There was a time when mysterious men wore trench coats, smoked cigarettes in dimly lit bars, and disappeared because they were probably international spies thwarting an evil plot.
Now they leave you on delivered for nine hours and call it an attachment style.
We have fallen so far.
We used to be a proper country. We used to have … standards.
If his most consistent form of communication is sending the 2 a.m. “you up?” text as a not-so-subtle way to get you naked and on top of him — so you can do all the work because he is, in fact, drunk — it’s time for an intervention.
That is not communication. That is men thinking that their d—ks are magic wands capable of turning every pretty girl into whatever fantasy they want enacted. That somehow, with two words and a question mark, they can tear her from her comfy bed, summon an Uber and have her appear at the “afterparty” booty call.
Somewhere along the way, men started confusing being unavailable with being mysterious.
Mystery requires intrigue. It requires something for me to uncover. Leaving me on delivered while you repost a Reel to your Instagram story does not make me wonder what secrets lie beneath your carefully constructed exterior.
And I think this is where we’ve fundamentally lost the plot.
There is nothing inherently attractive about pretending you care less than the person you’re talking to. Taking six hours to respond because you were genuinely busy? Fine. Taking six hours because she took three and you need to restore the balance of power? Embarrassing.
We’re flirting, not negotiating a hostage exchange.
Personally, I like my men available. I like good communication and hate games. Now, have I played the games before? Absolutely. But I’m at the age where I believe if a guy wants me, he should tell me.
If he doesn’t? Fine. Kick him to the curb. Move down the roster. Recruit new players. Make a couple trades.
If we as a society have gone from asking, “Who is that handsome stranger?” to “Does this man actually like me, or am I just delusional?” then we have completely lost the plot.
Poor communication, good bone structure and nice biceps do not make for a mysterious guy worth decoding. Sometimes he’s just a headache.
So if we want mystery, bring back the trench coats. Bring back men with dark, tortured pasts who disappear for three days because they may or may not have been preventing an assassination attempt in Prague.
But if he disappears for three days because he “forgot to text back?”
I hope you forget his number and straddle someone else’s lap — someone who is actually upfront with how they feel about you.