While my jaunt to the digital marketplace of so-called romance may have been fleeting (and fruitless), it was rather a curious journey. Although, one I categorically refuse to take again. However, it was interesting – and perhaps largely telling of a much wider and profoundly sadder issue – but, while these modern men about town aim to present themselves as a paradox wrapped in an enigma for us to giddily swipe right on, they’re not really bringing much to the table, are they, really?
Think about it. There’s a conformity to it. We have:
- The gym-sculpted philosopher (quote copied and pasted, naturally)
- Eager outdoorsman (here’s me next to a hill! Have you ever been outside?)
- Grinning conquistadors returning with plundered gold in the form of depressing aquatic trophies (the less said, the better)
They’re simply commodities offered to the ether in an attempt at, what? Calculated blandness?
Impress us, little ladies, we’ve mastered the algorithm!
Like I say, this is a conformity that not only suggests a deep rooted insecurity, but that men have all studied from the Manual of Male Desirability, and gotten it entirely wrong. Instead, we’re being presented with an overwhelming sameness; a predictable uniformity that is both boring and unsettling.
Unfortunately, like everything else I’ve encountered in 2024, beneath the veneer of rugged individualism lies a species increasingly defined by algorithms, and less so with human connection and good old fashioned romance.
And, BOY, do they think women are stupid.
It is my firm belief that these modern men are simply operating under a collective delusion born from the patriarchal concept that women are shallow creatures, easily swayed by something shiny… like a sweaty six pack… Or a dying fish…
Really?
Or, perhaps, these dating app personas are simply a cynical exercise to weed out the discerning – these women are too much work; perhaps men are only interested in the easiest of conquests. Who wants to make an effort, after all?
Me!
I do!
So, let’s unpack the modern man.
But before that, let’s take a look at my favourite topic. The male gaze. And let’s just go ahead and deconstruct that in light of swiping right and left and what not.
For those of you who aren’t aware, the male gaze is a lens through which the world is filtered. It casts women as objects of desire and consumption, rather than fully realised subjects. It’s a subtle, pervasive force that not only shapes how women are seen, but how they ultimately see themselves.
Yet, when it comes to this complex species known as the modern man; a species with brains akin to a labyrinth, full to the brim of deep thoughts and deeper feelings, unique desires and even more unique preferences, it’s quite sad that the male gaze is centred around the same set of physical attributes.
A scientific fact, they claim.
Men are, after all, visual creatures.
(Excuse me while I throw up.)
What are these physical attributes, you ask:
- Breasts, obviously, are a huge deal. Not just any breasts mind you. Ones that have been crafted entirely by imagination and that defy all sorts of things like gravity and reality.
- Hair: long, short, blonde, brunette – but only on her head, otherwise she’s unhygienic, says the man with the carpet on his shoulders.
- Legs, another obsession; length, tone, the willingness to wrap them around said carpeted shoulders.
- Then we have a woman’s face. Symmetry, apparently, is key. As is a perfect nose, full lips – but naturally full, no toxins in my girl’s face, says old deep pile shag carpet arms – and eyes; they’re high up on the list of what men think are ‘nice’.
Then we have other things that are on the list, but not as high as the big breasted, bouncy haired, haireless, long legged Aphrodite with a face sculpted in soap by Zeus himself. She also has to have a great personality; sure, she can be kind and funny and intelligent, so long as it’s less kind and funny and intelligent than he, and she must be able to cook, clean and provide endless emotional support while being entirely low maintenance.
It’s a tall order. Because apparently that matters, doesn’t it, lads?
Alas, for the modern man, the quest for the ideal woman is a complex one, involving said grocery list of physical attributes. But it doesn’t stop there. Women are also expected to perform for this modern day Prince Charming.
You see, beyond the male gaze, it also seems that men have a peculiar idea of romance. They envision themselves as gallant knights; rescuing damsels they deem to be in distress. But the reality in this modern day fairytale is this: these knights sit aloft a simple couch, scrolling through dating apps, waiting for an entertaining, emotionally supportive, non-clingy, independent, but endlessly available princess to come galloping towards them.
And it seems that the pursuit must be led by a woman, but only when playing by invisible rules men have set. Men have perfected the art of simply sitting back, arms crossed, waiting for adoration to be served on a silver platter. But these rules create a delicate balancing act; women must appear aloof enough to maintain an air of mystery, yet expectant enough to ensure they know they’re on trial.
It’s a curious dynamic; a blend of archaic expectations and contemporary entitlement. A performance where women are the stars, directors and producers, while men sit in the audience, munching popcorn.
The audience member who anticipates a performance from a certain kind of woman. One who is both strong and submissive, independent, yet desperate for validation. One who can effortlessly navigate the treacherous waters of the male ego, while simultaneously maintaining her own sense of self. It’s a role that demands a constant state of performance; a perpetual balancing act that leaves little room for authenticity.
It’s no wonder I fucking hated it, eh?
So, the modern man, in his quest for the ideal woman, is also searching for a woman who can seamlessly conform to a role that is both outdated and unrealistic. It’s a search that is as futile as it is revealing… And yet, there’ll be women out there who will play the game and suffer because of it.
Perhaps it’s time for a script rewrite. A plot twist where women become empowered to embrace solitude, rather than mediocrity in the arms of a profoundly sad lover. One where men become active participants in their own romantic lives, rather than spectators. Less emphasis on external validation and more on internal authenticity. Less conquest, more connection etc.
Because charm, wit and genuine interest are far more alluring – at least to me – than a carefully (or in the case of North East men, hastily and dispassionately) curated feed. It’s a daunting task, no doubt. But then again, aren’t real men – heroes, if you will – forged in the fires of adversity?
Or am I simply being too unrealistic?