Hot Men

...aren’t afraid to take you on a date on Valentine’s Day

Photo by Sara Canonici on Unsplash

I vowed I’d never re-download a dating app. Definitely not Feeld. Absolutely not Bumble. Probably not Hinge. Yet, it’s 2025 and here I am, eating my swipe rights.

Let me confess something: I’m going on a date on Valentine’s Day with a man I haven’t even so much as kissed yet. No it’s not one of those new, trendy singles nights. It’s not a set-up. It’s not a long-lost fling which I’ve re-kindled in adulthood. I met him the old-fashioned way. You know, on an app.

Did I sit there furiously swiping so as not to end up alone on Friday the 14th? No. Am I doing it because I’m lonely? No. Am I worried about spending a night alone when commercialised Noah’s Ark is now ready for boarding? Categorically not. In fact, those are reasons I’d much rather spend it on my tod. None of this was planned to save me from becoming a modern-day Bridget Jones belting All By Myself with gusto into a wine bottle. (Actually, I never drink alone at home but I reckon the M&S phallic shaped chocolates would work nicely as a microphone if needed.)

My date on Friday is with a man I’ve only met once IRL. I quite liked something about him and so I want to see him again. We rescheduled after last week due to me becoming unwell. He was cool about the sickness. He even checked in to make sure I was feeling okay for a few days afterwards. He took control of the booking (both times— hot) but not in some kind of gender-assumed performative act. It was an open dialogue — in the capable, adult sort of way. As soon as we realised our rearrangement was accidentally scheduled for V-day, neither of us buckled. We laughed. We doubled down. We leant into it, cracking jokes about serenades and singular roses. We said things like: I love this for us — sticking with our edgy Dalston location hopefully devoid of flower petals and cheap Prosecco. I’d like to think both of us are too old to be doing things ‘for the plot’ anymore. But at the very least, it will make the start of the evening more enjoyable and add some humour to the fact we are having vibey cocktails thanks to an indeterminable algorithm.

In the past I have dated, or should I say, encountered and attempted to avoid, men who have something I refer to as: female-feeling-phobia. And yet, these men — in my experience at least — are the type who want nothing other than the validation of your attention. You know, that sort of mansplaining assumption that all women want them, yet masque it with some feigned good-guy concern? I’m talking about the kind of men who sing (yes sing) while staring deeply into your eyes after sex but also say things like…