Love, Lust & Loyalty

Modern Masculinity in Intimacy

"The supreme happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved." – Victor Hugo
"We're all of us looking for someone to listen to our story, even if it's only the short version." – Alan Bennett

Love, these days, has become rather administrative. Apps, profiles, compatibility scores—it's like applying for planning permission, only to discover you've built the wrong house. People talk about chemistry as though it were something you could order online, next day delivery guaranteed. Young men, sensible, decent, clever, are told they must be both emotionally fluent and eternally unbothered, available but not too available. It's a sort of performance art that leaves everyone exhausted.

When I was younger, romance had its own awkward charm. You met someone, probably in the wrong place, said the wrong thing, and somehow it mattered less. There were no algorithms to assist. Now it's all choice, endless choice and choice, ironically, makes us cautious. Men scroll through possibility but hold back from presence. Lust is plentiful; loyalty scarce. Not because men are heartless, but because they're frightened of being ordinary, of being seen.

The modern romantic landscape operates like a marketplace where everyone is simultaneously buyer, seller, and commodity. You're expected to optimize your profile, maximize your options, and maintain multiple conversations while appearing genuinely interested in each. It's exhausting theater that transforms genuine human connection into a game of strategic positioning. The paradox is cruel: the tools meant to facilitate connection often prevent it.

Yet that's precisely where love begins, in the ordinary. In someone remembering your preferred biscuit, or noticing when you've gone quiet. It's unremarkable moments that become the scaffolding of affection. The grand gestures are just decorations; the foundations are built of routine, apology, and persistence. You don't have to be perfect to love well, you just have to stay.

And staying, of course, is the hard part. It requires humility, that most un-Instagrammable of virtues. It means admitting that real intimacy is rarely symmetrical. One day you're the one giving; the next, you're the one rescued. But that's the quiet miracle of it: love rearranges pride. The clever young man who learns to listen, who treats affection as vocation rather than conquest, discovers a strength far rarer than detachment.

The cultivation of intimacy demands skills rarely taught. Active listening, not simply waiting for your turn to speak but genuinely seeking to understand another's interior world. Emotional regulation, managing your own anxiety, insecurity, and reactivity so they don't colonize the relationship. Conflict resolution, approaching disagreement as problem solving rather than warfare. These capabilities require practice, patience, and willingness to fail repeatedly before succeeding.

There's also the matter of loyalty in an age of infinite options. Every relationship faces the gravitational pull of "maybe something better is out there." The grass is always greener on the perfectly filtered Instagram profile. Fidelity becomes an act of creative commitment, choosing daily to invest in depth rather than breadth, in known complexity rather than imagined simplicity. This choice, repeated over time, builds something rare: trust that survives uncertainty.

Perhaps that's what fidelity really is not a chain, but a choice renewed daily. A small, stubborn act of hope. And in that hope, a man becomes, if not happier, then at least more complete. Love won't solve everything, but it gives you someone to talk to while you work the rest out.