By the 20-something singleton

‘I’M NOT LOOKING FOR A RELATIONSHIP, BUT A BED-WARMER WOULD BE NICE’

MONDAY

Most of my fatigue from the previous week of dating has been wiped clean by a weekend of relaxation… and sex. On Saturday, I hooked up with a man I met in a bar. He took my number but I don’t expect to see him again. Being a woman in her 20s who exclusively dates men means keeping expectations at rock bottom – most of the crop are pretty hopeless until their emotional maturity kicks in around 30. I’m not looking for a relationship right now, but a regular bed warmer would be nice. I swipe idly on apps such as Tinder and Hinge during the day but don’t arrange any meet-ups yet; I have an unofficial rule not to make potentially messy (read: drinking) plans from Monday to Wednesday. Besides, few bars are open late until Thursday.

TUESDAY

D texts me. I met him via Hinge a few weeks ago and we’ve been on two pretty stellar dates since. He’s a unicorn among men: he seems to genuinely respect women and actually follows through on plans to meet. He’s sick, he says, but wants to grab drinks this week. We decide on Friday and I feel a rush of sadness that I’m so shocked by the basic level of courtesy he’s affording me. Dating is a draining cesspool.

WEDNESDAY

I wake up to a text from L, a foppish type I went on a date with two weeks ago after chatting on Hinge. The mix of rum and his Brideshead Revisited-esque beauty meant we slept together that night and I saw him briefly two days later when he came to pick up some bits he’d left at mine. He said he’d text and he has… 14 days later. ‘When are we getting lunch?’ he asks. ‘Never,’ I reply. I’ve learnt to not give an inch if a man looks like he’s willing to take a mile. Constant contact isn’t needed, especially when I’m just looking for a casual partner, but I can spot red flags. So many men are scared that if they show the slightest bit of respect, you’ll start hoping for marriage. Irritating and an obstacle that’s hard to circumvent as a 21st-century feminist.

THURSDAY

All my dating apps are dead. I’m not interested in a single man on there. I start a half-hearted conversation with someone who confesses to having looked me up on the internet. He’s listened to a podcast I did; flattering but strangely intrusive. The conversation soon peters out. I have a 48-hour rule on app chat – if, within two days, you haven’t locked down a future date to have a drink, bin him. No one needs an extra penpal.

FRIDAY

Friday night, baby! D and I go to a rooftop bar for drinks then spill into a sweaty club for dancing. He’s a good kisser and, when I look at him, I get that pull of attraction. But still no sex: he has an early train and I’m somewhat relieved (while simultaneously internally furious) that my sexual magnetism isn’t forceful enough to pull him back to my bed. I know he’s into me: I could feel the evidence when he pulled me in for a kiss. We part ways and he asks to see me again. I won’t hold my breath.

SATURDAY

My apps lie dormant at the weekend – I like to prove I’m still capable of good old analogue connections. Go for a ‘quiet drink’ with friends – end up in a pub that’s a notorious pick-up spot. It makes good on its reputation and I trot out with a gorgeous architect. My house is round the corner. You know the rest.

SUNDAY

The architect leaves after a morning of pleasant conversation, but nothing earth-shaking, so I’m happy to call it a one-nighter. I’m sated… for now. D texts but I ignore it. Tomorrow the cycle will kick off all over again.

SEX TALLY: 1