Matcha Men and Missed Connections
Can you find love in the city — or just fall into another situationship?
London, Love, and the Lie of Living Your Best Life
by a 28-year-old gay man trying to make it in the city that never makes eye contact
I couldn’t help but wonder… If I collapsed on the Elizabeth line at rush hour, would anyone even notice between Canary Wharf and Tottenham Court Road?
Here I am: 28, single, gay, in London—the big, bustling, slightly-overpriced city where dreams go to be scheduled between Zoom calls and Zone 1–4 commutes...
I find myself constantly surrounded by people, and yet more disconnected than ever. On the tube, we’re all in our own silos—noise-cancelling headphones in, eyes locked on our latest iPhones, pretending not to see the people with the flares and glitter off to Abba Voyage and countless Birkenstocks wearers.
Everyone outside of London tells me I must be living my best life. It’s the classic delusion. You live in the big city, so obviously your life is bigger, better, sexier. But here’s the secret: most of us are just cogs in the same machine, with a different Pret order and a loftier rent. And dating? Oh, honey.
Dating in London is a paradox. A million people, five different apps, and still I find myself having the same conversation on a loop:
Him: “Hey :)”
Me: “Hey, how was your day?”
Him: “Yea fine, yours?”
Me: “Yeah, not bad too.”
Us: Die inside, together, yet apart.
No one seems to know what they want, and yet we’re all on the hunt like it’s a virtual Pokémon Go — but instead of a Charizard, we’re chasing someone who won’t ghost us after six messages. Where do you even meet people these days when your idea of a wild Friday night is not spending £20 on an espresso martini at a neon-lit bar called something like “G-A-Y”? (Real place, unfortunately).
I don’t even like espresso martinis. But there I am, sipping it at 8pm, pretending it’s not making me anxious, and that I’m not wondering whether it’s ironic or sad that I’m drinking a coffee-based cocktail to seem more awake while emotionally I feel exhausted from the fake joker-like smile I portray 9–5.
I don’t want endless swipes, I don’t want to flirt at 1am in a club bathroom queue, not even 10pm on the tube platform, or McDonald’s queue outside Heaven nightclub. I don’t want to pretend to be effortlessly cool while mentally calculating how many Ubers I can afford this month. I want connection—but where do you find that when the city’s moving at 100mph and the only intimacy you get all week is when the barista accidentally brushes your hand handing you that Iced Strawberry Shortcake Matcha with Semi Skimmed milk?
Maybe, just maybe, I need to put down the phone, pick up a book, put down the espresso martini and pick up a chamomile tea.