Nothing kills the horn quicker for wealthy people than social classes mixing. Povos dating rich people? How utterly abhorrent. That’s why some unpleasant creature has created new dating app, LUXY. It’s billed as 'Tinder minus the poor people' and the founders claim it's members include CEOs, pro athletes, doctors, lawyers, investors, models and even celebrities.
Apparently it’s working on an income-verification system but in the meantime, is relying on the community to police itself. Which means poor white girls like me can download it and catfish to our heart’s content.
So, just like Kevin from The Office, I thought it was time for me to be wined, dined and sixty-nined. By going on the app I could kill three birds with one stone: write an article, find an eligible bachelor amongst the circling drain scum of London and knab someone to pay my rising SE4 rent. All of which whilst asking that terribly important question, of course - are the men of LUXY really any better than the men of Tinder?
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On the surface, a quick surf around the app on downloading shows that it’s just Tinder’s posh older uncle. I used my Facebook account to sync with the app and provide my profile information and pictures. My name had become Hannah R. so already I felt aristocratic. I picked my hobbies from a short list provided. I didn’t know what ‘animalfancy’ meant but bestiality isn’t one of my kinks so I decided Hannah R. liked life’s simple pleasures instead - think racquetball, horseback riding, hunting, museums and gourmet dining. (Well, come on - who doesn't when someone else is paying?)
Not wanting to push my luck, I set my income at a modest $1million. Writer wouldn’t do as an occupation so I kept things vague with 'business woman.' Next, in true wanky style, I was asked to submit my favourite luxury style brands as some kind of measure of taste. I put Chanel, Rolex, Cartier, Louis Vuitton and Porsche. Largely because these were the ones I actually recognised.
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With my profile complete, I was away. Just like Tinder, you swipe right and left. Except this was more nauseating than Tinder because profiles had Cartier and Ferrari logos emblazoned across them and their net worth proudly stated above their interests and hobbies. Many had photos of their beautiful apartments, Cristal and iPhone 6s along with their profile pictures, just in case you weren’t aware that they were grotesquely affluent.
It’s also not like Tinder where guys will have chat up lines or yolo-esque mission statements in their bios. Almost everyone leaves this option blank. The only bios I saw was one who wrote: 'I’m described on Wikipedia as “not such [a] shameless self-promoter”', another with: 'Love to work hard and spend harder.' These men are too busy and important to think of an original bio line, and besides, aside from income and profession, what else would a woman on LUXY need to know?
In terms of conversation, their most common opener was simply a variant of 'Hi Hannah', often with typos or my name misspelt. For posh blokes, their spelling wasn’t great.
When I started chatting, I found it easy. I just used one of their interests as an in, for example, 'Do you hunt your girls like you hunt your foxes?' to which - insert posh name here - replied: 'I don’t know. Are you going to run from me? Or will you come easy?' I tapped out a reply: 'I can be sitting prey if I’m taken somewhere nice.' And he said: 'I’ll catch you at dinner.' Date secured.
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With luxury hobbies/brands to fall back on, chat flowed easily. Many men just wanted to talk about those. One asked if I was wearing any Chanel in my profile picture. I said no. He replied: 'If you were my girlfriend you would be dripping in Chanel.' He didn’t say I’d be dripping in anything else. I rarely had a 'Let’s fuck'/'Wanna hook-up'/dick pic style Tinder moment opener. It was refreshing. If a bit disconcerting.![Image and video hosting by TinyPic]
The app’s tagline is: 'The easiest way to meet successful, attractive people.' Successful in the sense of their net worth - maybe. But attractive? I wasn’t so sure. With Tinder, the stereotype is a vested bro with a Tiger. With LUXY, the typical man is a Tweedledee lookalike with a waistcoat and fancy sunglasses. They’re mostly overgrown public schoolboys.
What also slowed my sugar daddy hunt down were the rounds. Every eight or so people, you’d be stopped and forced to wait for a timer to count down a minute. After a few rounds you had to wait until the next day. It didn’t tell you anywhere why this was the case. My guess is because it’s early days and there are only so many rich people currently on there. But tbh, waiting gave it a sense of luxury and exclusivity that’s lost on Tinder where you rabbit hole down hour-long swipe sessions.
The calibre of date on the cards was also refreshing. Generally, men were willing to organise something for us, rather than just suggest a boring old drink at the pub. I had a few offers of dinner at The Savoy, cocktails on roof terraces and sex in five star hotels. New York based LUXY user found out I lived in London and said: 'I’ll have to fly you over then.' I told him I thought he should and he said: 'I’ll do it too.' And he meant it. Lovely. The only downside was that these were incredibly busy guys. Some were scheduling me in for weeks in advance. I wanted instant gratification.
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In the end though, my fun was over. My trip to New York nothing more than a text. After a week, a few men had called me out. Although your identity is kept private with only the first letter of your last name showing, some of these men were creeps. They’d go on Facebook and search through the Hannah R.’s in London and find me and add me or see me in my profile picture wearing Primark threads and confront me for not being a millionaire. Either that or they’d ask for my Instagram to check I was who I said I was. When I declined, they’d guess something was up. With the Internet, it’s difficult to kept anyone’s identity truly private. And although the app has no system to vet its users yet, leaving it open for anyone to have a go, it says it will soon. Perhaps I would have got officially chucked off eventually.
So, were these men any better than the men of Tinder? Some were genuinely sweet. Others clearly didn’t know what to do with their wealth or had found it’d become a burden. Something that created a very real, albeit artificial, barrier between them and the majority of women. They desperately wanted to meet someone as wealthy as them so they wouldn’t be taken for a ride by gold diggers and scroungers. That was understandable.
Mostly though, the men of LUXY were pretty similar to the calibre you find on Tinder. Ie; twats. The only difference was they were wearing tweed not full moon party T-shirts and were probably going to suffocate me with Clive Christian rather than Lynx Africa. Catfish on LUXY at your peril, people. Oh, and if you meet any of these guys IRL, avoid at all costs.
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Follow Hannah on Twitter @hannahrosewens
This article originally appeared on The Debrief.