Brazilian Bicep Illusion

Ah, dating in London. A thrilling ride through ghosters, love bombers, Hinge philosophers, and—if you’re lucky—a man who looks vaguely like his photos.

So there I was, dressed to impress with nowhere to be but a first date outside Evans Cycles in London Bridge. My classic choice of meeting spot—great visibility, decent escape routes, and just enough foot traffic to avoid being mugged.

Practical, really.

I’d matched with this guy online—let’s call him “Gym Guy.” His profile had those subtly flexy gym shots—you know, the kind that say “I’m fit but humble”, not “I do bicep curls in the mirror and call everyone ‘bro’.” No kids, decent banter, not a topless selfie in sight.

A win... or so I thought.

Standing on the ramp with my eagle-eye view of the street, I spotted a man lumbering toward Evans Cycles. Stocky, very much not gym-toned, and, well, wearing the kind of jeans that scream “stretchy waistband comfort” rather than “leg day gains.” I shook my head. Surely not. Gym Guy wouldn’t lie about that... right?

Spoiler alert: he would. And he did.

I headed down to the front of the shop and, lo and behold, the man-mountain in question beamed and said, “Melanie, is that you?”

Reader, it was him.

Now, I’m not exactly one to mince words—especially when I’ve just been visually catfished in broad daylight. So I said the thing you’re not supposed to say on a first date: “You don’t look like your pictures.”

He chuckled awkwardly, like a man who knows full well he used photos from three marathons, two hairlines, and one child-free life ago.

Still, I’d put in the effort, my eyeliner was symmetrical (a rare event), and I had nothing better to do. So off to the pub we went.

He ordered a pint before I’d even unfolded the drinks menu and then casually announced he was “just a bit overweight right now but planning to drop it all in three months.” Sure you are, love. Right after pint number four and the Scotch egg, I imagine.

Somewhere between the second lager belch and an over-share about his sex life (yes, really), he mentioned he’d been married for 15 years and had three kids.

Three. Kids.

Now, I don’t have anything against children—I just prefer when they’re not living in my potential boyfriend’s house. Or coming with the emotional baggage of an ex-wife who probably still has the Netflix password.

I wrapped things up quicker than a Deliveroo driver at closing time. But Gym Guy wasn’t done. On the walk to the station, he tried to kiss me not once, not twice, but three times. Each time I dodged out of the way.

When he finally sloped off, defeated, I got a voice note. I wish I was making this up, but here’s what it said:“I couldn’t really figure you out… I either wanted to hug you or f*ck the sh*t out of you.”

How very Shakespearean.

Moral of the story? Don’t trust the gym selfies, always have a good exit strategy, and maybe stick to British blokes if you’re not in the mood for continental chaos.

Until next time —may your matches be honest and your pints well-earned.