I’m sat here on the rug in my Hackney flat, legs crossed, fingernail polish chipped to shit because I’ve been stress-picking at it for the last hour. Looking like shit, emergency melon vape because I’m out of cherry, vape hanging from my lips, and my oat-milk flat white has gone properly stone cold on the coffee table. The flat’s quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional ping of The Coven group chat that I’ve muted because right now I can’t deal with anyone else’s drama.
I’m proper fuming.
Not the loud, shouty kind of fuming. The quiet, simmering, “I’ve had enough of this exact same bullshit for fifteen years” kind.
You know the type of bloke I’m on about. The one who slides into your DMs with “hey, you seem really cool and down to earth, not like other girls.” The one who listens to your trauma dump at 2 a.m. and says all the right things. The one who brings you flowers on the third date and tells you he’s “not like other guys.” The one who calls himself a “nice guy.”
Yeah.
Those ones.
They don’t finish last because the world is cruel to good men.
They finish last because they’re actually fucking vile.
And I’m done pretending otherwise.
Let me tell you about Ryan.
Proper textbook case. Met him when I was twenty-five, still fresh out of the headhunting world, trying to make it as a proper journalist. He worked in some tech startup, wore those fitted shirts that made him look like he tried, and had this whole “I’m a feminist too” routine down to an art. He’d quote bell hooks in conversation. He’d ask how my day was and actually wait for the answer. He remembered my mum’s name after one mention. On paper? Absolute dream.
In reality? A walking red flag wrapped in a cardigan.
First three months? Perfection. He’d text “good morning beautiful” every single day. He’d cook for me. He’d listen when I raged about some dodgy editor at work. He’d say things like “I just want you to feel safe with me.” I ate it up. I was coming off a string of proper dickheads who’d ghost after sex or send unsolicited nudes before hello, so Ryan felt like a miracle.
Then the mask slipped. Slowly at first.
I’d mention I was tired after a long day writing threads and he’d go “aww babe, you work so hard… maybe you should take a break from all that angry feminist stuff for a bit.”
I laughed it off.
Then it became “I just worry you’re becoming too negative, you know?”
Then “honestly, sometimes I think you’d be happier if you weren’t so… intense about everything.”
The same man who’d cried listening to me talk about growing up on the estate suddenly couldn’t handle it when my actual opinions got in the way of his fantasy of me as the soft, grateful girl who needed saving.
And the sex? Jesus. He’d do this whole performance of being attentive, lots of “is this okay?” and “tell me what you want” – but the second I actually told him what I wanted he’d get this wounded little look like I’d personally attacked his manhood. Then he’d sulk. Quietly. Passive-aggressively. For days. Until I ended up reassuring *him* that he was still a good lover.
That’s the trick with these nice guys. They weaponise their niceness. They make you feel like you’re the problem for wanting more. For having standards. For daring to call out when their “nice” behaviour has strings attached the size of the A13.
I see it everywhere now. In The Coven. In my DMs. In every single group chat with my mates. The stories are identical, just different postcodes.
There’s the guy who “doesn’t watch porn” but somehow expects you to perform like you’re in one. The one who “hates toxic masculinity” but throws a tantrum when you don’t reply to his text within thirty minutes. The one who says he’s “emotionally intelligent” while making every single one of your feelings about *his* feelings.
They’re not nice.
They’re entitled.
And they hide it behind the most convincing costume in the game.
Let me break it down properly, hun. Because this isn’t just me having a rant at 3 a.m. (although it is that too). This is a pattern. A dangerous one. And we need to stop giving these blokes the benefit of the doubt.
First off, the love bombing.
They come in hot. Compliments, attention, emotional availability on tap. It feels amazing because most of us are so used to crumbs that a full loaf looks like a feast. But it’s not sustainable. It’s a tactic. They’re not building something real; they’re buying your trust on credit. Then the interest rate kicks in the second you stop performing gratitude.
I had one “nice guy” who sent me flowers to my flat after our second date. Proper romantic, right? Except when I told him I needed a bit of space because work was mental, he replied with “wow, I thought you were different.”
Different from what, mate? The women who’ve dumped you for being a clingy nightmare?
That’s the second layer – the subtle negging dressed up as concern.
“You’re so strong and independent… sometimes I worry you don’t need anyone.”
Translation: please shrink yourself so I feel big.
Or my personal favourite: “I love how passionate you are about feminism… I just wish you’d smile more.”
I’ve heard that one so many times I could make a drinking game out of it.
The worst ones are the ones who’ve read just enough therapy TikToks to sound evolved. They’ll say “I’m working on my avoidant attachment” while avoiding every single one of your needs. They’ll talk about “holding space” while expecting you to hold all of theirs. They’ll call themselves “allies” and then get defensive the second you ask them to actually do the dishes without being asked.
It’s not that they’re stupid.
It’s that they’ve learned the language of progress without ever doing the work.
And we keep falling for it because the alternative – the openly shitty bloke – at least doesn’t pretend to be something he’s not. At least with the obvious dickhead you know where you stand. With the “nice guy” you spend months convincing yourself you’re the problem for seeing through the act.
I’ve lost count of the number of women in The Coven who’ve told me the same story.
The guy who was “so understanding” about her sexual trauma… until she didn’t want sex one night and he sulked for a week.
The guy who “hates toxic men”… but still expects her to manage his emotions every time he has a bad day at work.
The guy who says “I just want you to be yourself”… then slowly chips away at every part of her that doesn’t fit his fantasy.
It’s insidious. It’s slow. It’s death by a thousand passive-aggressive texts.
And the worst part? When you finally call it out, they flip the script so fast it gives you whiplash. Suddenly *you’re* the mean one. *You’re* the one who’s “too sensitive.” *You’re* the one who “ruined a good thing.” Because how dare you point out that their niceness had conditions all along?
I’m not saying every man who calls himself nice is a monster. Some of them are just… bland. Harmless. Mediocre.
But the dangerous ones? The ones who lean into the “nice guy” identity like it’s armour? They’re the ones who scare me the most. Because they know exactly what they’re doing. They’ve studied the language. They’ve watched the videos. They’ve learned that pretending to be safe gets them further than being openly shitty ever could.
And we, as women, have been trained our whole lives to reward that performance. To be grateful for the bare minimum. To feel guilty when we ask for more.
Fuck that.
I’m done.
I’m done smiling through the discomfort. I’m done reassuring their egos when they can’t handle basic feedback. I’m done pretending that “he means well” is good enough when his actions make me feel small and exhausted and constantly on edge.
The real nice guys – the ones who actually do the work without needing applause for it – don’t call themselves nice guys. They just are. They listen. They grow. They show up without keeping score. They don’t need the label because their behaviour speaks for itself.
The ones screaming “I’m a nice guy” from the rooftops? They’re the ones who need the label because without it they’ve got nothing.
So yeah.
“Nice guys” finish last.
Not because women are cruel.
Not because the world hates good men.
But because deep down, when you strip away the performance and the therapy speak and the flowers and the “I’m different” routine…
They’re actually fucking vile.
And we deserve better than spending our lives managing their fragility while they pat themselves on the back for the bare minimum.
If you’re reading this and you’re a bloke who’s feeling defensive right now… good. Sit with it. Ask yourself why. Then do the actual work instead of performing it.
And if you’re a woman who’s been burned by one of these walking red flags in cardigans… drop your story in the comments. I read every single one. You’re not alone. You’re not crazy. You’re not “too much.”
You just finally saw through the act.
And once you see it, you can’t unsee it.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to finish this flat white, vape until the room looks like a cherry fog machine, and remind myself that I’d rather be single forever than settle for another “nice guy” who’s secretly keeping score.
The revolution starts with refusing to play the game.
Who’s with me?
Emma
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