New York is supposedly home to the world’s biggest population of Peter Pans: men determined never to grow up. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. Repeatedly.
When I told my family, friends and practically anyone else who would listen that I was officially finished with Australian men and moving to New York, the announcement was met with laughter.
‘Yeah, good luck with that,’ one friend scoffed in my New York group chat. ‘It’s a cesspit over here.’ The rest of the girls soon followed with their own dating horror stories.
One friend told me a man ended their relationship after she moved to Williamsburg. ‘I just don’t want to do long distance,’ he apparently complained.
Dear reader, his apartment on the Upper East Side was just 35 minutes away by the time she travelled door-to-door. I’ve waited longer for a man to locate the G-spot.
I’ve watched Sex and the City (SATC) far too many times, so I know Carrie spent a significant portion of the series crying over a man who couldn’t commit. I understand that this may be a familiar pattern here.
The fact that SATC managed to build six seasons around the horrors of dating in New York suggests the city has long been a twisted playground for men.
After rewatching all six seasons, I can still recognize the same nightmare characters who, even in 2026, continue to roam the city.
When I told my family, friends and practically anyone else who would listen that I was officially finished with Australian men and moving to New York, the announcement was met with laughter
The fact that SATC managed to build six seasons around the horrors of dating in New York suggests the city has long been a twisted playground for men
There’s the man hopelessly attached to his mother, a type perfectly represented by Trey’s uncomfortably close relationship with Bunny Macdougal. Then there’s the model-obsessed man, a season-one classic that still feels relevant in many boroughs.
There’s also the man who considers a breakup Post-it note perfectly acceptable, although today he’d probably send a text. And the kinky politicians. Honestly, do I need to provide hard evidence for that one?
I’d add a few more offenders to the list: CEOs, short kings with attitude problems, men with unusual approaches to climax, oversensitive artists, emotionally unavailable millionaires, exhibitionists, bitter divorcees and, to put it delicately, the ‘butt stuff’ enthusiasts. What is it with men and our behinds? I’m sure I’ll find out eventually.
Then, just when Carrie finally tamed her own Peter Pan, he dropped dead. And what did she do? Instead of throwing herself back into the dating nightmare, she simply returned to an ex. Sheesh.
Yet here I am, having moved halfway around the world to date the very men SATC and my friends have spent years warning me about.
I know changing cities won’t magically repair my love life. But I’d become far too comfortable complaining about the same men in the same bars, and I was ready for a new experience. I’m not prepared to give up on dating altogether, even though 74 percent of New Yorkers reportedly say finding love in the Big Apple is impossible.
I’ve heard all about the men who take several women on identical dates, and the ones who vanish the instant a relationship begins to feel comfortable.
One friend even told me she was dumped by her boyfriend’s assistant because he supposedly had a ‘busy schedule.’
After a decade of situationships with Australian men, those stories almost sounded charming.
Surely New York couldn’t be worse than Australia, where too many blokes think thongs, or flip-flops as you call them here, count as suitable datewear. Throw in board shorts and a generous cloud of Lynx Africa, and apparently we’re ready for romance.
All right, perhaps I’m exaggerating slightly. But after dating enough men whose approach to planning an evening begins with, ‘I don’t know, what do you feel like doing?’, I’ve concluded that commitment is rarely at the top of their agenda. I have ten years of situationships to support that theory.
Yet here I am, having moved halfway around the world to date the very men SATC and my friends have spent years warning me about
Spoiler alert: when they do manage to organize a date, it will probably be at a pub. I love a pub as much as anyone, but after years of beer-garden dates, I started wondering why I was bothering with sexy underwear for men who made so little effort.
Even worse, I could feel myself becoming cynical. I was spending more time dissecting disappointing dates with my friends than looking forward to meeting anyone.
At 42, I still want to fall in love. I would like to get married. I’m simply struggling to feel excited about a future with a man who expects me to choose the venue and remind him to make the reservation.
So when the opportunity to live in New York full time came along, nobody needed to ask me twice.
I’ve been writing for Daily Mail US for some time, flying over several times a year to report ‘live from the scene.’ Now I’m here properly, with this column, a new podcast and a YouTube show called Love Bites.
In other words, I’ve been given permission to ask Americans wildly personal questions for a living while throwing myself into the dating scene.
And you can bet your a** I’m going to make the most of it.
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I want to know what dating a Texan is really like. I’m curious about the hat and fully prepared to investigate what lies beneath it. I want to discover whether Southern charm survives the morning after.
I’m even willing to join a singles running club, although ideally I’ll meet someone during the warm-up who would also rather abandon the run in favour of breakfast and conversation.
I want to investigate rumours that men’s spas double as hookup spots, visit more orgasm retreats in the Californian desert and settle into elegant New York hotel bars to find out whether the men here really do have more game.
I want to play pool in a dive bar with a tattooed man wearing a beanie unironically. I realize this particular mission could undo years of personal growth, but I’m determined to remain open-minded.
It’s time for a pivot: one big, beautiful plot twist.
So when the opportunity to live in New York full time came along, nobody needed to ask me twice
As a newcomer to the city, I’m curious again. I want to go out. I want to flirt. I’ve started looking around rooms instead of staring down at my phone.
And within my first few days here, New York gave me an excellent reason to pay attention.
Just last night, I was sitting at the bar at The Beekman Hotel with a friend when a bartender approached us.
‘A man at the other end of the bar would like to buy you ladies a drink,’ he said. ‘He also asked me to tell you, “Congrats on the job.”‘
Wait, what?
I asked him to identify the man. A charming, bespectacled stranger waved before coming over to introduce himself.
He said he followed me on Instagram, recognized me when I walked in and remembered my posts about joining Our News Outlet’s New York office.
‘So I thought I’d better buy you a drink!’
That was considerably more appealing than a stranger leading with, ‘You look like trouble,’ and expecting me to be impressed by the tired line.
This man at the hotel bar had noticed something meaningful happening in my life and responded with a thoughtful gesture. We enjoyed a lovely conversation, while my friend and I also got to enjoy cocktails without having to chase down the bartender.
Apparently, I’m easy to please, although some of the men I’ve dated might disagree.
As I looked around the bar, I noticed something else I could get used to. These men had made an effort with their clothes and clearly had style, something I’d already been admiring on the streets and subways while exploring my new home.
And within my first few days here, New York gave me an excellent reason to pay attention
The leather shoes. Don’t even get me started.
Of course, a well-dressed man can ghost just as effectively as one in board shorts. My friends may yet have the chance to tell me, ‘I told you so.’ But before I give them the satisfaction of being right, I’d like to enjoy myself.
So welcome to my column. Whether you’re navigating the singles scene too, or reading this beside a husband you’re suddenly feeling especially grateful for, I invite you to come along for the ride.
There will be sex, along with deep dives into new and increasingly strange kinks you may regret discovering over breakfast. I’ll weigh in on celebrity cheating scandals and will almost certainly make dating choices you’ll have strong opinions about.
I’ve heard enough about how terrible dating is here. I’m putting the sexy panties back on and finding out for myself.
And American men, if I can ask one thing of you, particularly since my expectations are currently so low…
If you want to date me, or any woman for that matter, make things easy. Choose a date, name the place and time, then make a reservation.
Wear something nice, use a pleasant spritz of cologne and, for the love of God, men, don’t recite your résumé and gym achievements at me. Nobody is asking you to lift anything, and this isn’t your annual performance review. Lean in, listen and, better still, ask questions.
Simple.
Hello, New York, you sexy beast of a city.
