I came to terms with this trauma at around 23, after watching a documentary about sexual assault survivors. I identified with their pain and with the way they retreated into themselves. They vocalised feelings of guilt, and these feelings seemed so misplaced that I came to realise that I, too, had nothing to be ashamed of. Eventually, I stopped equating sex with shame. Then I stopped equating it with fear, as well.

And I felt a sudden, keen thirst to drink from the chalice I’d been pushing away. There was an aching longing to make up for lost time, to throw myself into the beds of various adoring, fascinating men. As 2018 ended and 2019 began, I decided that this would be my year of free rein, casual sex. No longer afraid of intimacy, it transformed into a tantalising prospect.

I fantasised about tight embraces, winding conversations and sex that would make me gasp and clutch at crumpled sheets. Although I only wanted brief, casual encounters with many people (as I said, I was making up for lost time), I imagined passionate affairs that would firmly plant me in the world. At last, I would be in the room, bathed in its warm light - no more peering in from the outside. I would be touched; I would be admired; I would join the party.

And then… reality bit. Staring at my newly smooth legs on a Saturday night, suddenly without plans, I’d never expected casual dating and sex to feel so lonely.

There were many other men who made me feel hollow that year. Owen, who went from declaring that he couldn’t believe I was with him to freaking out and calling things off. He’d alienate me further by asking for more dates after this apparent termination, yo-yoing from cold to keen again.

And later that year, Harry. Our dates would stretch out over days. We’d share showers and a coffee pot, film recommendations and a bottle of wine. Then, my deepest secret, the one I was loath to tell anyone outside my inner circle: that I had been sexually assaulted as a child. He held me close after I told him, folding me into his arms as if he could protect me, years after the assault had taken place. I thought I might be done with casual sex when I met him. I thought he might become my boyfriend.

And then he, too, ghosted me, eventually getting back in touch to ask for a booty call. Setting my phone face-down on the bedside table and burying my face in a pillow to cry, I didn’t reply to his message.

I wanted my year of casual sex and dating to feel decadent, enriching. I wanted to feel like a hedonist. But here I was instead, weeping into a pillow, alone in my darkening bedroom. I was left feeling cold and empty by the year’s end, more detached from men than ever.

I know my experiences are far from unique: we’re being hit by a tidal wave of dating fatigue right now. Friends frequently complain about how demoralising it is, that they need to take breaks from the apps. A recent study by Novuna Personal Finance, which polled over 2,000 people across the UK, found that 57% of 18–24 year-olds are ditching dating apps to meet someone offline.

This doesn’t surprise me: apps are definitely a part of the problem when it comes to modern dating. The process, when you think about it, is dehumanising. You reduce someone to a few photographs, an age, a job and perhaps a few carefully answered prompts. Then you swipe through these people, glancing at their frozen smiles for a few moments before deciding to accept or reject them.

“I thought my year of casual sex would bring me closer to men. Instead, I felt more detached than ever”