Ladies, Beware: The Performative Male Has Entered the Chat

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Ladies, Beware: The Performative Male Has Entered the Chat

Decoding men has taken emotional intelligence to a whole new level - enter the performative male. A personal experience in navigating charm, faux depth, and the emotional games women apparently weren’t struggling with enough already.

BY HARRIET ISHBEL SWEENEY

23 October 2025

Ladies, I am stumped. Truly. As someone who has had her fair share of dating disasters and I mean the kind that make your therapist sigh and refill her water glass. I thought I had tapped out. I thought I had seen every variety of romantic chaos the male species could muster.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman in possession of a dating history must be in want of therapy. I, for one, have sampled the full menu: the ‘famous’ influencer who nowadays sidles up to the likes of Andrew Tate (yes, really), the DJ for whom the party never ended and nothing was ever to be taken seriously, the macho rugby player who believed vulnerability involved a protein shake and a shrug. All proudly exhibiting their unique brand of toxic masculinity. And yes, each one leaving me slightly more allergic to the male species.

But recently, it seems we’ve stumbled upon a new, far more absurd, slippery face of emotional unavailability: the performative male. He’s the one cropping up in endless stories across my friendship groups, leaving us collectively baffled. “He just switched.” “I thought I’d met my person, then…” And suddenly we’re all nodding along, trying to decode this enigmatic creature who, on the surface, looks great - but behaves… well, oddly.

I, too, found myself brushing up against this emerging breed recently. On paper, he was perfect - or at least perfectly branded. A walking, breathing manifestation of every bullet point on my carefully curated (and admittedly over-ambitious) dating checklist. Check. Allegedly emotionally aware? Check. A self-proclaimed advocate for women’s rights with a penchant for Gabor Maté quotes? Triple check.

Our first date, we chatted into the early hours. He had depth. Which as we all know is rarer than getting your hands on a 24k gold Lababu these days. I thought, Finally. Have I, dare I say it, attracted a good egg!?

Alas, the chicken came home to roost: someone conveniently forgot to mention he came pre-scrambed. He turned out to be a masterclass in performative emotionality - so busy performing “self-awareness” he forgot to actually be aware.

so, what is a performative male?

Instagram portrays them as coffee-sipping, tote-donning, The Feminine Mystique-wielding gentlemen. Charming, cultivated, seemingly enlightened. A man who appeared to be well versed in curated vulnerability, talks a good game about women’s empowerment, and knows the exact way to pronounce every pop-psych buzzword - all while somehow keeping his hair perfectly tousled.

But the truth is far more insidious. He signals virtue, sensitivity, or progressiveness without actually embodying an ounce of it. He posts pseudo-deep profundities to show how evolved he is, but when it comes to real action, he vanishes faster than the word “patriarchy” being whispered in a room full of men.

A performative male doesn’t just fail to meet expectations; he performs meeting them. He’ll hold court on consent, emotional labour, and intersectionality - “doing the work,” as he likes to say - with the gravitas of a TED speaker deep into his own redemption arc. Meanwhile, he’s ghosting, gaslighting, and emotionally benching any woman who fails to applaud loudly enough. He masquerades as a feminist, professes his love for “strong, independent women,” and speaks fluent therapy-speak - all while running a one-man TikTok soap opera starring himself, complete with plot twists no one auditioned for.

He isn’t just solipsistic; he is emotionally depleting. He is a living, breathing performance piece, a West End show you did not buy tickets for, starring only him.

So how do you actually spot this creature in the wild? After my own, ahem, entanglement, I’ve learned that there are some unmistakable signs. He’s all fanfare and flourishes, a walking highlight reel - but ladies, the spotlight rarely shines on anyone but him.

he talks about other women… strategically

Here’s the rule of the performative male: you are never the only woman in the room - even if you literally are the only woman in the room. On the first date, he regaled me with tales of past dating disasters, each story delivered with just enough precision to make me question my own emotional ROI. Experience has taught me to keep my counsel, but still… the itch of competition was real.

This isn’t casual admiration; it’s strategic. Each mention of another woman - exes, female friends, even influencers he deemed “cute” - is carefully placed to fuel insecurity while he pats himself on the back for being “transparent”. You’re meant to marvel at his emotional maturity when, in reality, you’re being gently gaslit into an audition you never agreed to.

There’s always a subtle subtext of she’s crazy or she’s too much, a quietly implied warning that you might be too. He positions himself as a hot commodity, but beneath the veneer of virtue lies a man quietly tallying validation like its emotional currency. Every ex, every anecdote, every word you say - tallied, weighed, ranked. Suddenly, you’re playing real-life Trivial Pursuit: the trivia is you, the pursuit is one-sided, and your self-esteem has become a spectator sport you were never meant to play.

Tip: If he talks about women more than he asks about you, exit stage left; this isn’t a game, and you’re not a point to be scored.

he believes in lopsided loyalty

The performative male positions himself as a man of connection, the emotionally available partner who honours loyalty, values relationships, and cherishes the women in his life. Charming, attentive, seemingly attentive to needs - the full package.

The reality? He loves multiple and casual dating - and here’s the important caveat: it must only be on his terms. He creates the illusion of being highly sought-after, the prize in a self-curated, exclusive market. You, meanwhile, your loyalty is a testing ground, you are expected to be singularly devoted, endlessly attentive, and constantly performing just to earn a crumb of his attention.

Imagine a banquet where he flings hors d’oeuvres to the crowd, everyone scrambling eagerly for scraps, content with the small sugary rush of attention, while you’re left hooked, clutching the tiniest morsel, your appetite unsatisfied. He expects applause for the bare minimum, all while keeping the full course tantalisingly out of reach - yet somehow convinced that everyone should be grateful for what little they receive.

Every morsel is performative. He measures out attention with precision, then basks in the scramble itself, the eager pursuit of others proving his desirability - all while the substance is lacking. The point isn’t generosity; it’s being seen as generous. Nobody notices how thin the portions are, because he has choreographed gratitude down to the last bite. Classic performative male behaviour: the appearance of abundance and the spectacle of desire matter far more than actual emotional investment.

It’s a psychological game of Who Wants to Be My Girlfriend?, where the questions are rigged and the answers are always wrong. You step into the ring with phantom exes, bewildered dating app matches, jockeying for validation that was never really yours to earn - only to realise he’ll always go for the ‘easiest’ option. Every. Single. Time.

And the moment you stop chasing? Cue the tantrum. The emotional equivalent of a toddler throwing his toys out the pram - stamping, sulking, and wailing about how you’ve “changed.” Suddenly you’re the cold one, the guarded one, the one who “doesn’t communicate.” But really, it was never about connection - it was about control. The game only works when you’re still playing.

Tip: If he keeps you on tenterhooks while distributing breadcrumbs elsewhere, close the chapter gracefully. Your energy is far too precious to be begging for scraps.

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social media is his stage

The performative male is a creature of spectacle, endlessly broadcasting how emotionally evolved he is - every post, story, and TikTok a carefully choreographed performance. He tells the world he’s introspective, empathetic, and socially conscious, while behind the scenes he’s blocking and unblocking women and turning private grievances into public therapy sessions -journal entries masquerading as “insight,” shaming his conquests under the guise of “lessons learned” or “growth,” all while conveniently creating the very scenarios he criticises.

Exes become cautionary tales, friends are subtly mocked, and you’re expected to watch it all without reacting. The audience matters more than the relationships. And you - yes, you - are often just an uncredited extra in his personal drama, left performing calmness, mystery, and indifference, desperately trying not to get emotionally waterboarded every time you check your phone.

Before long, you find yourself performing too - posting vague stories, feigning nonchalance, pretending you haven’t noticed the manipulation. It’s a dangerous game of “TikTok toe,” where every post and reaction is calculated, and your emotional wellbeing is the cost of admission. Try to call it out, and the evidence is swiftly denied and deleted. Performative male rule number one: gaslight and ghost with flair.

Tip: Watch what he does when no one’s watching. If his behaviour exists solely for an audience, leave the stale popcorn in the theatre. Ctrl, Alt, Block.

female friends or props?

The performative male loves to appear surrounded by women. He calls it emotional intelligence; in practice, it’s emotional inventory. Mentions of “her” and “she” far outnumber any “he’s” in conversation, each name-drop serving as another glint on his halo. He talks about being “friends with all his exes” as proof of maturity - an evolved man who parts ways gracefully and who holds no grudges.

But scratch the surface and you see the curation. These “friendships” aren’t evidence of depth, they’re placeholders. A carousel of women, each kept just close enough to keep the illusion of commitment alive. Any flicker of intimacy with you is swiftly followed by we’re just friends - a line rehearsed to perfection. It’s not the connection he’s maintaining; it’s control. And while you try to decode where you stand, he’s already cycling though his carefully curated roster of women he calls “pick me mentality girls”.

Heaven forbid it would be easier if he just wasn’t that into you, but no - this is ickier: One Day territory. Unrequited whatever-this-is with a performative male is like standing in the rain at a bus stop he promised was “on its way,” only to discover he’s live-streaming from another stop about how difficult dating is these days.

He uses friendship as a shield, commitment as theatre, and emotional proximity as proof of his desirability. The point isn’t genuine respect for women; it’s to be seen as a man who “gets” them - but under the surface the performative male can only relate to women who will not and must not challenge him.

Tip: If his social circle feels like a curated exhibit of the opposite sex, run. You don’t need a man whose life is a museum of exes, curated by its own subject.

emotional intelligence as a costume

The performative male loves to signal depth. He’ll post Jung quotes on his story, meditate once, and call it shadow work. But the moment you hold up a mirror, he bolts toward the lighter reflection every time. Emotional depth? Only if it fits the aesthetic.

He breezes in and out like a faulty Dyson air purifier you’ve lost the remote to - hot, cold, humming self importance and entirely on his own schedule. You start monitoring every word, every emoji, terrified you’ll trigger his next grand disappearing act.

He preaches forgiveness but practices none. Remember he has a scoreboard - and he isn’t afraid to use it. He is the “Ultimate Power Struggle Champion” and you are going to lose. You’ll need a PhD in narcissism - or at least a Duolingo crash course in fuckboyery - just to decode the rules. The goalposts aren’t moving; they’ve been set on fire. You’re stuck in the eternal loop of “am I the problem?” “If I hadn’t done that this wouldn’t have happened” (Spoiler: you’re not the problem, but he’s heavily invested in making sure you think you are.)

Aloofness? That’s his love language. Stubbornness? His god-given right. And you? You’re the emotional guinea pig in his ongoing experiment in “how much can I get away with?”. It’s a cautionary fable for the modern woman: if you’re wrong, you’re shamed; if he’s wrong, you’re blamed; if he hurts you, the narrative is rewritten mid-conversation. Welcome aboard the emotional helter-skelter - no seatbelt, no health and safety briefing, and no chance of ever being “enough”.

He doesn’t just read you; he studies you. Your softness becomes his map, your insecurities his compass. He’ll find your kryptonite - the wound you were brave enough to share - and tuck it in his back pocket for when he needs to pull rank. Vulnerability isn’t something he cherishes; it’s something he collects, then uses as collateral. Connection isn’t the goal; leverage is.

He weaponises therapy-speak like it’s emotional CrossFit. “Boundaries,” “healing” - all just fancy new ways to call you crazy. Your feelings? Optional. Every boundary you set is an obstacle; every complaint, a Freudian slip of his insecurity, blamed on you as “projection.” Gaslighting becomes foreplay. Accountability? You’ll be waiting longer for your next Hogwarts acceptance letter.

Tip: If he turns every boundary, feeling, or complaint into your “projection,” it’s not growth — it’s the blame game.

deeply self-focused

The performative male loves to appear sensitive, but only when it serves the narrative. Sensitivity, for him, is purely performative - all aesthetics, no application. He’ll haunt the flower market like a tourist in a romantic comedy, buying blooms - not for you, obviously - but for himself, for the selfie, for the story. If by some miracle you do get flowers, congratulations: you’ve essentially paid for his aesthetic.

Any coffee, lunch, or one-hour “catch-up” is a masterclass in conversational narcissism. Fifty-five minutes of him waxing poetic about his feelings, comparing himself to other ‘manchildren,’ or showcasing his “achievements,” followed by a polite, “So… what’s been going on with you?” - as if your life is an optional footnote in his autobiography. He talks endlessly about building “emotional depth,” but it’s really like assembling an Ikea shelf without instructions - lots of pieces, lots of effort, zero structural integrity, and at the end you’re left holding a plank wondering where you fit in.

Your wins? Keep those under wraps. Make yourself small. He thrives on keeping you in a box where he gets to feel like the “Big Berger Man” - your successes are inconvenient; your emotions are optional; your personality is background noise. It turns out, after all the talking about “emotional intelligence” and “growth,” he actually doesn’t know anything about you at all. The spotlight is always on him, and you? You’re just scenery.

Real sensitivity doesn’t perform; it shows up - even when it’s boring, inconvenient, or doesn’t make a good Instagram post. The performative male isn’t interested in your life; he’s interested in the reflection of himself in it.

Tip: When every conversation is about him, and your life exists only to prop up his image, it’s not romance - it’s a one-sided podcast. Hit unsubscribe.

he cares about women’s rights (but only for the spotlight)

The performative male loves to signal his woke credentials. World issues? Check. Women’s rights? Check. He has a take on everything - and you’re meant to be suitably impressed. At first, it’s thrilling - someone who can discuss ideas, challenge perspectives, and speak passionately about issues that matter. Fascinating, right? Until it became clear: it was never about equality, it was about control.

He tweets, posts, and lectures about women’s rights with the fervor of a man auditioning for moral hero of the year. On dates, he wants to discuss everything from Trans Rights to the Suffragettes but the conversation is less about growth, more about proving he’s the smartest, most enlightened person in the room. Woke isn’t a conviction; it’s a costume, worn to signal virtue while keeping all the power firmly in his hands.

Behind the performative passion lies the truth: he seeks to dominate and subtly undermine women. The sight of a strong, independent woman? He flails. He’ll correct your phrasing, challenge your opinions, and debate every point - not to learn, but to maintain control. Feminism becomes a spectator sport, and you’re merely part of the stage props, there to reinforce the story that he “gets it.”

Real advocacy, empathy, and action? Rarely. His “woke” persona collapses whenever accountability is required or when confronted with a woman who won’t bend. Depth and insight exist only as long as it can be displayed, applauded, and admired.

Tip: If his passion for justice comes with conditions, run. You don’t need a moral hero—you need a partner who actually sees you.

watch out, ladies: there’s an imposter among us

Well, I don’t think this was on any of our Bingo cards. Gone are the days of giant, blinking red flags - now we have to watch out for the colour-changing ones. And honestly? We’re not even slipping into feminine rage anymore; it’s just feminine fatigue. That slow, simmering exhaustion from constantly explaining your feelings, decoding someone else’s emotional chaos, and accommodating men who look good on paper but consistently come up short in practice.

This isn’t about feminism anymore; it’s about ego management. These men don’t want to support women - they want to be celebrated for seeming like they do. They tweet, post, quote, and lecture virtue - but ask for accountability, and the whole act crumbles. They are rehearsed, not enlightened; curated, not compassionate.

He may post Olivia Dean lyrics, wax lyrical about self-respect, or extol emotional honesty - but in reality, he is the living embodiment of everything she’s warning us against. Not taking into account what she’s actually urging: be the man we need. You’ll be disappointed every single time because performative males are masters at creating the illusion of depth; substance? That’s a foreign concept.

Hear me when I say: trust your instincts. Don’t wait for your brain to catch up with your gut. Laugh at the absurdity. Walk away. And yes - order yourself a Bloody Mary for the hangover, because while they’re busy performing integrity for their followers, you’ll be too busy actually living it.

Feminine fatigue is real - but it’s also a signal. A signal that we are ready to demand what we truly need, not what looks good. If he can’t show up for that, we walk.

Because what we are looking for - what we actually need - nay, what we deserve (and I’m screaming for everyone in the back here) is simple, yet revolutionary: men who show up consistently, without being prompted, without applause, without smoke and mirrors. Men who respect our boundaries, honour our time, and value our emotions as much as their own. Men who see us as equals, not accessories. Men whose words and actions align, whose feminism is lived, not posted, and whose presence lifts, steadies, and supports - rather than drains and diminishes.

This isn’t a wishlist. It’s a standard. And we no longer settle for anything less.

So yes - sip your cocktail, raise a toast to your intuition, update your Bingo card - the performative male is officially crossed off. Remind yourself: you’re not tired, you’re wise. You know what you need, and you’re no longer auditioning for someone else’s confusing curated highlight reel.