How To Date Yourself (And Get Laid At The End)

Falling in love with a cute 29-year-old

My trip to Paris was never meant to be a solo one. At the time of booking, I hadn’t questioned why my then-boyfriend was adamant he’d have to make sure he could get the time off before committing to the Eurostar ticket. It did seem a little strange, him owning his own company and all, but I was happy to take the risk of going alone. And thank god, because one breakup and two months later, here I am.

It’s not my first solo-rodeo (soleo?). At the beginning of last year, I travelled to New York by myself as part of a semi-breakdown thing I was trying out— a long-island cocktail of wonderful experiences and terrible decisions crammed into a jet-lagged seven days. The year before that, in 2023, I took my first solo trip to Paris, cramming four days with a tight schedule of galleries, cabaret, boutiques, therapy, and even a weird French haircut— all with the cliché purpose of ‘finding myself as an artist’, through the unadvisable method of not having a moment to myself. But being alone in Paris this time feels completely different. I’m not here to prove that I can do it, nor to serve any big idea or goal. I got dumped, I boarded the Eurostar, and now I’m here. This was to be a purely selfish, no-agenda, long weekend of spending time with me.

Part of my no-agenda agenda was to take myself on a date. The narrative of the last six-ish months leading up to the breakup had felt stereotypical in me losing myself to the noise of trying to fix unfixable cracks. And on top of that, for the 29-years that led up to the breakup, I’ve prioritised being liked by men over pretty much anything else. So de-centering them, along with getting a little obsessed with making myself happy (in the same intense, ridiculous, all-consuming way I used to try and make them) feels like a natural next step.

Here’s how to date yourself, according to me, me, me:

Note: You don’t have to be single, or freshly dumped, to date yourself. I suspect that if both me and my ex had been better at taking ourselves out on solo dates, we might not have ended up where we did. Dating yourself is about maintaining your own centre of gravity, whether you’re in a relationship or not.

1. Make time

The theme throughout all of these steps is the following: if you’d do it for a crush, do it for yourself. In terms of timing, this means purposefully carving out the time to enjoy hours and hours with yourself. Don’t rush. Choose a day and time, and commit yourself to it— no rearranging and certainly no last-minute cancelling. Pick somewhere cute. Ask yourself, what do YOU like doing? If you’re unsure of the answer, then that’s even more of a reason to start dating yourself.

There are a plethora of different solo-dates you can take yourself on: the cinema (a good place to start if you’re new to being alone in public as you can hide in the dark), a sunny hike, an exhibition wander, a cosy afternoon in a café with a book, even a concert. I mean, fuck it, go to Paris if you want!

I opted for the classic romantic restaurant, and arranged to take myself out at 7pm, on a sunny Friday evening, to Chez Janou— a French bistro famous for its mousse au chocolat.

2. Look hot

This should really say ‘feel hot’. But when I look hot, I feel hot, so you get the point. Try to strike a balance between being comfortable, but also making an effort for yourself. I got a surprising amount of satisfaction from spraying the nape of my neck with my Maison Margiela Replica, the one I usually reserve for special occasions, because I loved the thought that I’d be the only one smelling it. It suddenly went from an act of curation, to one of self-indulgence. Same with my eyeliner, and the way I slicked my hair, and even the jewellery I chose. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d chosen all of these things just because I like them that way.

Pictured above: Female gaze who???

3. Leave a light on

This is one of my most important steps. Whenever I leave a space that I know I’ll be returning to alone, I leave a lamp or hall light on— not for the old burglar-deterring reason my Nanna used to, but because it feels infinitely more loving than coming home to darkness.

The same way I would for my ex, stumbling in after a late night at the office, I want myself to know I'm thinking of her. If I have the time, I take it even further: laying out my comfiest pyjamas on a freshly made bed, setting a glass of water on the bedside table, maybe even arranging my vibrator with the same precision and flair as a towel swan. Just small, slightly OTT signs that someone is putting you first.

4. Take advantage

Take advantage of only having to please a party of one. The special, moussey little bistro I’d spent two hours deciding over before my date had a queue that looked like something out of Disneyland. I wondered for a moment whether or not I should stick it out as to not ‘ruin the plan’, but remembered that I only have to cater to me— and to me, no mousse is worth being sandwiched between influencers for 45 minutes. I wandered around the sunny streets and settled on the nearby, even nicer, Cafe Hugo.

5. Be a good date

If you wouldn’t do it on a ‘normal’ date, don’t do it on this one. No phones at the table. No rushing your food to leave. Certainly no escaping through the bathroom window. I know it’s easier said than done, especially when you’re not used to dining (or even ‘being’) alone, so I spent some of my solo-date writing a list of publicly-acceptable things you can do on yours:

• Take a notepad and pen and do some writing

• People watch

• Read a book

• Slowly sip a drink whilst gazing into the distance

• Take time eating, focusing on every delicious detail

• Chat to others (I know your heart just skipped a beat, but it’s not nearly as terrifying as you think— especially after slow-sipping four mojitos).

As with literally everything on this planet, the more times you do it, the easier it gets. I’m certain the first time I dined alone I was more conscious of being a living, breathing, eating human than ever before. But now, it’s second nature.

Pictured above: Basically this article with my 3rd Mojito

6. Remember, it’s sexy and mysterious

Dining, or doing pretty much anything publicly alone, is undeniably sexy and mysterious. I don’t care who you are, or how much of a shrimp-like posture you have at your table for one, people can’t get enough of a main character doing main character things.

And yet, at the same time, no one cares nearly as much as you think they do. Think about it: when you see someone sitting alone, what crosses your mind? Exactly— you probably can’t even remember, because it’s so unbelievably unremarkable.

So by all means, bask in your main-characterness, but remember to eat like absolutely no one is watching. Because honestly, they aren’t.

7. Prepare to get hit on

The unfortunate side effect of being sexy and mysterious— people-watching, sipping a mojito, exuding Maison Margiela Replica— is that you run the risk of getting hit on. Quite honestly, I can’t actually remember the last time I got hit on in public. And by no coincidence, I also can’t remember the last time I was publicly alone.

For those watching my Instagram story yesterday, you’ll already know that roughly 15 minutes into my solo-date, my very attractive French waiter passed me his phone to show me the poetry he’s “recently gotten into”. On reading Emily Dickinson’s If You Were Coming In The Fall, I had a sinking suspicion my solo mission was in jeopardy.

And because I absolutely cannot help it, I passed his phone back with John Cooper Clarke’s I Wanna Be Yours, in French, encased in the screen. It was either that or Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130 (the only two romantic poems I could salvage from the GCSE anthology section of my head) and I decided that the 452 miles that separates Paris from Sheffield would be enough to scrub it clean of any Arctic Monkeys baggage. Somehow— against all known laws of science— even the phrase “what’s a Ford Cortina?” managed to sound unbearably hot when whispered in a French accent.

As me and French Waiter chatted in the short intermissions of his waitering, I envisioned my therapist jolting upright in the middle of his sleep (with the assumption that all therapists go to bed at 8pm and dream of their patients). All the work we’d done together on me championing self, on not getting attached to the first man who’s being nonchalantly chalant, were threatened by the dangerous combination of mojitos, Google-translated poetry, and a single curl of perfect French hair falling artfully over his perfect French forehead.

We flirted for hours whilst I laboured over my chocolate mousse, dragging each bite out like it might somehow delay the inevitable. The restaurant emptied around us, chairs stacked, candles snuffed one by one, until it was just me, him, and the quiet question hanging in the air.

Pictured above: Trouble

8. Fuck

The cab pulled up to my apartment just before 2 a.m. The warm glow of the light I’d left on led me to the bedroom, where I knew I was about to have one of the best orgasm(s) of my life. I collapsed onto the made bed and looked over at the sleek, perfectly-formed figure lying next to me. My one true love, my travel companion, my battery-powered ride-or-die.

At the risk of getting banned from Substack forever— I want you to know that I took my time. I put more effort into those 30 pre-bedtime minutes than I ever have with any man. Nicely drunk, dimly lit, the sound of Paris outside my portes-fenêtres, with the low-volume moans of my all-time favourite ever porn, the little fragments of Waiter forearms, and the slow, sweet ache of the night still humming in my sous-vêtements, I made a mental note to thank my therapist. Not only taking second place as my most reliable travel companion, but for reminding me that the real prize isn’t a night of half-hearted sex and someone else's snores, but this: me, my hands, my body, and Maison Margiela.

If you were coming in the Fall,
I'd brush the Summer by,
With half a smile, and half a spurn,
As Housewives do, a Fly.

If I could see you in a year,
I'd wind the months in balls
And put them each in separate Drawers,
For fear the numbers fuse.

If only Centuries, delayed,
I'd count them on my Hand,
Subtracting, til my fingers dropped
Into Van Dieman's Land.

If certain, when this life was out,
That yours and mine, should be,
I'd toss it yonder, like a Rind,
And take Eternity.

But, now, uncertain of the length,
Of this, that is between,
It goads me, like the Goblin Bee,
That will not state its sting.

–
‘If You Were Coming In The Fall’
by Emily Dickinson.