What Dating Was Like as a Female in the ’90s
By: Elle Silver
Tags: Women, Love, Dating, Life Lessons, Relationships

A group of us, all of us women, would meet up at one of our apartments. A bottle of something alcoholic would materialize along with a chaser — orange juice, Sprite, Red Bull.

We’d drink copiously of that. Whoever drank the least would be nominated to drive us all to a communal watering hole to drink more.

Or we walked. Or we called a taxi because we didn’t call an Uber because Uber did not yet exist.

We would leave the apartment, dressed in our finery — typically some outfit that showed a lot of skin.

I remember once donning a pair of overalls for our night out on the town, and my friend declaring, “Sure, wear that if you don’t want to meet any men.”

So I’d changed and put on a different outfit, one that showed more skin. Or should I say — enough skin to attract men.

A mini-skirt, a crop top, a bandeau bra, a blouse with no back. Satisfied that I was sufficiently naked, we all clambered into the taxi and went off to the club.

Or the bar. It didn’t matter. We had two purposes for going out: to become more inebriated and to meet men.

We told ourselves that we were going out just to have fun. Yes, we would talk. Yes, we would laugh. Yes, we would make noise, drink, and be merry.

But there was only one true purpose for why we’d gone out that night, and that was to meet men.

At least, for me, that was the reason.

Once we’d arrived at the communal meeting place, after procuring yet another alcoholic drink, we would all stand back to take stock of the men in our vicinity.

Oh, he’s cute. Oh, he’s hot. Oh, look at that guy. Wow.

All were prime examples of masculinity: tall, fit, handsome.

Shit, we should have just come out naked. Or maybe just with pasties on our nipples, but no top. Whatever we had to do to get these men to notice us.

They hung in groups just across the room from us, but a mere few feet away, completely ignorant of our existence.

Shit, we should have just come out naked. Or maybe just with pasties on our nipples, but no top. Whatever we had to do to get these men to notice us.

Perhaps staring at them longingly would do the trick. I’d try to catch one of the men’s eyes.

As soon as he’d return my glance, I’d sharply look away.

How embarrassing! I don’t want him to think I’m desperate. Anything but that. Yes, I am desperate. But he can’t know that. He must never find out just how desperate I truly am.

So this man went back to his conversation with his group of friends, perhaps even beginning to find me creepy because I kept staring at him, making him feel like I was burning holes into his back.

I was. He’d return my glance, and yet again I’d look away.

Not a very effective method for meeting a man. Stare intently at him then quickly look away when he looks at you. Definitely creepy. Definitely a sign of insecurity. Definitely not attractive.

Okay, next time I’ll just show up naked.

Instead, in a different part of the room, other men were doing the staring at us. When we looked at them, they didn’t look away. They smiled and toasted their drinks.

Oh, god, not those guys. Oh, shit. They’re going to come over here. Oh, fuck!

They’d migrate as a group toward us — all of them except the one guy in the group who had a girlfriend — they’d lumber over with their shit-eating grins, niggling each other, amped up on the sexual high of seeing us females half-naked.

Shit, I wore this outfit for him over there, not for you. I left the house tonight half-naked because I wanted to meet that guy over there, the one who’s ignoring me, who I can’t stop staring at, and when he looks at me because I’m staring at him, I look away quickly.

But you? I wasn’t even looking at you. You weren’t even on my radar. Right now I’d like to be invisible. Anything but have to talk to you.

“Oh, fuck, let’s go hide in the bathroom,” one of us gals would exclaim.

We were never quick enough. The group of unwanted dudes was already on us.

They’d approach and say hello, but we’d ignore them. If we did respond to their greeting, it was only to say something snarky.

“Hey, girls, looking beautiful tonight.”

“We’re not interested,” one of our group would pipe up. Usually me. The bitch who was still completely insecure — still hoping the hot guy across the room would come save me from these dudes.

But why would he, what with the weird games I was playing — looking at him and then when he looked at me, looking away.

The dudes who had crept over to chat with us would then either accept defeat and retreat, or they’d refuse to and stick around.

One of them would keep trying to engage us. We’d keep responding with obnoxious rejoinders.

He’d either realize it was a losing fight, or he’d battle on.

I’d continue to do this every weekend for years: dress in some small piece of fabric, then go over to somebody’s house, get smashed, go out to some club or bar, spend forty, fifty, sixty more dollars on taxis and well drinks all to continue this ridiculous mating ritual.

One of our group would finally break down and start talking to him. We’d wonder why the fuck she was doing so. But as he continued to chat her up, and we witnessed them laughing together, we’d wondered if she’d seen something in this dude that we hadn’t — something we’d missed.

Maybe they’d end up becoming committed lovers. We’d continue to be single. I’d continue to do this every weekend for years: dress in some small piece of fabric, then go over to somebody’s house, get smashed, go out to some club or bar, spend forty, fifty, sixty more dollars on taxis and well drinks all to continue this ridiculous mating ritual.

Over and over and over again. Every night the same. I’d return home empty-handed. No mate. Yes, I looked hot. But I was just too bitchy, too picky, too high on myself.

Too insecure.

Worse was to wake up with the constant hangover. That hangover would just make my insecurity worse.

Why can’t I find a boyfriend? Why can’t I find anyone to love me? Look at me. Look how hot I am!

I was hot, horny, and lacking in self-worth, so that by the time I did manage to find a guy who was only loosely my type, I’d throw myself at him.

Can I go home with you? Of course, I can! Can you fuck me? But of course! Can we do VHS and chill next weekend? Certainly! You don’t want to see me the following weekend. No problem, I’ll keep pining away for you.

You stop returning my phone calls. I’m still in love with you. You admit you have a new girlfriend. I’ll make up fantasies about how you’ll love me for the rest of your life.

If you’d just come to your senses, you’d be able to see we’re PERFECT for each other.

Maybe if I call you just this one time at two a.m., while drunk, scantily clad, and horny as hell, you’ll invite me over to fuck.

No? You’re still seeing that same girl? What’s up with that? She’s ugly! If not ugly, then she’s not dressed half-naked like I am. What in the world do you see in her?

I never posted bikini photos of myself on my profile. I wanted a man to contact me because of my brains and personality, not because of my body.

I don’t know if the existence of online dating would’ve made dating any better for me. I probably would’ve still reacted the same way to men — been bitchy those men I didn’t feel were “worthy” of me while falling madly in love with any asshole who didn’t give two shits about me.

It’s taken a long time for me to change. Thanks to therapy and doing the hard work of finding my authentic self, I no longer approach dating this way.

After I left my husband and returned to the dating world a few years ago at forty-five, I approached dating completely differently.

This time I treated all of the men whom I met on dating apps and websites with respect.

I gave men the benefit of the doubt. I gave them a chance, especially if they were being gentlemen.

I was never snarky or bitchy, and if I ever was, it was only when a man was acting like a complete ass. And I certainly never ever showed up half-naked to any of my dates.

I never posted bikini photos of myself on my profile. I always made sure that my body was covered in my photos. I wanted a man to contact me because of my brains and personality, not because of my body.

If I were to meet my twenty-something-year-old self today, I’d tell myself to calm down, give more men a chance, and stop being so narcissistic.

I’d tell myself to stop trying to attract men only with my body.

I’d tell myself to stop trying to date only the most “handsome” guys. Give men a chance — especially those who share my common interests.

If only I could go back, I would. I would make all my mistakes right. But I can’t go back. I only have now. I can only try to be better in the present and the future.