Why should I be a carer for an old man? What will you give meyour flat? Your car? she says, staring at me as if I were an outofdate product on a supermarket shelf that the shopkeeper has forgotten to discount. In that instant, for the first time in years, I wonder whether the world has finally flipped upside down: at fortythree they already label me oldtimer and set a price tag on a relationship without a hint of flirtation or a game.
I am fortythree. I have never married; I have had two cohabiting relationships, each lasting about two years, normal, alive, and ending amicably, like two adults parting on good terms. I have always treated that as a plus: no alimony, no exfiles, no baggage, no endless comparisons or fights. Yet today the modern dating market sees this as a suspicious anomaly, as if an unmarried man must hide some defect, some uncertified marriage.
I decide its time. I want a family, a woman by my sidebeautiful, wellkept, youthful. I wont lie: Id like someone under twentyeight, someone who looks good and makes my friends, without hiding jealousy, ask, Where did you find her? I see nothing shameful in that. I earn a decent salary, own a flat in Manchester, have a decent car, dont drink or smoke, keep fit, and I assume I am a respectable option on the market.
But the market, I discover, now follows different rules, and I am not a buyerI am the product, and not even a popular one.
**First date**
I meet twentysixyearold Cressida Hart, whom I matched with on a dating app. Weve been texting for a week; she laughs at my jokes, writes youre so interesting and its easy talking to you. I think perhaps this is a normal connection, no strings attached. The moment we meet, the conversation slides quickly into a different arena.
She eyes me, evaluating, and fifteen minutes in she asks, What car do you drive? I answer. Do you have your own flat? I answer. How much do you earn? I answer. I realise this is not a date; its an interview, and I am the asset being assessed for liquidity. She asks each question as calmly as someone might ask, Tea or coffee?
When I turn the table, What are you looking for in a relationship? she smiles and says, Comfort. I want a man who can meet my needs. No embarrassment, no hintjust a price list.
**Second date**
Twentyfouryearold Poppy Bennett, striking and polished, the kind of pictureperfect woman I thought worth pursuing, joins me for dinner at a restaurant in Leeds. I foot the bill, as proper, and the talk drifts toward the future.
I want a family, children, a solid partnership, I say.
She looks at me, calm, and replies, And what can you give me?
Im taken aback. What do you mean?
You say you want a young woman, right? She has choices. Why should she choose you? she presses.
Then she continues, Because youre older, you need to compensate with resourcesflat, car, money, lifestyle. Otherwise whats the point?
I try to argue that it isnt just about money, that there are feelings, compatibility, respect, but she shrugs, Those are secondary. The foundation comes first.
And then she repeats, almost mechanically, Why should I be a carer for an old man? She says it without anger, just as a fact, adding, If you want someone young, you have to match her expectations.
I leave the restaurant feeling as if Ive been taken apart on a conveyor belt and priced like a commodity.
The worst part isnt the isolated incidents; its the system.
**Third encounter**
Ive been chatting with twentysevenyearold Elspeth Morgan. She initiates the conversation, flirts, asks questions, and I begin to think maybe not everything is rotten. Then she sends a voice note: Listen, lets be honest. I need a man who will support me. I dont want to grind myself to death. If youre not ready, dont waste either of our time.
I ask, What do you offer in return?
She laughs, Me? My company.
Thats when something clicks inside me. My company as if it were a product, an allinclusive package with payment up front. The absurdity is that they dont see the problem at all.
They dont hide, they dont play gamesthey state the conditions outright, and if you dont meet them, youre simply written off, no emotions, no regret, just an unsuitable option.
And the most ironic part?
I used to think the problem lay with women that theyd gone soft, that their demands were inflated, that they were mercenary, that they only wanted money. The more dates I attend, the more I listen, the clearer it becomes: it isnt just them.
I walked onto this market expecting to choose, but Im the one being chosen. I wanted a young, attractive, convenient partner. They wanted a stable, welloff, advantageous man. I chased looks; they chased resources. In their logic everything is honest, just unpleasant.
Suddenly Im not a unique, special big catch but one of many items being compared, evaluated, and discarded.
The hardest blow isnt the rejections; its the moment I realise Im seen not as a man, but as an offerwith terms, limits, a production date. Perhaps Im simply too late. Perhaps I should have built a family earlier, before everything turned into a transaction. Perhaps Ive lingered too long in the illusion that time is on my side.
Now reality is what it is. To get what I want, I must either meet the listed criteria or reshape my own expectations. And Im not ready for either.
That, at last, is the most unsettling revelation of recent years.
