’m too defeated to be properly angry about it. There’s no rage left tonight. Just this heavy, tired sadness. Like I’ve raised the bar so high it’s basically in orbit and now most of the dating pool is underwater and I don’t know how to swim back down to it. How have I got here? And now I’m the one stuck with it.
I don’t even have the energy to do the full feminist deep-dive on performative masculinity or how this guy was the living embodiment of everything wrong with straight dating in 2026, the flexing as armour, the fake enthusiasm as currency, the zero curiosity about the actual woman in front of him, the entitlement in the kiss like my mouth was there for his exploration and my body was optional extra storage. It’s all just… there. Sad. Exhausting. A symptom of something bigger that I’m too tired to unpack tonight.
I’ve broken my own ability to enjoy normal human interaction with men and I don’t even know how to fix it. Or if I want to.
Tomorrow I’m off to the States for a bit. Business. Pitching a book idea I’ve had for a while, some sightseeing and see some friends. A month or two over there should be good. Reset. Clear my head from dates like this, from men like this, from my own stupid raised standards. I’ve got my own place so I can still write articles, keep the Substack going, stay in The Coven chat, do the Reels and threads. Publishing schedule might slip a little but fuck it. Worth it for the headspace.
Lisa’s birthday is this week. The big 30. I’ve arranged something great for her, unique, the exact thing she’s been hinting at for ages. Gutted I won’t be here to see her face when she realises what it is or do the proper celebration, but she’ll be grand. She’s tough as old boots. We’ll do it properly when I’m back. She knows I love her. That’s enough for now.
So that’s it. My first actual date in a very long time. A failure. In the most mundane, disappointing, soul-crushingly average way possible.
And now I’m sat here, wine glass refilled, waiting for the obligatory dick pic because of course that’s coming next. “Had a great night” text already delivered with maximum delusion. Slobber still haunting my top lip like a ghost that won’t leave.
What a night.
What a fucking mess I’ve made of my own head.
Anyway. More wine. Maybe delete the number before the unsolicited photo arrives. Or maybe don’t. Maybe just let it sit there as a reminder.
Night, world. I’m going to bed defeated, slightly wine-drunk, and wondering how the hell I went wrong.