Post-divorce, Lynn launched back into the dating apps with mixed results. Photo / 123RF
OPINION
Lynn, 47, is a personal finance expert from Hertfordshire who has three boys aged 16, 14 and 11.
From the submissive teacher to the narcissist love-bomber, this divorced mother-of-three has been on a steep learning curve.
After 13 years and three children together, my marriage ended horribly in 2020 with my husband moving out of our four-bed Hertfordshire home just three days before lockdown. Thank God he did. We met when I was 27 and he was a handsome former footballer. We’d been so in love and proud parents to three boys, but after a decade of marriage the cracks in our relationship were too deep to paper over any longer. Any romance or love had long expired by the time the pandemic hit, I’d dried my tears and was prepared to move on.
So, in my early 40s, for the first time since university, I found myself single again. I’ve now been dating for four years and my goodness – how little I knew about what awaited me in the modern dating world and, wow, how much have I learned. If only someone had warned me, which is exactly why I’m hoping – should you find yourself in this position – that you might learn from my mistakes. (Pour yourself a drink, I would.)
Post break-up, who did I choose as the first person to have sex with? My very first boyfriend, who I’d in fact lost my virginity to while growing up in Cornwall. Nostalgically, I’d shared old photos on Facebook, which led to us messaging… and flirting… and eventually spending some weekends together. It was more of a virtual relationship – he still lived in our hometown – and kissing, and later making love with him, felt like being 16 again. It was a lovely ego boost but was never going to last for the same reasons it didn’t when we were teenagers and I had more ambition. Yet it felt a safe, comforting way of sleeping with someone who wasn’t my husband but not a stranger, either.
This delicious fling gave me the confidence to download the dating apps Hinge and Bumble (or “Minge” and “Fumble” as some friends rudely call them). “I’m going to go for it,” I told myself.
Looking at men’s profiles, chatting and sexting was thrillingly novel, and one man, a bit of a dude and a DJ, seemed cool and a far cry from the men I’d met back when I was in the corporate financial world pre-children.
Initially it was exciting, and racy, but I started thinking it strange he always wanted to come to my house, never his. With hindsight (that beautiful thing), I suspect he may have been married (woefully common on the apps). The thing that killed it was him admitting he was an anti-vaxxer.
However good the sex, I discovered, it’s impossible to be with someone with wildly opposing beliefs and morals. (I later dated another DJ, a well-known one, who rammed his vast slug-like tongue in my mouth on our first kiss. I’ve now learnt my lesson and avoid music men…)
My next encounter was more sinister. He was a policeman who impressed me with his uniform and badge. We’d chatted on video before meeting, I knew about doing “due diligence” but his job gave me a (false, as it turns out) sense of security. We arranged to meet in a nice local restaurant, him asking me to “wear a sexy dress and heels”. That felt a bit weird, but slightly “hot” perhaps, to be told what to wear. Unsure of dating etiquette, it can be hard to judge what’s normal.
Dutifully, foolishly, I glammed up and the first time I went to the ladies’ he grabbed me and touched me inappropriately. He hadn’t asked and I didn’t like it, but was thrown slightly. Later, stupidly, we had sex, during which he tried to strangle me. I’m sure a sex kink was the motive – and not actual murder – but I never saw him again. And was left, as victims typically are, feeling ashamed and at fault.
You might think that would have put me off for life, but weirdly I became more determined to find a decent man. Step forward Guy* who soon progressed from a “like” on Hinge to a real-life dinner date, and seemed perfect in September 2021.
Charming, funny and solvent (working in property), the fact he’d never been even close to marrying in his mid-40s should have been a red flag, but there’s always the optimism you’ll be the one who makes them commit. Quickly, we agreed to be exclusive, but after three months he simply said, “I’m sorry, I don’t love you and I’m ending it.” Thankfully I hadn’t introduced him to my kids – I’ve always strictly kept them separate from my dating life. But it floored my confidence.
What’s more, I discovered what “breadcrumbing” is – another dating classic. Effectively, this meant that while he was not interested in me enough to actually want me as a partner, he still wanted me to fancy him and I presume, if no one better was available, he still wanted to have sex with me. At a time and day that suited him, naturally.
He’d throw me little “breadcrumbs” of encouragement – “hey, how are you?” texts, or compliments about my picture – to let me think it wasn’t all over. I’ve decided I am not cool enough to make a friends-with-benefits arrangement work. Is it really so old-fashioned to want a faithful lover?
I’m reasonably adventurous and curious, so although Jack*, a teacher, was fully upfront about his penchant for some kinks, I decided to be open-minded. He was caring, respectful and interesting company. But he liked to be dominated and was into pain. I don’t regret our five months together but it’s better to be on the same sexual wavelength. I chalked it up to useful sex education. Though down the line I later dated a man who’d hinted he liked rubber. When he turned up for our first date, at a National Trust garden, with something that looked like a rubber vest underneath his Marks & Spencer pullover, I decided “no thank you”. Next!
Aaaah, lovely Ian* was a project manager who gave me the best sex I’d ever had. We dated for several months last year and I fell in love. It wasn’t to be however as we had what I later learnt in therapy (trust me, I needed it) were opposing “attachment styles”.
We all have styles, and the sooner you work out yours – and spot others’ – the better.
Ian had “avoidant attachment”, whereas I had “anxious attachment”. (The clue for both is in the name). The third, healthier style is “secure attachment”. In practice, how this typically played out was that I’d reply to messages immediately (“anxiously”), and enjoy making plans. He would be aloof (“avoidant”) if I got too close, took ages to respond, and was reluctant to be pinned down.
That might seem like a man just not that into me, I accept. However, we both genuinely loved our time together, honestly.
Unless at least one of you has the “secure attachment” style, it won’t work however strong the attraction. I had to give up and move on after learning this important lesson, but we remain friends today.
Richard* was in his mid-50s and a very successful divorced businessman with a gorgeous Hampstead home. Over Michelin-starred dinners we’d have fantastic conversations – reminding me of my years working for big, blue chip companies – as we sipped fine wine. A suave gentleman who worked all hours and after a few weeks was honest enough to admit: “I just don’t have the time for a relationship.” We’re also still friends.
With his tattoos and gangster style, Ricky* was not necessarily my type but was funny and attractive. After four nice dates he came round to watch Netflix and “dropped” into conversation that he’d been married twice before. Oh, and that he’d served time for GBH. I was shocked, and then I did a not-very-nice dating thing, I “ghosted” him. Since then I learn more about people before letting them into my home.
Ted* was significantly younger than me, and I’ve no idea what job he did. But he was adorable. We met at a festival, and I have no illusions that for young Ted, my spacious tent with its sheepskin rug, fairy lights and proper bed was half of my appeal. But I didn’t care, we laughed and danced all weekend long and – whoop! – this midlife mum of three had actually pulled a hot young man.
In the dating world I’ve been treated badly, but it wouldn’t be fair to lie that I’ve always acted nicely myself. Luke* would send 100 messages a day, the subject matter ranging from his cup of tea to the traffic jam. Yawn. He’d also endlessly talk about his relationship with his toxic ex (very much a no-no, thank you). After I’d told him I felt “unsatisfied” in bed one time, he rang the next evening complaining: “I didn’t like the way you spoke to me last night” then dumped me. Shamefully, I realised I’d been too scared to end it so had forced him to.
By January this year I was so disillusioned by dating. I took a month off the apps (along with booze, sugar, caffeine and meat for good measure). The life detox helped, and while I hated dating apps by then, how else to work through the haystack of damaged men to find The One? With new pictures and a fresh Hinge profile, I began chatting to someone I’ll call Patrick, after American Psycho. We met for coffee on the Wednesday and learnt that we shared music tastes and life circumstances – we both had older kids and had survived divorce. As we drained our cappuccino he lengthily hugged me saying, “I hope you’re tactile because I am.” I agreed to a pub dinner on the Friday.
On that second date he lavished me with compliments: I had amazing eyes, gorgeous hair, cute freckles and “felt a spark”. I suspected even then he was neither emotionally nor financially stable. But… it was seductive. We spent the entire weekend joined at the hip. The love-bombing only intensified, he brought Valentine’s Day roses and gifts at 9am with a card saying “I love you”. Then he messaged me with poems and meaningful quotes and opened up about his personal life – sharing everything.
Then, after six weeks, Patrick withdrew his attention as quickly as he’d showered it. Dates were cancelled, messages were stopped. When he finally took my call he blamed poor mental health. It was confusing and devastating and classic narcissist behaviour. Eventually, after weeks of silence, he sent a long message: his ex wanted him back and he was choosing between her and me. I angrily replied within seconds saying “Get lost, I’m out. Now f--k off.”
Four months on from that incredibly damaging experience, I’ve been single and celibate. I’ve decided that dating apps don’t work. If I want to find love in the future I will only do it in the old-school way. At 47, I know it’s unrealistic to meet a guy in a bar, so I’ve joined a running club, tried different sports and gone to art galleries. I’m not speaking out because I love sharing my personal life, but because I want others to know about the highs and (mainly) lows of dating post-divorce. I wish them luck.
*All names and identifying features have been changed to protect privacy.
As told to Susanna Galton
Telegraph: Many couples struggle with a sexual mismatch. For some, it's a deal breaker.