I was over a decade out of practice when I started dating post-divorce. And while I had zero confidence in my ability to behave normally on a date, my old friend fashion could always be relied upon to give me the boost I needed to get back out there.
At the age of 21 I spent my first career pay cheque on a black Mulberry satchel that is still an office favourite. When I started to see the light of day after a traumatic birth and several sleepless months, I rewarded myself for coming out the other side by buying myself a McQueen biker jacket from The Outnet’s editor’s sale. To prepare for my return to dating, I invested in a silk thigh-split dress from Rixo’s first ever collection.
Clothes and accessories are my amour, they are how I show myself love; fashion is my most reliable ally. It acts as my personality stand-in on flat days, or camouflage when I want to blend in (I always feel chic and discreet in my Alexa for M&S navy wide-legged suit). But date dressing presents an extra challenge. It’s akin to dressing for a job interview, except you want the interviewer to take you seriously…and also want to sleep with you. (The aforementioned Rixo dress is a fail-safe for the latter.)
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Like starting a new job and building out a work wardrobe of favourite outfits, when I started setting up dates, I found myself gravitating toward a few go-to looks. But as the months went on, I realised these outfits fell into two camps: outfits for dating men, and outfits for dating women.
I am bisexual, although since I married the first man I fell in love with, I had never actively dated women before. My date outfits for nights out with men tended to follow a certain criterion: classy, but sexy. A long dress with a split, a figure-hugging jumpsuit, a statement tee with a leather mini-skirt – I was dressing based on my perception of the male gaze, showing off what I consider to be my ‘best assets’ while attempting (with mixed success) to establish my position as ‘the cool girl’ (à la Gone Girl). The outfits were different to those I’d wear for a night out with friends or in other social situations, curated specifically to endear myself to the opposite sex.
Dates with women, however, were styled with a different objective. Chicness overrode being sexy or classy; the sex appeal took on a different spin. Instead of a figure-hugging jumpsuit or dress, my beloved 7 For All Mankind high-rise jeans that accentuate my bum (my only curve) teamed with a crop top and a distressed leather biker became a favourite. I wore heels less. I tried to achieve the ‘effortless’ look (that takes at least twice as long to put together).
I was dressing, subconsciously, for the female gaze, which I perceived to be more nuanced in terms of sex appeal. I was aiming for (and missing) Emily Ratajkowski sex appeal for men, whereas for women, the aim was Kate Moss off-duty for casual dates or for dress-up, Jodie Comer in Killing Eve (but with less murder).
When I realised that I was subconsciously gendering my date outfits, I knew I needed to change my approach, and that the problem ran deeper than fashion. I was dressing for my dates, many of whom I’d never met or hardly knew, rather than myself. Similarly, I spent the dates themselves worrying about whether they liked me, rather than whether I liked them. I left without a clear picture of who they were or whether I wanted to see them again, instead focusing on what they thought about me.
Changing my sartorial approach to dating signified step one in changing my entire dating philosophy. I was dating for me, not for anyone else, so I should be dressing for me, not anyone else, too. I started picking the outfits that I felt most confident and comfortable in, rather than the ones I thought I’d be most sexually attractive in. I ditched the Emily Ratajkowski and Kate Moss visions and showed up as the pink-haired, chaotic single mum with an over-priced eclectic and fabulous wardrobe, and strong views on feminism that I actually am. My dating fortunes picked up almost instantaneously. It became less of a performance, less stressful, even enjoyable.
Ironically, I met my girlfriend on a night out with friends whilst wearing a leather miniskirt, a push-up bra (with results bordering on physical cat-fishing) and a low-cut top; an outfit that had ‘male gaze’ written all over it. So, perhaps the perceived differences were all in my head. Sexy is sexy, chic is chic, whatever gender, binary or non-binary its written in.
Showing up as yourself is infinitely more important than dressing the part of a perfect date. It’s confidence that makes you sexy, clothes are just the icing on the cake. (But if you’re faking it until you make it, I can highly recommend a Rixo thigh-split silk dress.)
