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I  like men. No, I love men. Perhaps, if you’ve read the flurry of reports on the male loneliness epidemic or watched TikToks decrying the ills of bullheaded masculinity, you might have bought into the lie that all hope is lost for men. Instead, you should listen to me, as someone who chases the affection of men to my own detriment for a living. Not all is lost. This is the Great Opportunity to refine all that which constitutes being a Good Guy, a Real Man. I am offering you the keys to the kingdom of desire, and I cannot say that my motives are entirely unselfish, which is also how you know that I am telling you the truth.

Put in some effort.  Maybe you’ve seen guys in beanies getting roasted online for their little cups of matcha and growing collection of works by bell hooks. Performative males, as they’re known, supposedly exploit their own sensitivity as a means to procuring sex. But here’s the thing: I am a performative female. I read Good Morning, Midnight on the subway hoping that a potential suitor might notice my beaming curiosity and zest for modernist literature. I genuinely enjoy reading Jean Rhys. I also want to be noticed while doing it. In this vein, I argue it is crucial that you continue to perform for us, so long as your intentions are not exclusively to get laid and your cultural references have a dusting of feminine interest.

How else will I know that you are literate if not for the dog-eared copy of The Paris Review peeking out of your knapsack? You are merely magnifying the traits I am certain I will one day love, but I cannot fall in love with them to begin with if I don’t know they’re there. Plus, a performance of this kind will help develop a kinship between us: You now have a microscopic point of reference to the plucked and perfected one-woman show that is femininity. Good.

Watch old movies.  Take it from novelist and girl-about-town Marlowe Granados, who believes that straight men should improve upon their cultural blind spots by studying the classics: His Girl Friday, The Philadelphia Story, Design for Living, Trouble in Paradise. “When men can’t deal with my personality, it’s usually because they haven’t watched enough earlier 20th-century film,” she says. “All the women in those films are characters. Men need to be able to give it back and banter, and I think that’s a skill that can be learned through Cary Grant, who’s great at repartee, or Gregory Peck.

“These are the men they should be looking at to understand how to be debonair and suave,” she adds. “Men these days are all really interested in dressing, but if you can dress like a gentleman without actually knowing how to be one, there’s a dissonance there, as though you’re wearing a costume.” 

Tell me your secrets.  If being the provider is something that makes you feel whole and dutiful, well, surprise, I love being provided for. Unfortunately, I do have feminist scruples to abide by, so I will refrain from outright begging for your financial assistance or the password to your Coinbase wallet. I can provide for myself in the most dreary domestic sense, which means that what I need from you boils down to pleasure of the intellectual and sexual sort and good ol’ companionship. So here is what I am asking, instead: If every man is his own universe, usher me into yours. This requires a conception of self that is intimate and studied. I don’t want to know your favorite song—maybe it’s “Poses” by Rufus Wainwright—I want to know why those chords keep you up at night, why they conjure visions of ex-lovers and stolen time and snow falling down. There is always an opening to introduce romanticism in the ordinary: the notes and rhythms and choreography that make a life. I am less interested in your ability to summit Mount Everest than I am your ability to plumb the depths of your own heart.

Use your hands.  But, short of that, any type of physical regimen, be it exercise or your sudden interest in woodworking, works for me. “I don’t need them to be super fit by any means, but men do need to be working with their hands in some way, or else they will do war,” says Stef Dag, a stand-up comedian and the host of the video dating series Hot and Single. “It’s either sports or rock climbing, but I don’t know… Sometimes I do think we need to put men into ROTC training or whatever.”

As for style, Dag says you can wear whatever you want, so long as it’s not workwear: “Unless you’re out there working in those streets every day doing construction, why are you, a creative director that lives in Greenpoint, wearing Carhartt?”

But cosplay is sometimes OK. “You really can’t go wrong with a hot biker jacket,” says author and journalist Tea Hacic-Vlahovic. “It’s OK if you don’t know how to ride a motorcycle.”

Have an obsession.  Also: I do not want your ambivalence. I am uninterested in men who perform clout-derived coolness or take up predictable hobbies like video games or pickleball. If you must lust after something that is not me, make it the center of your world. I am unimpressed by run clubs, but if you do engage, educate me on its utility for you. Is it the rhythm of thumping feet against hot, black city pavement? Is it the sweat that burdens the bridge of your nose when all is cold and tired and gray? All I ask is that you bring the same level of passion for the niche Instagram account you run chronicling architectural design trends of the ’80s to our courtship.

I say all of this not as a strict directive, but with tenderness and longing. Consider this a plea, if you will, for your attention and love, with great hope that you will put as much effort into discovering me, as I, you. Go on a charm offensive. Study poetry. Brush up on the state of reproductive rights. Respond to the nudes I send you with “I am the luckiest man alive” (you are). Write love songs. Proudly display your tube of Rogaine on the bathroom sink. Deliver handwritten notes. Whatever you do, do it with grandeur, and commit. It is all much rarer than you could ever know.