So I’m back on the dating scene. Properly this time. Bumble open, filters set high, and I’m only swiping right on the absolute top-shelf lot. Stunning faces, gym-built bodies, the kind of jawlines that belong on billboards, nice cars in the background of their photos, proper careers, the whole “got their shit together” package. The ones who look like they could walk into any room and own it. I told myself I was done with the aiming low, the ones who still live with their mates at thirty-two and think a takeaway is a date. No. This round I’m aiming higher.
And yet.
No word of a lie, the pattern is almost comic. Either the absolute cretins drop a dick pic in the first five minutes like they’re handing over a business card, or I manage to string a conversation together for a full day and suddenly the mask slips. Out comes the most disturbing, off-putting fetish you’ve ever heard. One minute we’re talking about weekend plans and favourite restaurants, the next he’s casually mentioning something that makes me want to delete the entire app and go live in a nunnery. It’s relentless. These men look polished on the outside. Inside they’re walking collections of the weirdest private demands imaginable.
I started keeping a mental list. Because after the third or fourth time it happened I realised this wasn’t bad luck. This was a feature of the high-end dating pool. The better they look on paper, the more likely they are to eventually confess something that makes my skin crawl. And I’m not talking about a bit of light experimentation or a shared joke about handcuffs. I’m talking about the stuff that leaves you staring at your phone thinking, “How do you function in polite society with that floating around in your head?”
So here we are. I’m going to walk through my personal top five turn-off fetishes. The ones that have made me close the chat, block the number, and sometimes need a strong drink afterwards. I’ll keep it honest, a bit nasty where it deserves it, and hopefully funny enough that we can all laugh at the sheer absurdity of it. These men present themselves as prizes. In reality a lot of them are just expensive packaging around some truly questionable wiring.
Let’s get into it.
Reverse cuckolding
These absolute mofos look the part. Sharp suits in the photos, expensive watches, the kind of polished confidence that makes you think they might actually be capable of a proper relationship. Then the truth dribbles out. They already have a wife or long-term partner sitting at home. And the big plan is not to leave her. The big plan is for her to watch while he rails someone prettier. Preferably me.
I have met three of these in the last three days alone. Three. It beggars belief. One of them sent a carefully worded message about “opening things up” like he was proposing a business merger. Another just casually dropped that his girlfriend gets off on the idea of him “bringing home a hot one.” The third tried to frame it as some enlightened modern arrangement. All of them were still wearing the same smug half-smile they use in their profile photos.
I cannot help feeling that the partner who agrees to this has to be as badly wired as they are. Just nastier. Less self-respect. Sitting there planning the logistics of watching her man screw a stranger because that is her idea of intimacy. It is one thing to have a kink. It is another to outsource your own humiliation and call it progressive.
These men are not looking for connection. They are looking for a temporary upgrade they can parade in front of the woman who already settled for them. And somehow they still expect you to feel flattered. I do not. I feel like I have just been offered the role of paid extra in someone else’s sad little performance. Block. Delete. Move on. The packaging might be high-end, but the contents are pure bargain-bin dysfunction.
The Bum Punisher
I do not mind a bit of attention paid to the rear. In the right moment, with the right person, it can be perfectly fine. What I cannot stand is the full-blown obsession. These men treat it like the main event, the only event, the entire reason they bothered matching with you in the first place. The front barely gets a look in. Everything else is just the warm-up act for what they really came for.
I dated one of these back at uni. Lasted all of five minutes, and that is being generous. By the time he was done I could not sit down properly for two days. More than that, I was left so wound up and frustrated that I genuinely wanted the ground to swallow me. Zero interest in anything that might have actually got me there. Just this single-minded focus that made the whole encounter feel like a transaction I had somehow signed up for without reading the small print.
The cheek of it still makes me laugh, in a dark sort of way. When I ended it the next day he accused me of pumping and dumping him. Me. After one disastrous go-round. The absolute nerve. No pun intended, though it does write itself.
These are the men who look polished on Bumble. Nice cars, sharp jawlines, the whole high-end package. Then you get past the surface and discover their entire sexual imagination revolves around one narrow target. Everything else is optional. You are optional. Your pleasure is optional. They are not lovers. They are specialists with tunnel vision and zero consideration.
I block them the second the conversation starts heading that way. Life is too short to be treated like a means to an end, especially when the end leaves you sore, ignored, and questioning your own taste in men.
The Feet Monsters
There is a special place in hell reserved for these ones.
Poor Lisa is still battling them tooth and nail over on her Substack. They harass the poor little vampire constantly, sliding into comments and DMs like they have a divine right to her attention. (If you want to visit hers there’s a link on my homepage.) I ran into one myself just after my marriage ended and immediately vowed never to go near another. It is not a preference. It is a complete personality replacement. Suddenly you are not a person with a face, a voice, a mind. You are simply a pair of feet that happens to be attached to a convenient body.
Admittedly mine are gorgeous. I know that. Still, come on. Just be normal.
I have developed a system now. Sex socks. When I am seeing a new man for the first time I wear them. If he tries to take them off, that is the giveaway. He is gone before the kettle has even boiled. The logic is sound. Anyone who does not care about feet will simply ignore them and focus on better places. The ones who zero in like heat-seeking missiles reveal themselves instantly. After a few sessions, if the coast is clear, I ditch the socks. You have to be careful, because these guys can hide it really well, you have to watch their eyes. Any guy that’s not looking at your ass, face or boobs, has a kink you need to know about.
How these monsters come about is anyone’s guess. Some wiring short-circuit in puberty, some late-night spiral through the wrong corner of the internet, who knows. Luckily they remain relatively rare. When one does appear, though, the single-mindedness is breathtaking. Conversation, chemistry, actual mutual interest, all of it secondary to the soles.
I block them without ceremony. Life is too short to be reduced to a body part, even a particularly nice one. The high-end packaging does not make the obsession any less exhausting.
The Breeders
These are as common as Teslas and just as nasty. You ever wonder why you keep meeting men who already have ten kids with five different baby mothers? Breeding. That is their kink. More specifically, the creampie. The logic is ridiculous on its face because ordinary sex already points in that direction, yet these men treat it like a sacred mission. They want you knocked up as fast as possible so you are walking around carrying their spawn. It is pure domination and claim. They get off on the whole nine months of what they see as your helplessness.
I dated one without knowing for six weeks. We were at it constantly. It felt like proper love at the time. I was seventeen. The second he found out I could not have children he vanished. No conversation. No goodbye. Just blocked. The absolute mofo has twelve kids now at thirty-two years old. That man is going straight to hell.
They present themselves as high-value on the apps. Nice cars, solid jobs, the full polished look. Underneath they are livestock managers looking for the next willing vessel. Your actual self is secondary to the biological scoreboard. Once the possibility of a pregnancy is off the table you cease to exist.
I spot the signs earlier these days. The odd comments about family, the sudden intensity around finishing inside, the way their eyes light up at the idea of “leaving something behind.” Block. Delete. Life is too short to be treated like a walking incubator by a man who already has a small football team scattered across three postcodes. The packaging might look expensive. The contents are pure entitlement wrapped in a breeding fetish.
The Daddy Kink
Firstly, I have daddy issues. I am the first to admit it. My father left us when I was still in primary school. Just as I was finally coming round to the idea of forgiving him, he ended himself in May. So no, I do not need a daddy figure. The vacancy has been permanently closed.
Admittedly my last arrangement, if it could even be called that, was with an older man. That had nothing to do with any paternal fantasy. His résumé was solid and he backed it up like a warhorse. Easily the best I think I will ever get in that department. He was more like a fairground ride, calling orgasms like a hacked claw machine, he broke me and two of my friends, it was ‘just had to recommend and try thing”, and we still talk about it after a few wines. His personality, though, sat firmly at around my own age. Moody cartoon character energy. Takes no shit. But volatile, make one mistake and he bans you, which is a weird game for a woman to be playing. We are the ones that should control that, so when it does happen, you’re left scratching your head like in idiot. There was never the slightest feeling of “daddy” in the room, which is precisely why it worked for the very few times we met.
Older men are highly skilled, they have been shagging us for a long time, they know what works and what doesn’t. Most of the time, however, older men on these apps cannot help themselves. The second they clock a younger woman they start treating you like their child. Soft voices, little pet names, the whole condescending routine. It is horrible. I know some girls actively like it. Good for them. I swear down, a lot of these men need their hard drives checked. There is a difference between an age gap and turning the entire dynamic into some creepy family role-play.
They still show up in the high-end brackets. Nice cars, good jobs, the polished photos. Then the messages start sliding toward “good girl” and “come and sit on daddy’s lap.” Instant block. I already survived one father who disappeared. I am not auditioning for a replacement who wants to sexualise the absence. The packaging can look expensive. The content is still just another man trying to cosplay authority he never earned.
Conclusion
So there you have it. Five of the most reliable ways a man who looks perfect on paper can still manage to ruin himself in under a day of messaging. Reverse cuckolds with the ready-made audience at home, bum obsessives who forget the rest of you exists, feet monsters who reduce a whole person to a pair of soles, breeders collecting children like loyalty points, and the daddy types who somehow think a younger woman is just waiting for a replacement father figure with benefits.
The packaging stays high-end. The jawlines, the cars, the carefully lit gym selfies. None of it means a thing once the real preferences start leaking out. I used to give them the benefit of the doubt. Now I treat every polished profile as a potential delivery system for something exhausting. The second the conversation drifts toward any of the above, the chat is closed. No debate. No second chance. No polite explanation.
I am not here to fix anyone’s wiring. I am not here to be the prettier woman for someone else’s girlfriend to watch, or the walking incubator, or the pair of feet, or the good girl on daddy’s lap. I am here for actual connection with a man who does not need a supporting cast of kinks just to stay interested.
If that makes me difficult, fine. Difficult is cheaper than therapy after another one of these encounters. The high-value look is common. Basic mutual respect and a personality that does not revolve around one narrow obsession is still surprisingly rare. I will keep swiping. I will also keep the block button warm. Some of these men can stay exactly where they are: looking good in photos and remaining safely on the other side of the screen.