Swipe Right. A story about online dating, beautiful illusions, and desires unleashed

Valeria

[WhatsApp]

⠀

“Hi, Lera. I wanted to ask you about Tinder. I’m thinking of signing up. I’d like to meet someone — not for sex, though. I’m looking for a relationship. Is that even possible? Anything I should or shouldn’t do?”

“You mean in Moscow?”

“Yeah. Can you filter people by location?”

“On the free version, you only see people nearby. If you pay, you can set your location anywhere in the world.

“I’ve been using Tinder for years, so I can usually tell a lot just from someone’s profile. First, I set the location, then I ask where they live and what they do for a living. I also prefer men who run their own businesses.

“And funnily enough, I always swipe right on profiles without photos — they often turn out to be the most interesting people.”

“Seriously? No one’s going to swipe right on me if I don’t have a photo. Are people using their real names?”

“Some do, some don’t. If things go well, they’ll usually tell you their real name later.”

⠀

⠀

“I signed up yesterday. Honestly, they’re all so unattractive.”

“Set your location to London. That’s where all the gorgeous and smart men are. In Moscow, everyone filters for women under thirty. If anyone asks why I’m looking abroad, I just say I’ve recently been there — or I’m planning a trip. That’s exactly what I did when I was matching with people in Montenegro. If looks are your priority, try Stockholm or Copenhagen instead.

“You can find absolutely anyone on Tinder — but you have to keep looking and never get emotionally attached too soon. Even if you’re already seeing someone, don’t stop browsing.

“When you’re having regular sex, you naturally become more attractive to other people. It’s instinctive. And even if you’re not in a relationship, simply being in that searching mindset gives you a certain energy. People pick up on it. The more people I meet, the more convinced I become that it’s simply a numbers game.” In everyday life our world is small. Home. Work. The gym. Weekend trips. We already know everyone around us, and it’s unlikely a colleague will suddenly reveal an entirely new side of themselves. The same goes for bumping into someone at the supermarket — those romantic movie moments rarely happen in real life.

Travelling is one of the best ways to broaden your horizons and meet new people. But most of us can’t afford to travel all the time. Once or twice a year is wonderful, but it’s a bit like casually browsing job listings — you aren’t actively looking, but if something interesting comes along, great.

Dating apps changed that. Now one can meet anyone at any time: a pilot, a banker, an actor, a founder, a crypto investor — whoever one’s curious about. The trick is learning how to choose well. Out of fifty matches, perhaps three will genuinely catch your attention. One of those might turn into a real conversation. Anything beyond that is even less likely. But if you swipe through five hundred profiles, you’ll probably end up with thirty worthwhile contacts. Among them, one person may stand out. Three thousand profiles? Your chances of finding someone truly exceptional become surprisingly real.

Whether that story turns into a great love or just a beautiful chapter isn’t entirely up to us. What is up to us is creating the opportunity for it to happen.

The platform matters, too. Every dating app attracts people looking for different things — marriage, long-term relationships, casual dating or sex. Tinder has the widest audience, but it’s also the noisiest. That’s why it’s so important to know exactly what you’re looking for before you start.

As complicated as it may seem, attraction happens almost instantly. Sometimes a single photograph, a short bio or a shared interest is enough to make you think, yes. This person.

The opposite is true as well. If you don’t feel even a spark after your first interaction online, don’t expect those feelings to magically appear later. Sometimes one tiny detail is all it takes.

Beauty, intelligence, humour and kindness mean something different to every one of us. Those differences are exactly what help us recognise our own person among thousands of strangers. The more specific your standards are, the longer the search will probably take. But when you know what you want — and why you want it — the search is worth it.

There are plenty of intelligent people. Intelligent and funny is rarer. Intelligent, funny and financially successful? Rarer still. And those who are all of that and genuinely attractive? They’re unicorns. But they do exist. And they’re looking for someone, too. I’m not even talking about deeper qualities yet. Those only reveal themselves with time. But intelligence, education, financial stability and physical attraction? You can usually get a pretty good sense of those within the first ten minutes of chatting. Isn’t that remarkable? It saves you from dozens of awkward first dates. Unless, of course, awkward first dates are your thing. As for me, my standards are high. If it isn’t leading towards marriage, then at the very least it should be a relationship that genuinely enriches my life.

I want a man to bring something into my world that I haven’t been able to create on my own. That’s why I’m selective. And, in my experience, it’s worth it.

⠀

⠀

“Lera, why would a great guy — a surgeon — message me and then disappear before he’d even seen my reply?”

“It happens. Don’t overthink it. Just keep looking.”

“He got back to me. Said he’d just finished surgery. But I’ve already started talking to someone else — a realtor.”

“Perfect. Keep them both. And keep looking.”

“The realtor wants my social media, but there’s nothing on there worth showing. The surgeon says he’s only interested in good sex right now. He told me to get in touch next time I’m in London.”

“Well, you want good sex too, don’t you? Ask him to move the conversation over to WhatsApp.”

“The realtor seems to be after sex as well, but I could actually imagine something more serious with the surgeon. They’re both surprised I’m in Moscow.”

“Then fly over. Or let them come to you. Surgeons are usually either alcoholics or perverts. But generous. That’s why I like them.”

“I’d happily fly over for a weekend. The realtor says he’ll spoil me.”

“Good.”

“I think I’d rather book my own hotel for the first meeting. How do I tell him that?”

“Just say you’d feel more comfortable meeting on neutral ground.”

“And what if he expects to stay in my room?”

“Then you make it clear from the start that whether he stays is entirely your decision.”

“He’s gorgeous.” I sent Lera his photo.

“Looks like you’re in for a good weekend. But don’t stop looking. That’s Tinder’s golden rule.”

“I’ve still got the surgeon quietly waiting in the background. He’s much more reserved. Still, all of this is putting me in a good mood.”

“Exactly. That’s what I’ve been telling you all along. The secret is not to expect anything. Then every date feels like a success. And remember why you’re doing this. If you stop meeting new people, life starts standing still.”

“Not expecting anything is the hardest part.”

“Relax. You’ve already realised how many men are out there. And tomorrow there’ll be even more.”

“I’ve already upgraded to Tinder Gold. And I’ve switched off the setting that shows my profile to everyone. Now only the men I like can see me.”

⠀

⠀

Lera and I met ten years ago on an interior design course. I was twenty-six; she was thirty-three.

She’d already been married and had a son. I, meanwhile, was in the middle of a whirlwind romance with my English boyfriend — the man who would later become my husband. She caught my attention from the very first class. There was something effortlessly graceful about her. She spoke quietly and thoughtfully, never trying to dominate the room. A delicate blonde with striking features and an unmistakable sense of style, she wore the sort of clothes few people could pull off — like a bright pink fox-fur coat — and somehow made them look perfectly natural.

For the entire year we studied together, she drove from her hometown of Nizhny Novgorod to Moscow — without a driving licence. When I finally found out, I wasn’t even surprised.

It seemed exactly like something Lera would do. She always kept a bottle of expensive vodka in the boot of her car. “For bribes,” she’d say with a smile. She never drank a drop herself.

During the course she stayed with different classmates in their spacious Moscow flats, moving from one home to another as naturally as if she’d always belonged there. People simply enjoyed having her around.

She was one of those rare people who seemed to get along with everyone. I don’t remember her arguing with anyone — not once — even though our class had more than its fair share of drama.

She struck me as extraordinarily kind, almost as though she’d been born without the instinct to compete. She never fought for attention, approval or status. She accepted people exactly as they were. At the time we weren’t especially close. To me, she seemed almost otherworldly — untouched by everyday concerns or material things.

She barely ate, surviving mainly on a single protein bar each day. Some people mistook her gentleness for naivety.

She’d occasionally arrive late because she’d been trying to figure out how to buy a tram ticket, which always made me wonder where she’d ever needed to take a tram in the first place.

Her final project suited her perfectly. She designed a villa in the Seychelles inspired by the island’s iconic coco de mer — the enormous palm seed shaped like a woman’s hips and long believed to be a powerful aphrodisiac.

When the course ended, everyone went their separate ways. Most of our classmates stayed in interior design. I didn’t.

Lera continued working on projects across Russia and Europe. She was rarely in Russia, and people often wondered how someone who seemed so absent-minded managed to build such a successful life.

For years we saw each other only at the occasional reunion.

Then the pandemic came. My husband died.

Lera was one of the very few people who truly knew how to support me. Her own mother had died of cancer not long before, so she understood grief without needing it explained.

We met again in August 2020, when I visited Nizhny Novgorod with my parents. That afternoon changed the way I saw her. The gentle, dreamy woman I remembered was still there. But beneath that softness was extraordinary strength. Wisdom. A quiet resilience I’d never noticed before. Meeting her felt like finding a lifeboat after a shipwreck. Except Lera didn’t just throw me a rope. She handed me the whole boat. Freely. Without hesitation. Without expecting anything in return.

These days she divides her time between the South of France, Monaco and Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat. She’s in her early forties now. And from where I’m standing, she’s living exactly the life she wants.

⠀

“Lera, how are you? I’ve got a little fling going with the realtor from Tinder. He’s already talking about meeting me anywhere in the world.”

“Then meet him as soon as you can.”

“We’re thinking about Turkey. Why the rush? Does the magic wear off?”

“Yes. It’s much easier to work out whether it’s a yes or a no if you meet quickly.”

“London would obviously be easier. But what about Turkey? If we meet in Istanbul, should we stay in the same hotel room or book separate ones?”

“Darling… I don’t know. If you’ve already been talking openly about sex, separate rooms seem a bit pointless.”

“What exactly am I supposed to find out? I’m almost certain the sex will be good. It’s everything after that you can’t predict.”

“Exactly. Whether anything comes of it or not, the sooner you know, the better.”

“He keeps sending me photos of himself at home — watching TV with his dog, drinking wine. Things like, ‘If only you were here with me.’ Tell me, if we stay in the same room, he’s paying, right?”

“Of course. But I always ask, ‘Are you inviting me?’ That way there are no misunderstandings.”

“God, I wouldn’t even know how to ask that.”

“Learn. It’s an essential skill. Think of him as practice.”

“When we talked about London, he said I could always stay at his place. I told him I’d rather book a hotel the first time. He said, ‘Fine, I’ll arrange one for you.’ I said I’d book it myself. Then he replied, ‘In that case, I’ll just spoil you instead.’”

“Why did you insist on booking it yourself? Now he’ll think you’re one of those fiercely independent women.”

“Because I want to stay independent.”

“You already are. If a man wants sex, he pays. That’s how it works almost everywhere.”

“But I want sex too.”

“So? You’re still the woman. When the hotel comes up again, just tell him you’re happy to come — as long as he’s taking care of everything.”

“I’m simply more comfortable paying my own way. Probably out of habit. I can let a man look after me once we’ve built some trust. My goal is something long-term. I’ve already caught myself imagining that, if things worked out, maybe one day he’d ask me to move in with him.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself. Don’t rush. Don’t take the lead. If he offers, accept. If he doesn’t, don’t push.”

“I know. But if I didn’t genuinely like him, I wouldn’t even be thinking like this. I’ve already turned down ten men on Tinder who wanted to meet.”

“Zhenya, wanting someone sexually isn’t the same as loving them. Real attachment comes later — usually after two or three months, once you actually know the person.”

“But I wasn’t attracted to the others at all.”

“That’s your brain making the choice. Your libido picked the realtor.”

“It definitely did…”

“Good. Stay in that phase for now. Later you’ll work out what you really like — and what you don’t.”

“So, what should I do now?”

“Nothing. Watch. Learn. Test things. And keep your options open. You get attached far too quickly. I had to train myself out of that. These days the only thing I emotionally depend on is the moment they transfer me the money. Everything else leaves me completely calm.”

She added another story.

“Not long ago I pushed an older man into a complete meltdown. Usually, I persuade them to make expensive purchases for me, but this one turned out to be unusually stingy. Afterwards I even suggested therapy. He refused. Today he wrote asking for the therapist’s phone number — just so I’d reply.”

I smiled. Lera had a talent for turning almost any situation into an anecdote.

“You’ve decided money is your goal,” I wrote.

“Mine is material too, in a way — but it’s much bigger than that. I’ve realised I don’t want to live in Russia anymore. I honestly can’t imagine building my future here. I want to move to England. One of the biggest reasons is my son. He’s half English, he has a British passport, and I believe that’s where he should grow up. So, whenever I meet a man now, I already know what my long-term goal is. If we’re building a future together, he’ll have to be willing to help us build a life there. That means helping us relocate, supporting us while we settle, and giving my son the education I want him to have. That’s what I’m looking for.”

Lera replied almost immediately.

“That’s not unrealistic at all. It’s actually a very clear plan. The important thing is making the right man fall in love with you. Everything else follows. Every man who’s ever bought me an apartment eventually asked the same question: ‘What did you do to me? How did I end up doing everything you wanted?’”

“If a man wants something different from life,” I wrote, “then we’ll simply go our separate ways. I’m not interested in exchanging sex for money. Money disappears. The rest of life doesn’t.”

“Exactly, it’s not that his plans are wrong. They’re just different from yours. People stay together when they meet each other’s needs. Sometimes I know from the very beginning that someone isn’t right for me. But if he’s already in love… I might still enjoy the situation.”

“Right now, my biggest priority is getting my son into the best English school I can. I can manage the first couple of years on my own. After that, the fees are close to thirty thousand pounds a year. I won’t be able to do it alone. I’ll need help.”

“You’re thinking about it exactly the right way. Life gives us what we’re ready to receive.”

“So, here’s the plan. We meet in Istanbul. He falls in love. He asks me to move to England. We build a life together. And if none of that happens… then I probably won’t see him again.”

“Perfect.”

“And if I realise, he’s not looking in that direction,” I continued, “I’ll lose interest — even if he looks like a Greek god.”

I sent another photo. A ridiculously handsome man from Tinder.

“Not my type. Men that handsome are usually in love with themselves.”

A moment later another message appeared.

“I’ve noticed something else. European men — especially British men — seem tired of casual dating. More and more of them genuinely want relationships.”

That was reassuring.

“One thing I really liked,” I wrote, “was that Warren wasn’t bothered by my past. I told him about my husband and my son. It didn’t seem to change anything.”

“A lot of men actually prefer women with children,” Lera replied. “He has two children himself. Then remember one thing. He’s probably paying a fortune in child support.”

I smiled. “At least we both have dogs.”

“That’s a start.”

“Goodnight, darling.”

Warren was exactly my type. Imagine a cross between George Clooney and David Beckham. He was a laid-back former rocker whose greying hair only made him more attractive. Lean, toned and effortlessly masculine, he looked after himself without looking as though he spent his life in the gym.

I found him irresistible. Sometimes I’d catch myself staring at his photos for far longer than I meant to. The way he sat. The tilt of his head. The look in his eyes. Everything about him made me feel as though we were meant to find each other.

He kept sending me little glimpses of his everyday life, and somehow, they felt like snapshots of my own future. There he was cycling past Buckingham Palace in his cycling gear. Fresh out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, his hair still damp. Having drinks with friends. Playing golf. Watching his children run through the park. Making pasta together for dinner.

I couldn’t get enough of it. I wanted that life more than anything. It was exactly how I’d imagined my future in London. And Warren — everything about him — seemed to fit perfectly into that picture.

⠀

⠀

“Hi, darling. Things with my Englishman are getting serious. He won’t let me out of his sight. ‘Goodnight, darling.’ ‘Morning, beautiful.’ The connection between us feels incredible. I’ve already stopped talking to everyone else — they simply don’t compare.

“Now he keeps asking whether I could imagine moving to London. He drops hints about wanting something serious, sends me photos of his children… everything. I’d happily fly over for a weekend, but England still has a fourteen-day quarantine, which makes it impossible. Maybe that’s actually for the best. I’d rather meet somewhere neutral first and see whether he really means everything he says. Istanbul would be perfect. He suggested it himself before.

“But just an hour ago he messaged saying he’s trying to work out who could look after his children. ‘Maybe it’s better if we wait until you come to London.’ Honestly, Lera, I’m so annoyed I feel like telling him to get lost.”

“Don’t.”

“Give him time.”

“You can always tell him off later if he turns out to be useless.”

“For now, just say: ‘No problem. Let me know when you’re ready to meet. Take care until then.’”

“You believed his words too quickly.”

“Words are an illusion.”

“Actions are reality.”

“You know, if he does agree to Istanbul, I want him to buy both tickets himself. At least then I’ll know he’s serious and won’t back out. Meanwhile he’s sending me messages about how lovely the weather is in London this weekend — twenty-eight degrees — and how wonderful it would be to walk around the city together. Honestly… what am I even supposed to say to that?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t answer.”

“Darling, there are thousands of men like him.”

“Right now, your job is simply to gain experience.”

A few days later, Warren pleasantly surprised me. He agreed to meet in Istanbul. I was over the moon.

We started comparing flights, and I suggested staying at Soho House Istanbul — a stylish, bohemian hotel I’d always wanted to visit.

I sent him my passport details. For the first time, I felt genuinely proud of myself. I’d persuaded a man I’d never even met to fly to another country just to see me. Maybe online dating really was that powerful.

Then he sent me his flight confirmation. Just his. I asked where my ticket was.

He admitted, quite openly, that he’d assumed I’d buy my own. I felt as though someone had pulled the rug out from under me. I’d genuinely believed he would pay for everything. Apparently, he’d never imagined that. He explained that his ex-wife was Swedish, and where she came from, men and women generally split costs equally.

We ended the conversation with the polite phrase “cultural differences.” But underneath that politeness, I felt deeply disappointed.

Naturally, I immediately sent screenshots to my WhatsApp coach.

“He’s trying to explain himself,” I wrote. “Here’s what he’s saying:”

“I didn’t expect you to pay, but equally I didn’t expect to pay for everything myself. Spending a hundred or two hundred pounds on dinner and drinks for a first date feels perfectly normal to me. But paying around a thousand pounds for flights before we’ve even met is a lot — for anyone, man or woman. If we were already together and going away as a couple, that would be different.”