I wasn’t actively looking for a man, let alone a man in his 20s, not another one, not after the one I wrote about in my last column. But it happened while I was reading that column aloud on stage at an event in Soho, hoping to entertain people with the story of being a 48-year-old woman who tried to date a 22-year-old man while my 13-year-old daughter was on a sleepover. It hadn’t occurred to me that this would function as some kind of dog whistle to other young men in the audience.
When I came off stage, I bumped straight into a male friend of mine who was with a male friend of his, and our chat quickly turned to the horror of the dating apps, the horror of ourselves, how we ruin everything. At least, that’s what my male friend and I were saying. The male friend of his, though, said he’d only had positive experiences on the apps, thought people were nice on there. Weirdo, I thought, ignoring him. ‘Your reading was absolutely wonderful,’ he said. I was wearing a cap that said BIG MAN, despite being a woman of average height, and he, a tall man, was wearing a cap that said nothing, and we were in a basement and it was dark, but he was – maybe 34? And that would be alright?
‘I thought you were divine,’ he added, looking into my eyes with an intensity that can only be described as homosexual. No straight man has ever described a woman as divine. Still, I had to be sure, so I came up with a genius way to subtly check his sexuality: I asked him what his demographic was on the apps.
‘What?’ he replied.
‘I don’t mind about age?’ he added, looking hopeful.
‘I meant men or women,’ I said.
‘Oh! Women!’ He said.
‘Oh!’ I said.
