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Big Bite Of The Apple

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Big Bite Of The Apple

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I travelled to New York to obtain my social security number, hoping it might eventually allow me to earn money with the O-1 visa I received for what seems like my waning modelling career. Visiting New York often serves as a stark reminder of the challenges of entering a new market, yet it’s always enjoyable, thanks to a remarkable group of girls in Manhattan.

They’re like the real-life, twenty-something cast of Sex and the City mixed with the quirkiness of Girls—each with her own defining quirks and unforgettable personality. They have it all: college degrees, thriving careers, supermodel looks, razor-sharp wit and a charming touch of awkwardness. Four single girls just trying to figure it out in the Big City: Alison, Jasmine, Sav, and Lily. But of course, you can’t have everything. The universe might’ve blessed them with brains, beauty, and ambition, but it definitely held back on one thing: a decent dating scene.

Jasmine is DJing at one of those Fashion Week events I love, mostly because you get free stuff. This time, they’re serving bites and free-flowing martinis, an important detail, as you’ll soon see. As always, before even stepping out in New York, I spiral over what to wear. There’s this weird pressure I put on myself in this city, I never quite feel like I’m enough. Not rich-looking enough, not cool enough, not like I belong.The girls’ social circle is filled with successful young people, many from powerful families or with careers most dream of at twice their age. And naturally, I’m afraid to stand out, in the wrong way.

After eventually giving up and settling on an outfit, I head out, walking north on Elizabeth Street toward Prince. The evening is buzzing. Sidewalks are full, restaurants overflowing with energy. My favourite thing to do in New York is walk around with my headphones in, pretending my eyes are a camera filming filler scenes for a movie. I walk faster than usual, I’m running late. I text Alisson to see where she is: eight minutes away. I wait across the street from the restaurant, nervous to walk in alone. I spot a few social media personalities I’ve seen on my For You Page more times than I can count. It’s such a strange feeling seeing them in the wild. Even stranger is watching them perform for the camera in real life. Their presence feels so much smaller, almost underwhelming. Jasmine sends me a photo of myself from inside and urges me to come in, so I do, awkwardly telling the door girl that I’m with the DJ.

I make my way to the booth where I join Jasmine, Alisson, and Lily, turns out, I’m the tardiest one. I’m immediately handed a dry martini and a baby slider. As we wait for Jasmine to wrap up her set, the rest of us sit outside, downing a few more drinks as we talk about their recent double-date trip to Turks and Caicos, funded by a finance bro who didn’t even make it on the trip due to last-minute work stuff. Alisson is realising that the boy who invited her there in the first place might not be the kind she should be seeing, he’s not ambitious enough and a little too vain for her liking while Lily thinks she might have fallen in love with her guy, ignoring the fact that he might have a major substance problem. A true hopeless romantic. 

I’ve grown to love martinis ever since my first sip in Dime Square just a year ago, it’s been the only cocktail I can truly enjoy since. Sav has a date later tonight but offers to grab a drink beforehand at Lucien. Jamie wraps up her set, and we all spill out into the night. Lily can’t join us for the rest of the evening, she has an early trip to Philly for work, so we kiss her goodbye before hopping into a car bound for the East Village.

As expected, the place was jam-packed. Speaking of the devil, the Turks and Caicos boys were stood outside, smoking cigarettes with a group of friends. Despite what Alisson said about him earlier, she seems completely smitten and greets him with a tight hug. 

Luck strikes when the cute hostess tells us there’s a free table in the back. We squeeze through the narrow path, the noise levels almost unbearable, though I’ve noticed that’s just the American way. Their voices carry, and it’s always easy to spot them in Europe. I slide into the booth. Next to us sit two older men and two young women, a sight far too common in this city. The men take the booth while the women sit on the chairs, which I find incredibly unchic. Jasmine orders a single tentacle of octopus, and the rest of us stick to martinis.

Sav arrives with a friend I’ve heard about through the girls, an incredibly talented photographer who captures beautiful images that resemble movie scenes. That’s the thing about New York, you’re constantly crossing paths with these brilliant creatives, and I can’t help but wonder which of them will become the icons of our generation, the ones whose work people will look back on forever.

Sav still hasn’t heard from her date, apparently, he had a show at the gallery he works at. Now he’s stuck at a gallery dinner, and it would be distasteful for him to leave. “Then why say 8:30? If he knows he can’t make it in time. Ugh, they all suck.” They all suck, but like everyone screaming this, we still put up with it. We’ve all ordered the Uber to his house at 1 a.m. at least once, even though the date was supposed to be much earlier. We finish our drinks. I’m feeling a little tipsy now, everyone is, and no one’s ready to go home.

We run out in our little heels. The weather is pleasant, it’s September but it feels like a summer night. Someone hails a cab, and we stuff all five of us inside. Like all roads, ours leads to Bar Oliver.

Here we order some more, there are no hard liquor allowed as they are situated right in front of a church, which I did not know was a rule. Bummer. Because as much as I probably do not need it, I’d love another martini. The younger server that Jasmine has been crushing on lately is not working today so we may not be lucky enough to have a free drink this time around. They have a lovely beer I enjoy, so I’ll just get that, to my drunk brain logic because it is less strong somehow it’ll sober me up. We stand because there are no seats available, so we put our drinks on this yellow box that looks like a mailbox but isn’t. It’s been our “table” a lot of the time as Bar Oliver has been really busy. Our little comfort spot before we get moved to a table. We mingle with the people who are already here, some faces I have started to recognise over time and can now comfortably have conversation with. This night, I feel like I belong a little more, it’s starting to feel like Martin Boire et Manger for me, my favourite bar and my second home in Paris. But as always, us girls gravitate towards each other. 

Once seated, Lily’s boy is sat across from us, as we are swiping through Jasmine’s hinge, swiping “no” to most of them. He tries to give his input, however Jasmine is just rolling her eyes at him, we don’t care for male opinion, especially not from him and not for this. We find out that although Lily has a work trip early tomorrow, she had been texting with him and he is going to head to her place after drinks at the bar. 

She waits in her apartment and grows more and more frustrated before ultimately telling him that if he didn’t leave now, he was no longer invited. We see him get in a car as he says his quick goodbyes to everyone at around 1 am. When he arrives at her place, they have the polite 20 minute hang out before ultimately getting down to it. It was sloppy and lazy before he collapsed next to her and fell asleep too fast. 

Alison is across from us, intertwined with her pretty boy. They look in love, “it’s too bad he is the way he is,” Jasmine whispers, “they look quite cute together”. The funny thing is that Jasmine had made out with the pretty boy before, a couple of times but that’s New York for you, a really big incest pool. Sav is going back and forth with us about if she should text her date, or if she should leave it. But if she were to text, what would she say? We settle on something “passive aggressive but chill”, because we want him to get the impression that “he low key fucked up but we don’t really care”. 

As the night unfolds, we lose a few soldiers along the way, but the core troops still refuse to go home. The war against the alcohol running through our veins isn’t over yet. Why waste a perfectly good drunk on a night that ends too early? What’s the point of a hangover so brutal, so unforgettable, if not to stretch out the thrill of balancing on that fine line between drunk and blacked out?

Jasmine calls a car and punches in the address for the Nines—a bold move, though Sav knows the owner; they were neighbours or something like that. Her upbeat energy and that slightly intimidating insistence of hers can get you far in the city that never sleeps, so I’m not worried, if someone’s going to make something happen, it’s her. The car arrives, but we suddenly realise one of our troopers is missing. She’s locked in a bathroom stall. Sav rushes in to check and comes back out, breathless: “She’s screaming at him in there.” Pretty boy’s been taken hostage, facing the lethal cocktail of Lexapro and alcohol. The clock’s ticking, our buzz is fading, and I’m sent into the battlefield to rescue the hostage and retrieve our trooper, so we can make it to the next bar before the night slips away. “Alison, c’mon the car is here.” I knock gently, “Coming!”. I run out again, but the car is here and the meter is running, by the time Alison is out, we all know that we have lost a soldier, we must continue on without her. “I’ll meet you guys there, I promise.” All we can do is hope that she’ll be back on the journey with us, but we know that this usually means it is over. 

We are so little compared to these buildings, sometimes when I think about it too much I get frightened at the realisation of how massive everything is, how insignificant we all are. So small, I almost don’t matter, the world feels too big. But I have to stop spiralling on my own in the back of this cab or I am going to be sick. I should listen to the French song Sav is playing out of her iPhone as her silhouette dances in the dark car, her face gently lit at a red light. We collectively wonder where Alison could’ve gone or why the hell she was screaming at the boy, before we arrive to the Nines. I am nervous, I fear the I am going to hold my friends back when the bouncer takes a good look at me and tells me that well they all can get in apart for me, why is it that my brain always imagines the worst scenarios possible. I need to compose myself. The people before us are dressed to the nines (pun intended) yet they are turned away by the bald door man. Jasmine and I push Sav to the front because she knows how to do the talking and we cannot let our awkwardness ruin it all for us. As expected, Sav works her charm and her amazing people’s skills, casually pulls out a first name and the doorman is charmed, his tone went from professional to casual quite fast and in the moment, I knew that I could be wearing a singlet, board shorts and flipflops I would’ve still gotten in. 

“Mid White Boy is coming here,” Sav announces, “it’s like midnight,” I say “I know but he’s coming straight from the dinner.” Knowing Sav I’m surprised she even let him come. 

We are sat in the booth and surprise surprise, order another martini. Jasmine has been texting with a new friend of hers, that happens to be a breakout artist, recently finding superstardom. Her and a group of friends finally join us, and at this point, I do not remember much. Just snippets of the conversation I had with this girl asking her how it feels like to experience fame suddenly the way she has, how it feels to be recognised a lot.  We were pleasantly surprised and overcome with joy to see that Alisson honoured her promise and ended up joining us after all. 

So did Sav’s Mid White Boy. Sav seats at the bar to have some one on one time with the boy. She couldn’t really capture his aura, on one hand he’s sexy talking about alligators in the south and driving his truck, yet on the other he’s in the Nines with a backpack. The conversation got a little dull so she suggested that they join our group outside for a cigarette. She gave me “the look” before asking me in French to talk to him a little and ask him questions please, just to break the ice”, so that he wouldn’t understand. I did, and as expected from a mid white boy, he gave me very mid white boy responses. 

Next thing I know, I am sat in a very crammed car heading to a club that according to Jasmine is a no-go for many New Yorkers. But we were a bunch of people that do not know how to call it a night. We stand outside and stared at the building, still contemplating if we truly have it in us to go. At this point, it was Jasmine and I and the superstar and her friends. 

Meanwhile, Alisson and pretty boy made it home. It came to a point where her body couldn’t handle it anymore and decided it was time for it to cleanse itself from all the poison she had consumed that night. As she was kneeling over the toilet, she drunkely asked the pretty boy to hand her her phone. When she handed it back, he took advantage of the moment to keep the device unlocked. When he finally put her to bed and she was sound asleep, he proceeded to go through her phone and type in his name in her messages. There he found an array of messages she had sent to her friends, belittling him and calling him all sorts of things. He sat there for hours scrolling and reading through all of the realisations she has had about him and feeling more and more emasculated after each message. He cried himself to sleep that night next to the very person that caused it. 

As we finally gathered the courage to go into the building, the superstar expressed that she needed to go pee before entering. She insisted to do so outside because she really had to go and refused to wait in line for the loo. We agreed and told her we’d wait for her. After a good 20 minutes, she still hasn’t returned that’s when we started to worry. We circled the block and no sign of life whatsoever. We imagined the worse, what if she was kidnapped? I envision what the headlines would say. 

Her friends called the hotel multiple times to see if she’d been seen entering, no confirmation. I smoked a cigarette as we all try to figure out what to do. I regretted it instantly. I was hit with the nausea you get when you’ve had one too many cigarettes and too much alcohol sloshing in your belly. I crush the rest with the sole of my shoes in hopes it’ll go away, yet it persists. I couldn’t stand still as I was gradually getting sicker and sicker. The superstar’s friends decide to go directly to the hotel to see if she’s back, I try to keep my calm as I hug all of them goodbye. 

Jasmine and I start walking back towards Soho, when I finally admit to her that I don’t feel well and I really need to throw up. I tell her how scared I am to vomit. She looks at me deeply in the eyes and says “I am here for you.” In that moment, I have never felt more connected to someone, feeling safe and embraced by those 5 words. I nod, before spreading my legs wide as I yack in the middle of third avenue. 

I lift my head up and am hit with a feeling of pure clarity and lightness. How beautiful the city is at night, the gentle summer breeze as we walk our arms interlocking looking up at the twinkling lights of the massive buildings that now don’t seem to scare me as much anymore. Nothing compares to the company of a sister you have chosen, heels clicking on the sidewalk and your laughs echoing through the quiet streets. 

When we finally reach the cobblestones of Soho, we both agree that the night is not over. To the Submercer we go. We do not know how we made it into that elevator and how security did not stop us, but as we arrive on the right floor, all lights were on. The kind of light that paints you ugly the moment you step beneath it, your pores look like they’re breathing, your eyes sunken, as if you’ve been sleep-deprived for days. Never having gone there before, I think that maybe there is a reception area before the club but turns out we are standing in the middle of the dance floor. One of the staff members politely tell us that the party is over and for some reason I feel like I was caught naked. Mortified, we both ran out of there. We decide that our journey has finally come to an end but you’d be crazy to think that it would end without a stop at the bodega. 

We order our usuals, a chopped cheese for me and a BLT for Jasmine to go. We hang around the place to flirt with the cute bodega guy before stumbling back to the apartment. We seat on the dining table half dressed, makeup running down our faces, barefoot as we hover above our meals and chow it down like we haven’t eaten in years. 

The next morning, Sav steps out of the her Mid White Boy’s building and ran into his slightly hotter older brother. She could’ve sworn that he did a double-take and checked her out. She thought that maybe being siblings gives you the same taste in women and maybe she slept with the wrong one. 

Lily made it to the train on time and was on time for the job barely awake, sat in the makeup chair wondering if coke dick is ever worth feeling like this. 

Pretty Boy left while Alison was still sleeping. When she finally wakes up, she checks her phone to see a missed call from him. She calls him back and could hear in this voice that something was up. He asks her if she remembered anything, she said no, he asks if she remembered the fight at all, still no. 

She offers to come see him at his studio.

They seat across from each other. He asks her if she thinks that he is a bum and all these other things, and she denies them all. He tells her everything that happened, about the bathroom hostage situation and all the things she said to him. She is greatly confused by it all. He takes a deep breath before finally admitting that he went through her phone and read her messages. She sits there in disbelief as she slowly realises that this is, in fact, really bad. She doesn’t even have the time to be angry at him for not respecting her privacy before the feeling of guilt washes over her. She apologises for being mean, and I guess he liked her enough to stay around for a couple more weeks before she ultimately ends things with him. I guess she couldn’t ignore his flaws anymore. 

The discussion ends with him showing her the video of Charlie Kirk getting shot in the neck, making her hangover worse and her stomach churn. 

Jasmine and I wake up in her bed, grateful that we do. We have very little time of peace before I spiral over texts I send to my almost boyfriend at the time. Updates are pouring in in the group chat from all parties. We laugh in disbelief. 

I have lived life with complete freedom, a coincidence of being born into a family, beneath the right flag, and into a time that allowed me to be. I have been gifted with pure luck, that is all. As I grow and realise that unlike myself many of the sisters have never known such weightlessness and have not been given the same chances to simply be. While I laugh, dance, love and dress as I please, I can’t help but feel how fragile this all truly is, for it is not promised that tomorrow will be a breeze. Freedom is fragile and not a choice one can simply make, it can be easily taken away for the benefit of some ideology or by small men on very high pedestals. As thoughts of an unpromised tomorrow, and of the world I have always known slowly disappearing, consume me, all I can do is assert my inner sovereignty and aggressively exercise my freedom while a happy tomorrow still feels at reach.  

Vahine Blaise, New York, United States,

March 2026

Save The Boy.

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Save The Boy.

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Trump captured the support of young male voters in the 2024 U.S. elections, partly due to the influence of “manosphere” content creators. Figures like Joe Rogan, Adin Ross, the Paul Brothers, and Theo Von were uniquely effective in connecting with this demographic. Meanwhile, the Left struggled to resonate with young men and address issues important to them.  

A key topic of discussion has been the epidemic of male loneliness. Increasingly, men report feeling isolated and deeply depressed, driven by challenges such as difficulty forming meaningful connections, societal stigmas around expressing emotions, and a growing sense of purposelessness. The shift in gender roles also plays a role—men are no longer the sole breadwinners, as more women graduate and begin out-earning men, leading to a perceived loss of traditional identity and relevance.  

Masculinist content creators provide hope for young men who feel emasculated and insecure in a world where they often experience rejection and lack a clear sense of direction. Many blame feminism and “wokeness” for their struggles, believing these movements have stripped them of their power. However, the true cause may lie more in systemic issues like capitalism.  

I am not here to speak on American politics. But, I do have a 14 year old brother. 

I was watching a Max Bernstein YouTube video on the topic when pure panic took over me. I realised how little my mother and his dad monitored the media my brother consumes online. My parents never did with me. But what if my brother got pulled into the Red Pill community? What if he started consuming incel content and slowly became a raging misogynist, wishing harm upon women and seeing us as lesser beings? It sounds far-fetched—but not entirely. Indoctrination doesn’t discriminate. People from all backgrounds have fallen victim to harmful ideologies.  

I’ve seen it happen. I’ve gone to school with them, partied with them, called them my friends. Many of us had access to top-tier education. Our teachers constantly encouraged us to fact-check, taught us about propaganda, and explained the tools used to manipulate and persuade. Yet, I’ve seen those same people post absurd Instagram stories, overheard them say deeply questionable things about women, even down to admitting acts of sexual assault. Thousands of dollars spent on private education—undone by a few YouTube videos.  

In a panic, I texted my brother and asked him which content creators he liked watching online. He was confused and asked why. I said, “I’m writing a paper on influencers.” Being a teenage boy and not particularly interested in my work, he gave me a list. Thankfully, it didn’t concern me, and for a brief moment, I felt relieved.  

But that relief was short-lived. I knew things could change at any time. And what could I do to stop it? What could I, as his sister—a woman—do to ensure he wouldn’t end up hating me and all people of my gender?  

I thought about having those talks with him or monitoring his online activity myself, but I worried it might backfire. I recognise that I’m a misogynist’s worst nightmare—opinionated, headstrong, and unapologetic. Without my looks, I’d probably be a man-repellent, tolerated only by the strongest of the species, and I’m perfectly fine with that. But I might be too intense for a teenage boy who’s still figuring out who he is.  

I’m far too passionate about these issues. I know I’d end up word-vomiting all over him, covering him in big words, studies, theories, and statistics that would overwhelm him. Instead of engaging, he’d want to shrug it all off, to wash away everything I said. I’d take up too much space to actually help. I annoyed the hell out of my male peers in class, constantly keeping them in check, debating every issue, and standing up against sexist comments or behaviour. They found me absolutely insufferable.

The last thing I wanted was for my anxiety and paranoia to take over, leading me to overprotect my brother and suffocate him. I feared pushing him further away with my feminist tirades and relentless scrutiny, leaving him feeling ashamed of his masculinity. I didn’t want him to carry the burden of all men’s wrongdoings or grow tired of the constant feeling that he was inherently at fault.  

If I pushed too hard, he might feel the need to break free from me and from the women in his life—just to stand strong on his own. He might turn to the internet, searching for guidance on how to reclaim his identity, gravitating toward figures who teach him to take pride in being a man. He’d consume content that glorifies being “the alpha male,” letting those voices shape his idea of what it means to be strong, powerful, and worthy.  

Gym, protein, creatine, crypto, drop shipping, lambo, get any woman you want in 3 simple steps, upgrade, high value man, side hustle, alpha, alpha, alpha. 

It is hard to not be a man hating bitch, I have grown so extremely tired of living in fear doing the most mundane things, I am tired of hearing the most gnarly headlines about other women across the world losing their basic rights, another little girl getting raped by her perverted uncle, another woman killed in her own home… Heck! Even hearing my friends being victims of situationships and emotional manipulation. I wish I could be like some of these women who still have hope in men and believe that there more than just a few exceptions. I’ve always wondered where were these perpetrators mothers, sisters? Now, before you point at me and yell “IT IS NOT A WOMAN’S FAULT THAT A MAN BECOMES BE A SICKO!” I agree. I agree, girly, I guess partially. However, just like living through weaponised incompetence over and over again (something our male peers are so good at), I no longer trust brothers and fathers to do the job right. 

Yes, I’m sure your father is wonderful family man, but have you seen how he behaves when he goes out that the strip clubs? Oh he doesn’t go out to the strip clubs? How do you know that for sure?

Your brother is the sweetest, I’m sure he is at home, but do you know how he behaves with girls he is seeing? Do we know how the men in our lives truly behave when we aren’t there? 

We fail to remember that the men who hurt us and do the sneaky shit are also family members just like ours. Many of them were raised by great mothers, have sisters and in fact they like to use that as a way to prove that they’re good people and have an innate respect for women, but they have proven themselves wrong over and over again. It just isn’t enough. 

I don’t think my brother truly understands how anxious I am about the kind of man he will grow up to be. I like to believe he could never be a bad man—no, my baby brother is a good boy. He’s soft, empathetic, incredibly polite, thoughtful, and just so kind. We, as a family, have done our best to instill in him our values and norms, the kind that cling to your mind like barnacles on a whale’s back.  

Norms tend to stick, but values are more fragile—easily swayed by outside influences like greed or peer pressure. What if we didn’t give him a strong enough backbone? What if, despite our efforts, he lets everything we’ve taught him slip away?  

Secondary socialisation refers to the process of learning and internalising norms, values, and behaviours through new social institutions, groups, and experiences beyond the family (e.g., peers, schools, workplaces, and media). While it often intensifies during adolescence, it doesn’t only start in the teens—it continues throughout life as individuals encounter new social environments. This stage is often associated with rebellion, as teens push back against their families while exploring their identities but it is primarily about adaptation and growth through new social experiences. They adopt new values from their peers and what they learn in school, sometimes replacing older values with those that feel more aligned with who they are becoming.  

Don’t get me wrong—this can be a positive thing. Many teens break free from problematic family dynamics and find safe spaces through friendships that encourage them to grow into better people. But, like anything in life, the opposite can also happen. I’ve had moments where I noticed negative influences creeping in—a questionable text from a friend popping up as he showed me something on his phone or an offhand comment that made me tilt my head a little. Things, I am sure didn’t come from our extremely open minded family but from outside influences.

In these moments, I try to stay calm and remind myself that he’s experiencing life for the first time, just figuring things out just like I was at 14. Like we all still are. But sometimes, I can’t help it. My angry, feminist, 16-year-old self resurfaces, and I confront him, demanding to know how he could say something so ignorant. Then I see his confused eyes, trying to understand why that pissed me off so much? What is it that he didn’t know was so wrong?

So, I take a different approach. I ask him questions. I encourage him to think critically about what he’s saying before jumping to conclusions. Most of the time, his kind and understanding nature wins out, and every time, I feel an overwhelming sense of relief—like a superhero stopping an asteroid just before it crashes into Earth. The problem is contained.  

Moments like these have forced me to work on my patience and understanding, keeping the fiery teenage girl in me calm. For the first time, I care deeply about what a boy thinks. For the first time, I don’t want him to fear me.  

It hasn’t been easy watching my little brother, with such a big age gap between us, grow into a young man. In a way, I feel responsible for him. I’m not his mother, but it’s hard to accept how little control I have over the crazy things the internet throws his way. I could talk endlessly about the dangers of social media—its personalised algorithms, echo chambers, and how it limits diverse perspectives while amplifying extremes. But let’s face it, I’m powerless against the Zuckerborgs and Elongated Muskrats of the world. I can’t just yank his phone away. I have no control over who he will cross paths with. All I can do is trust him and occasionally remind him of the kind of family he comes from—one built on love and kindness. Let him form his own opinions and grow independently. That way, his beliefs will truly be his own, making him more confident and deeply rooted in his values—strong and set in stone.  

Sorong, January 2025

Men in their 30’s

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Men in their 30’s

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I used to think men in their 30s were the perfect blend of maturity, stability, and fun—until I started dating them.

What is dating a man in his thirties truly like?

It is commonly said that men have more trouble multitasking than women, which now I think also applies to their personal development. Even though they may have developed well in certain aspects of their lives, usually in their careers, their emotional or overall maturity doesn’t necessarily follow. It’s kind of like they hyper-fixated so much on building themselves up professionally that they forgot to do the work of growing internally.

Like men in their 20s, these men are often not great communicators. When an uncomfortable topic arises, they are quick to run and hide, or it takes them an enormous amount of effort to communicate. I find that most would rather avoid a discussion, even over simple issues that could easily be resolved with a few exchanged words. They often claim their lack of communication is due to a fear of hurting us. I’ve never understood this way of thinking—how do they believe dragging it out will lessen the pain? They know it might hurt anyway, so why not just rip the bandaid off instead of leaving us confused and wasting our precious time? Also, why do they automatically assume we care enough to be offended every single time?

This summer, I met a man in his early thirties, who I knew was trouble from the beginning (the first thing I ever told him was that he looked like ‘bad news’). We ended up being in the South of France at the same time and figured we’d meet up and so we did a few times, along with his friends and went on a hike with them which was so extremely challenging, it could only bond us. One morning, I asked if he and his friends would like to have breakfast because I just wanted to say good-bye and thank them for letting me tag along. I just thought it was the polite thing to do and would have totally understood if they didn’t have the time. He suggested dinner instead, saying he’d give me the details shortly. He never did. So I thought I’d kindly let him know that I didn’t appreciate that. I understood if his plans had changed, but a quick heads-up wouldn’t have killed him.

He ended up calling me and explained that he just wanted to have an intimate moment with his friends and didn’t necessarily want me there. I told him that was understandable, but if that were the case, why invite me in the first place? And why not just tell me? He said he thought it would be awkward and didn’t know how to tell me, as he didn’t want to hurt my feelings. I was honestly dumbfounded by his answer. So, to recap: he DIDN’T want to see me, yet HE INVITED me to dinner, but then didn’t want to tell me it was off because he didn’t want to hurt my feelings?

First of all, why would it hurt my feelings? A reasonable person can understand that sometimes plans change. He didn’t have to say he didn’t want to see me; he could have just said he was busy, I’m a big believer in white lies, sometimes lying is necessary. If he just innocently lied, we could’ve both moved on with our lives, instead he made me wait around like an idiot. Thankfully, I made dinner plans with my friends as soon as it hit 6pm. But also, who told this man I would care THAT much? So much so that he was too scared to tell me, assuming I’d be heartbroken.

Obviously, I never saw him again, especially after I didn’t respond to his apology text, which made him so angry that he ‘ended things’—even though my lack of response should’ve made that pretty clear, but I’ll let him have it. Anyways, this is just one of many examples of grown men and their ridiculously bad communication skills.

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The only real difference I’ve noticed between the two age groups when it comes to communication is texting styles. You can forget about texting all day or night like you might with a guy in his early twenties. I’m not a huge texter myself, but when I say I’ve never texted a 30-year-old man for more than 15 minutes total, I’m not exaggerating. They either engage in small talk, asking how you’re doing or what you’ve been up to, send you the time and location for the date later, or dive straight into sexting—where, unsurprisingly, they invest a little more time.

But beyond texting, I’ve also noticed that older men tend to be cornier. It’s as if they’ve perfected the art of being smooth just enough to get by, but every now and then, their corniness inevitably slips through. Once, I met a man on Raya (I lasted a good week on it), a British guy—the only one I ever matched with because he didn’t have a photo on a private jet, or a yacht in St. Tropez. I really adored his creative work, and he was honestly brilliant. He was intelligent and had a great sense of humour—the British kind, which is my personal favourite. We clicked immediately, and I laughed out loud reading his messages. He had a habit of asking for pictures of me. It wasn’t always sexual or inappropriate; he just liked seeing me doing different things and was strangely invested in my outfits of the day. At first, I didn’t think much of it, but eventually, I wondered if he had a power kink—enjoying the fact that I did what he asked immediately. One thing about me is that I’ll always ask questions if I have any, so I asked him directly about the kink. He denied it and just said I was just so pretty. It was probably a lie, but he called me pretty so I didn’t dig further. One night, he asked for another picture, but this time he didn’t say ‘please,’ so I jokingly told him to say the magic word. Nothing, when I say NOTHING prepared to what I was about to receive next. He sent me a video of a close-up of his mouth in the dark, whispering slowly, ‘Pretty… please,’ with an emphasis on the ‘P’s,’ making his lips pop. It made my skin crawl. I almost threw my phone across the room from the ick that completely took over my body. You had to be there to really grasp the level of corniness—it might not sound too bad, but trust me, it was horrendous.

That’s a prime example of how their corniness inevitably reveals itself, no matter how cool they seem. I wonder if it’s just my bad luck meeting ‘cornballs,’ or if this is truly a generational thing—maybe women in their 30s wouldn’t have flinched and might have even found that video attractive, responding with the same energy. I feel a little mean making fun of him, but I’m blocked anyway. Apparently, asking if he would talk to me differently or respect me more if I were his age, which I thought was a simple question, was too spooky for him to answer—further proving my point about poor communication skills and cowardice.

On the other hand, while their mouths may not be great for communicating, they are certainly better for other things. They know what they like, but more importantly, they understand the female anatomy a little better than their younger counterparts. They also tend to have more confidence, which makes the whole experience more fun and exciting. I always go in without knowing what to expect. I’ve found myself in situations I never imagined, like getting my armpits licked—a body part I never thought would be near someone’s mouth (I could go without that happening again, but hey, at least now I know). I also find it easier to be playful with them because I always feel like they’ve already seen a lot, and the chances of me being the weirdest person they’ve slept with are probably low. Being with an older guy has definitely helped me feel more confident and allowed me to let loose, even trying or saying things I probably wouldn’t with someone younger.

Another thing that I really appreciate about older guys is how they tend to find their ‘uniform.’ There’s something undeniably sexy about a man who knows what he likes to wear and sticks to it. Some might call it boring, but to me, it’s a clear sign of someone who’s confident in who they are. I’ve noticed a pattern: they either wear Uniqlo tees or, if they’ve got a bit more cash, Aimé Leon Dore white tees. I’ve seen three of them with multipacks of those ALD shirts lying around in their apartments. Of course, this might not apply to all men, but it’s definitely true for the type I go for. I also love when they consistently smell the same and stick to the same grooming products. Men often get into these things later than we do, so when they do, it’s a good sign they’re ‘ripe’ enough for my taste.

This extends to how they plan their dates—they know what they like, so there’s never any awkward back-and-forth about where I’d like to eat. I’ve never had to be involved in the planning process. They give me a time and place and I have to do is show up. Since my knowledge of wine is still a work in progress, they usually pick the bottle, and if it’s a sharing situation, they select the dishes—though they always ask if there’s something on the menu I’d like to try. I do not do this intentionally but I usually go out with men who have good jobs which means the bill is always taken care of even when I try to get it. The conversations flow easier as most of them know more about the things I am interested in. I learn so much about various topics, especially their unique areas of expertise or interests. And love to see the passion in their eyes when they talk about them. I’ve spent time with a chef that made me taste such interesting food that I would have never been able to experience on my own, I’ve listened to a movie director the different techniques and the little industry secrets, an art lawyer teaching so much about art and always invited me to weekly museum visits and a rugby player talk about the effects the sport has on the human body while also introducing me to Camus. Time spent with them is so incredibly stimulating and even though most of these encounters never really work out due to all the reasons   I have stated above, I always leave a little smarter. 

By contrast, I genuinely believe I would struggle to date guys my age. While they may eventually catch up, I still find it rare to form a meaningful connection with them. Unlike older men, where I often feel like the student, with younger guys, I tend to take on more of a teacher role. While this can be rewarding in its own way, I find it less engaging overall. I also think I have a strong sense of self and may lack the patience to be with someone still figuring themselves out.  

It’s not that I have everything figured out, but I did a lot of that work during my teenage years and now have a clear idea of who I am, what I want out of life, and the kind of person I aspire to be. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with taking time to find yourself—that’s what your twenties are for. However, as I’ve mentioned, I’ve noticed that many guys (not all—relax!) struggle to balance that self-discovery process with maintaining a healthy relationship. Self-discovery is often time-consuming and requires focusing inward, which can leave little room for a partner. This doesn’t only apply to men—I see women, too, hiding behind relationships instead of facing the sometimes scary challenge of figuring out who they are as individuals.  

So, maybe it’s not just about age. But what I’m getting at is that the likelihood of someone in their early twenties knowing who they are and what they want is often lower compared to someone older.

My first boyfriend, who was 27 at the time (eight years older than me), made me wait a year before committing. This was mostly because he wasn’t sure what he wanted or what kind of life he wanted to lead mixed in with some good ol’ commitment issues. Looking back, I don’t know why I stayed for so long. I think I just wanted to help him and hoped to be the reason he found happiness. At the time, I was still figuring myself out too, but I didn’t find it hard to dedicate my time and energy to our relationship. Unfortunately, he couldn’t do the same. I should have recognised that he wasn’t able to give me what I needed in a relationship, rather than clinging to the hope that he would change. He simply wasn’t ready for that, but I became attached to the idea of who he *could* be, which was obviously the wrong approach.  That relationship was very mentally exhausting, and I don’t think I’ll ever have the patience to go through something like that again.

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I get “You’re so mature for your age” a lot, which I think they think I would take as a compliment but the only type of girl who it’d flatter would be an underaged one that has been groomed. But despite saying that so much, I find that they never truly seemed to take me seriously.

They view me as a temporary fling because I’m in my early, almost mid-twenties—a placeholder for the woman they’ll eventually settle down with. ‘De passage,’ as we say in French. Like when the American director told me he had to end our weird situationship because his childhood best friend was finally single and moving to the city, after holding me in bed a week prior, stroking my face, and telling me how amazing I was. Or the British man who said, ‘Too baby to be wifey for lifey’ (yes, in those exact words). Because I’m young, they assume I’m not expecting marriage, children, or anything ‘scary’ like that. They think I’m naïve and more likely to tolerate bad behavior—which I’ve definitely done in the past. They know that for most younger girls, the bar is lower, so they don’t have to do much to impress us. Commitment is never discussed; these ‘relationships’ survive on my own delusions and hopes. It’s true to some extent—I do have time before those big commitments—but that’s no reason to treat me like a placeholder. I think we can all agree on that.

It’s an awkward phase of dating for me. I feel like I should be dating people my own age since we’re at the same stage in life, but I don’t find spending time with them stimulating. On the other hand, I want to date older men because they’re more interesting to me, but we’re not at the same stage in life. I may need to wait a couple of years before considering anything serious. But will that really change anything? As I’ve proven, maturity isn’t necessarily tied to age.

I’ve also wondered if there’s something fundamentally wrong with the grown men dating me. Does it mean women their age have rejected them? Or do they refuse to date women their age because they know they wouldn’t put up with half the nonsense a younger girl might? Are they the kind of people who like to take advantage? Do they have Peter Pan syndrome?

Of course, this is just my experience, and I’m not claiming it’s universal. I’m sure there are guys my age who are as mature as women, and there must be men in their 30s who respect younger women and understand they can be taken seriously—or who simply don’t think it’s appropriate to date someone 10 years younger. But this pattern has been hard to ignore in my own life and among the people around me.

As much as I liked older guys for our shared interests, I started wondering if there were deeper reasons I was drawn to them—and I was certain it wasn’t just because my dad died. After reflecting, I realised that being around them made me feel closer to the life I wanted. Not because I expect them to fund everything or share their life with me, but because I get a taste of the future I want: seeing the apartments they’ve bought, hearing about their achievements, whether it’s an award for creative work, a published book, a movie screened, or a sports championship. When they tell me about their vacations and how they only travel business class now, or when they casually pay the bill with a titanium card, I feel like I’m getting a glimpse into the life I’m working towards. Their busy schedules, filled with things they’re passionate about, reflect the work they put in during their 20s.

I admire how they prioritise their long-term goals and dreams, often refusing to move meetings or calls for something else like parties or dates. Even though some struggle to balance different aspects of their lives, their ambition, motivation, and consistency are admirable. 

Ultimately, I guess, it’s not that I care to be with an older man—I want to be them.

Some of my encounters with men in that age group might seem questionable, but I’ve learned a lot from them, especially about work ethic and prioritising myself. I’ve started doing what they do, and I can already tell you it’s effective. I plan to stick with it, and I know I’ll achieve the things I want. I can’t imagine how unstoppable I’ll be when I combine their aggressive drive for success with our emotional intelligence and ability to balance multiple things. I’ll practically be a fucking superhero.

As much as being around them makes me feel closer to my super-successful future, I’ve come to realise that everything happens in its own time. There are no shortcuts. If anything, they’ve shown me just how much work you have to put in to make great things happen.

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Bali, December 2024