'He tells me that he loves me' Mr Right turns out to be Mr Right-wing on a first date that has a surprising twist

Last week, I went on a date with a friend of Geert Wilders, the Netherlands’ newly victorious answer to Donald Trump.  

To be clear, I didn’t know he was a friend of Wilders until I was already halfway through a 6-course tasting menu.

After meeting a string of kooky men on Feeld, a sex-positive app for curious people to explore alternative relationship models, I decided to take a break from hookup culture, and return to a more traditional style of dating via Bumble. If we can call imperilling oneself with repetitive strain injury on a smartphone 'traditional,' that is.  

The dates I find myself on often have such an abundance of red flags that they more resemble a bullfight, so occasionally I like to date someone who is the opposite of what I think I want. This has never ended up in anything more than an amusing, if not absurd story, but doggedly I persist. As Nora Ephron said, “Everything is copy” or, in TikTok parlance, “do it for the plot”.

And so I match with Johan. His profile says he is a 40-year-old "self-made family man” who is “almost always positive” and “not your average guy”. He seems like a nice wholesome chap (aka: not my type) and so I strike up a conversation. The conversation is fun, and he’s funny, with just the right dose of humour, surprise, romance, and confidence to create a winning formula that sustains my attention.

I had recently changed my dating profile to seeking "something casual" after becoming disillusioned with the dating market and reducing my demands in line with the shrinking supply as I approach my mid-30s. He mentions my new status and tells me he is a man on a mission to prove there are actually brilliant guys on dating apps. So far, so good, and I think I’ve finally met one of the good guys.

The next day, we quickly switch to WhatsApp, and he sends me five detailed paragraphs, bulleted with a star emoji, to introduce his interests. The list reads more like a CV, and includes founding several successful businesses, philanthropy, coaching his children, writing poetry and collecting art.

It’s a hard act to follow, and in an unexpected turn of events I realise that I might in fact be the red flag in this blossoming romance. I can’t tell him that I have problems with executive function - hello, ADHD - and currently spend most of my free time doing online quizzes to see if I also have autism, so I send an upbeat voice note to distract him.

As an aside, quickly shifting gear to the medium of voice notes is my secret sauce. Immediately, it cuts the wheat from the chaff as you can more quickly gauge interest on both sides. Plus, I’ve never had a date after hearing someone’s voice that I’ve not enjoyed; you just know better the nature of the beast. Occasionally, receiving an unsolicited sound bite from me can cause alarm for the other party, but they soon convert to seeing the fun side and the extra nuance it brings to the hackneyed medium of a written Tinder tête-à-tête.  

Happily, it works, and we end up speaking on the phone for an hour. Our conversation flows, although I have a feeling that we might be politically incompatible.  

He mentions how he was bullied at school but has now found popularity and power as an adult, which he uses to his advantage - he says this is OK if you are "aware of it." He also cryptically mentions that the Christian community rejected him when he got divorced, both of which cause me to hazard a guess he’s right-wing. 

At this point, my interest is piqued, and I knew the plot was thickening just as quickly as my chances of meeting Mr. Right (rather than Mr. Right-Wing) during this encounter were dwindling. I don’t know anyone religious under the age of sixty, and live in a bubble of leftish thinkers, so I agree to a date. He promises not to be boring, and I believe him.

We plan to meet in a city where he is doing business, and close to Amsterdam, where I live. He books a restaurant and says his driver can pick me up.  I’m not sure if that’s a joke, and I tell him my train will arrive at 7.01pm.  

He meets me at the train station, and we walk to the restaurant. Although not my type, he’s handsome in an archetypal Dutch way: big, blond and blue eyed with bouncing curls. The conversation is immediately easy, and I knew the date was going to be enjoyable, one way or another.  

The restaurant is a contemporary fine dining experience with white tablecloths, a far cry from the minimal hipster restaurants of Amsterdam.  He’s recognised by all the staff and the maître d’ fawns over him before we are led to what is obviously the best table in the restaurant (cosy corner, nice view, clearly not an accident), and given champagne on the house. I feel like I’m on a date with a politician, or even someone famous, as he breezily chats to other patrons, and introduces himself to a waiter he doesn’t recognise.

He explains that he called ahead to tell the restaurant that he was “bringing a very special woman tonight”. Getting the impression that I was not the first horse getting ridden at the rodeo, I teasingly ask if he brings all his dates here and he concedes I am not the first.

He asks if he can order starters for us. I say yes. After ordering, he takes my hand and asks, expectantly, "Are you romantic?"

I feel uncomfortable with the overfamiliarity and, aware that he’s trying to seduce me, I say “No”, whilst nervously laughing, and he playfully looks hurt like a puppy kicked into the corner.  He says he felt me tense up and I reply honestly that I’m not a PDA kinda girl and this *gesturing at the whole scene* all feels quite unnatural for me. He asks if it’s OK if he touches my shoulder and I say that’s fine. The mood remains convivial, and we move on.

I mention Alain de Botton, who recommends asking "and how are you crazy?" on an early date to ascertain self-awareness. Better the devil you (and they) know.  The shortcoming he offers is vanilla, "too optimistic" he says.  

I decide to have a little fun as I know that he is not the man of my dreams, and I’d like to make that clear early on, so I proceed to give an unfettered summary of the most challenging aspects of my personality, with none of the first date filtering one would normally expect.  

I tell him I have ADHD, that I’m highly impulsive, live in chaos, have intense mood swings and all this, and more, would probably make me quite difficult to live with. In fact, I don’t much like living with myself.  I elaborate further and say I live in such pandemonium that I don’t accept visitors with less than thirty minutes warning.

He doesn’t seem deterred, and continues to hold my hand, touch my leg, and wrap his arm around my shoulder during the next four courses. Not for the first time in my life, I feel that is my fault for not being clearer on physical boundaries and make an internal note to do better next time.

We meander through various topics, and, at some point, I bristle like a Brit at the mention of money when he tells me he lost a million in crypto this year (I guess the driver wasn’t a joke), and around the third course he announces, "I’m more of a Jordan Peterson kind of guy."  And I had it! Suspicions confirmed: I was fraternising with the enemy, and it was the perfect segue into a discussion over politics and the recent election results.

I am surprised when it transpires that he is an influential political figure himself and a close ally and friend of Geert Wilders. Wilders has courted controversy for much of his long career, spending close to twenty of those years chaperoned by a 24-hour security detail due to threats to his life. This is a man who was on trial in 2016 for inciting hatred against Dutch Moroccans after asking, during an election night rally speech in the Hague, "Do you want fewer Moroccans in this city and in the Netherlands?", provoking the audience to chant "Fewer! Fewer! Fewer!", to which a smiling Wilders chillingly responded, “Then we will arrange that.” A friend of the Kremlin and a man with draconian immigration policies, which further fuels his objective of "Nexit" from the EU.

Dutch Donald diluted some of his more inflammatory policies for his party, the radical right PVV, to become more palatable to more voters and, in any case, forming a majority with more centrist parties will likely force him to further abandon other extremist objectives. Coalition talks are still ongoing. 

I ask him if he was surprised by the election result, like literally everyone I know who lives in the Netherlands, Dutch or otherwise. Absoluut niet! "That’s the problem with Amsterdam", he scoffs, "you don’t understand the rest of the Netherlands”, drawing parallels with London vs the rest of the UK in the Brexit vote. He, quite rightly, tells me that people on the breadline do not care about sustainability. They care about getting food on the table and finding somewhere to live.  I’m immediately confronted with my privilege, my expat tax breaks and my homeowner status in a salubrious part of town.

He states that Wilders is in fact quite left-wing, which at least has a kernel of truth in that the PVV was the most popular party among young voters, seduced by his promises of more affordable healthcare and his pledge to solve the housing crisis.  The latter of which is a situation that is, at least in part, caused by people like me overbidding on property in the centre of Amsterdam.

Whilst staring straight in the face of an immigrant, he plainly tells me that there is no place for immigrants in the Netherlands, and that we live in the most densely populated country in Europe.  He explains that he is anti-immigration because "they" don’t learn Dutch or integrate with society. I tell him that he is accurately describing me and most of my expat friends.

Don’t get me wrong, we’d all like to have Dutch friends and speak Dutch, but the reality of expat life is that you get introduced to Brits, who introduce you to more Brits, and if you work for an international company then your office is probably English-first and even gym classes are taught in English so the chances to learn and practice Dutch are slim to non-existent.  

In any case, it doesn’t seem to bother him that he is sitting opposite the enemy he is describing, and it raises the thorny distinction between immigrants and expats. Why do I get the status of an expat, whilst a less advantaged person is an immigrant? Surely any person working outside their country is an expat? Regardless, we are both here for the same reason: to have a better life.  

Johan brings up religion again, but this time he’s talking about Christianity, and I ask him if he’s religious. Very much so, he says.  I tell him that I’m a left-wing atheist and so we probably aren’t a match. He counters that "everyone is religious", a sentiment straight from the Peterson school of thought.

Now, I have quite a high tolerance for red flags, so much so that I have been personally victimised by my own taste in men. In the line-up we have an ex-weed farmer (hey, I live in Amsterdam), an alcoholic with an uncanny ability to make overpriced natural wine disappear in my apartment, multiple men with girlfriends or wives (open relationships are more common than clogs in Amsterdam), one man currently in rehab, one man who lives in a squat, and even one man who lied about his age by 12 years (and has a daughter almost my age) but the incendiary combination of right-wing and religious was beyond the pale. Really, if I am being pedantic, writing poetry might also have been a red flag.

There’s a moment where he’s searching wistfully into my eyes and I’m certain if I look at him a nanosecond longer, he will try to kiss me, so I turn my head at just the correct velocity to catalyse an energy shift that I hope precludes further advances. Despite my best efforts to put him off me, I think the intellectual sparring is turning him on and it occurs to me that this is what I get wrong with men: I’m too agreeable. I resolve to be more challenging on future dates.

It’s definitely time to wrap up our rendezvous and I suggest we "go Dutch." He says he doesn’t know what that means. Evidently, it’s not a case of 'when in Rome', and he discreetly pays for the bill whilst I’m in the bathroom.  I’m not sure if he willfully misunderstood me, but I’m grateful that he generously paid, without any of the inevitable clumsiness one dreads on a date, especially since he chose the restaurant, the wine, what we ate and even where we sat.

He wants to take a walk and, with trains back to Amsterdam leaving every few minutes, I can’t pretend I’m in a rush, so he takes us back to the station via a circuitous route down quiet streets. He says he is lost, but it’s not convincing and my guard is up. All the while he’s wrapping his arm around my shoulder, then my waist, and even under my jacket. I squirm, flinching at his touch. There aren’t many people around, but I wonder what they’re thinking, or if they even notice.  The nervous laughter returns, and I say I’m ticklish, but I don’t tell him to stop. Now I wonder if I’ve become too agreeable.

I’m frustrated that I don’t ask him to stop, but I just want him to get it. I’m frustrated that I need to say something, that he can’t just pick up my body language, that he doesn’t notice that I haven’t, at any point this evening, touched him. Or maybe he has, and it doesn’t bother him. I don’t know who is right or who is wrong, or if that can even be answered, and I’m confused.

Eventually, we get to what was always his destination: the crest of a softly lit bridge over the most picturesque canal in the city. “Isn’t this romantic?”, he coos. Suddenly, he turns towards me and, before I can do anything about it, kisses me on the lips. I don’t recoil, though I want to, and I’m angry at myself for not being better prepared for this moment. The kiss lasts a second before I pull away and all I can think about is how there really is nothing more unsexy than a man who models himself on Jordan Peterson.

Finally sensing that I don’t want to be touched, he asks, "If physical intimacy is difficult, is sex a problem?" At this point, it’s getting silly, and I think I must really put the nail in the coffin. How can I put this man off me?  

He is, after all, a conservative family man looking for a life partner so I’m sure he would be horrified to learn about the transgressions happening on Feeld, so in a moment of unbridled impulsivity and provocation I tell him I don’t normally go on dates like this, I use Feeld. I’m aware how foolish this sounds to you, as it does to me, in hindsight. My ADHD-fueled impulsivity has got me in all kinds of trouble in my life.

"What’s that?" he asks. I explain Feeld is a progressive dating app for the curious and open-minded, who are looking to explore their sexuality in an inclusive space, with the implication it’s not an obvious habitat for the right-wing or religious. Sensing possibility, he asks "Did you think we were going to have sex this evening?”.  "NO!" I exclaim, realising as fast as my impulses that the plan was backfiring. He might be a Christian father of several children, but he lets me know that he’d like to, if I would.  

That optimism is certainly tasting a little less vanilla now.  "Neither of us even live here!", I protest incredulously.  I regret the contingency of my reply and remind myself that "No" is a complete sentence.  Slowing the cadence of his speech, as if giving space for solutions to surface in this one-sided ideation session, he laments that we can’t go back to mine because I need time to tidy my apartment...  Cogs are whirring and, given he was here on business and lives two hours away, I’m certain he’s about to suggest we get a hotel, and I cheerily cut him off, "Right! Let’s get back to that station."

Whilst we are walking, he says he can tell I don’t love myself, referencing our conversation in the restaurant. He tells me that he loves me. That he’s not in love, but he thinks I’m a beautiful person.  

Arriving in the station he wants us to stand by the water fountain before we say goodbye. He gives me a lingering hug and I know he’s poised to kiss me again if I turn my head the wrong way, but I remain vigilant.  He stands back holding my hands and, with a glint in his eye, starts getting down on one knee to propose.  This date really can’t get any more odd. "OK that’s enough!", I say, "please get up, I need to go home now." 

In a moment of panic, and because feel like it’s the quickest way to leave, I give him a peck on the lips and dash through the barrier, gleefully exclaiming "BYE!!!."  I get on the train and his driver picks him up.  Someone has been sick in the carriage and I step in it.  I laugh at the absurdity of the evening.

Whilst I’m on the way home, I text him to say thank you for dinner and that I had a nice time, which was the truth until we left the restaurant. I’m not sure why I do this because I thanked him already, but I feel I should because he paid for the bill, and I don’t want to be the kind of girl men complain about. I’m not even sure why I don’t want to be that girl.  He replies and says I am a beautiful person, and he hopes to see me again. I don’t reply.

A few days later, I return to Feeld, where what you see is what you get (more or less). Of course, sometimes you see a little more than you expect, and sometimes you miss a couple of minor red flags, but it’s all part of the amusement. 

As I’m aimlessly swiping, I see a face I instantly recognise; he has a pseudonym (something that Feeld encourages), but it’s undeniably the man I met. His profile is similar although he now describes himself as “always a gentleman” and lists "FFM" as a desire, a popular acronym on Feeld meaning a threesome with two women and him. The Bible is open to interpretation on polygamy, so this doesn’t seem at odds with his religious views, demonstrating welcome consistency in the field of dating.  

So, single ladies, there is a right-wing Christian playing (the) Feeld - if you’re up for it, come get Psalm.

PS: See more exclusive stories from the Hello! Fashion Self Love Issue here.