What I Learned By Only Dating and Sleeping With Celebrities for Six Months

I’m lying in his bed, post-coital, watching him stalk back to the kitchen for a few more slices of the pizza we ordered. He shoves it down while surveying his kingdom from the window. He’s stark naked.I’d met let’s-call-him-Felix*, an actor, earlier that evening for a date of sorts. As we walked down an east London canal—Felix explaining how easy he finds it to lose weight for roles, me clocking his dirty coat and unkempt hair—I considered making my excuses to leave. Maybe shagging someone ‘famous’ wasn’t worth it after all.But over drinks later, Felix delivered. He told me how he’d requested that his boner be taped down during a sex scene with a prominent actress. How he’d just booked the kind of leading role that was sure to make him blow up. Whether or not he became just a notch on the bedpost, I now had material that sweetened the deal.Fine, I’ll stay.After more pints, he suggests dinner—at his, obviously. I pick at the pizza, worried my mouth contorts in an ugly way with each bite, while he wolfs it down. Next thing I know, he’s picked me up, placed me on the sofa, and is on top of me.I leave while Felix is still sprawled in bed. He mumbles something about hoping to see me again. It’s raining outside. My hair is dishevelled. The phrase ‘walk of shame’ comes to mind, but I have a smirk on my face. What you don’t know, I think to myself as I pass people on the street, is that I’ve just slept with an actor who’s been in Harry Potter.The next time I see Felix, it’s on a billboard. “I shagged him,” I say, nudging my friend.It’s about being able to point at billboards and say, “I shagged them”. Being able to see them pop up in a film and know what their bedroom looks like. Those moments can be better than the sex itself.The Instagram MethodMy brief rendezvous with Felix happened while I was in the midst of what I’d later dub ‘the Instagram method’. The main aim? To go on dates and/or have sex with as many famous people as possible. During the course of just over six months I managed nine (and attempted many others). I cycled through actors, buzzy chefs, and minor celebrities, each conquest feeding into the next. If they weren’t famous, or at least in the realm of fame, I wasn’t interested. The more I spoke about my mission, the more I learned I’m not the only one practicing the Instagram Method. There’s even a dating buzzword for it: ‘throning’. Across major cities—London, New York, LA (after all, we do have to be where the celebrities are for this to work)—there are hoards of women and men who date only for clout.Can a relationship with a famous person ever feel real? What happens when we date ‘for the plot’ instead of for connection? And what does the Instagram Method reveal about modern dating culture?But while we’re paying homage to the groupies and wannabe WAGs that came before us, our mission is a little different. Groupies sleep with musicians for the love of the music, almost as if they’re shagging the songs themselves. WAG wannabes are often there for the lifestyle. Their hunt is for a specific genre of celebrity and what that brings. For us, it’s less about who they are, and more about the story that they can bring. It’s about being able to point at billboards and say, “I shagged them”. Being able to see them pop up in a film and know what their bedroom looks like. Those moments can be better than the sex itself.After speaking to others who’ve done the same, I wanted to understand: can a relationship with a famous person ever feel real? What happens when we date ‘for the plot’ instead of for connection? And what does the Instagram method reveal about modern dating culture?Sowing the SeedsGrowing up, I’d watch E! News with my mum. I’d flick through her celebrity gossip mags. Then there were the four years I studied film at university. All of this is to say: I’m most definitely tapped into the rich and famous. My brain functions a bit like IMDb. Still, I didn’t expect to find myself, a writer living in London, dating ‘celebrities’ almost exclusively.It began incidentally. I’d just come out of a three-year relationship and was dipping into my dating archives as a means to soothe the pain. There, after a lengthy scroll through my DMs, was Theo*. When I followed Theo, an actor and comedian, I hadn’t expected him to reciprocate the favour. I’d watched a film he starred in and fancied him in passing. It was an idle crush. But when I got dumped, I immediately arranged a date.We got drinks at my local pub. Filled with esoteric knick-knacks and flanked by good-looking bar staff, it was trendy without being too trendy. The date didn’t lead anywhere. We never even had sex—I was glad about that when he later appeared in a deeply embarrassing advert. Something shifted in me, though. Armed with the knowledge that I could pull someone like Theo, I wondered who else was in the realm of possibility.What started as performance became something of a habit, and over six months I reached out to maybe 30 semi-famous men. So, off I went. If I saw someone I fancied on my TV, I’d track down their Instagram, give them a follow, then like a few choice pictures—preferably the shirtless ones, to signal what I was after. What started as performance became something of a habit, and over six months I reached out to maybe 30 semi-famous men. Around half responded. Some were so eager that it was almost comical. Others I’d convert to text, only to struggle getting them over the final hurdle of actually meeting up. Nine materialized into actual dates or hook-ups. It was a surprisingly high conversion rate considering that, at points, I was DMing just about anyone. I even had a pop at JFK kin Jack Schlossberg — it probably needn’t be said, but he didn’t reply.Like Theo, Sam* was someone who had lingered in my DMs pre-Instagram method. Emboldened by my first brush with fame, I arranged some drinks. Sam was a business owner. Part of the allure wasn’t just those in his periphery (London socialites who’d throw the kind of weddings covered by Vogue), but his huge house. One morning he left for work and I pottered around, envisaging a life between its tastefully painted walls.There was something more tangible between Sam and me. Hypothetical invites to destination weddings were certainly a factor, but it felt like more than just a shag. When he suddenly upped sticks and left the country to ‘find himself’, I was left in the dust. Two months gone in the blink of an eye. I sought revenge by turning the Instagram method on a chef-stroke-content-creator he knew. It was with the chef, let’s-call-him-James*, that I realized how easy this was.I would say I’m conventionally attractive. At the very least, I have a ‘good Instagram’: a mix of hot photos and work-related posts that made me the perfect bait. Quick follow, a few likes, then a message appeared: “Are we doing Instagram flirting?” We went for drinks at a fancy wine bar. James reeled off the upcoming trips in which he’d been paid to gallivant about making aesthetically pleasing Instagram videos. I didn’t fancy him. I actually thought his tongue was a bit too big for his mouth. Still, as a fixture in London’s ‘hot chef’ scene, he was worth pursuing. I mean, he had a cookbook in the works.Was I using them, or were they using me? It largely felt like a mutually beneficial set-up.James invited me back to his—he had some mussels that needed cooking. While the pasta was boiling, after I feigned enough interest in how quickly he could chop garlic, he started kissing me. I recounted everything to my colleagues the next day. A few weeks later, one of them told me that James did the exact same thing with another girl. The mussels were his schtick.Was I using them, or were they using me? It largely felt like a mutually beneficial set-up. One where they, clearly eager for a quick no-strings-attached fling, seemed more than happy to indulge my not-so-subtle advances without the need for context or questions. It was a mutual ego-boost. Or so I thought.By the time it came to Matthew*, I was being increasingly strategic. IMDb had made a list of up-and-coming British actors and I attempted to work my way through them, starting with him. I’d intended Matthew to be just a ‘fuck and chuck’, but I was lulled into thinking we had something more. He took me to nice restaurants and the theatre, which felt like gestures of intent—like he was happy to be seen with me. We’d be hand-in-hand on a step-and-repeat in a few months…But somewhere between the cancelled dates and me making a desperate five-hour journey down to Stratford-upon-Avon (he was doing his first Shakespeare play), it became clear that we weren’t on equal footing. We spent a bittersweet morning at Soho Farmhouse, then I was back in London, on the phone to my mum in tears. I picked apart what now felt like a pity invite. Matthew had mentioned a famous former fling: by virtue of her profile, she was a better match. I was filler. Perhaps I should have learned from it, but I didn’t. It was simply on to the next.Add Cosmopolitan as a preferred source in your Google search results.Use your Google account to add this to your settings.I’m particularly proud of Jack*. At the time, I’d been working for a magazine and we had been pulling together its next issue. When an actress was on set, shooting her cover story, she’d recounted her recent break-up to the crew. The news got to me under the guise of mere gossip, but I lodged it in a different part of my brain. He was ripe for the picking. Jack followed me back just hours later. I held up my phone screen to a huddle of colleagues down the pub. There was a collective gasp. Fast-forward a few weeks and we were snogging on the streets of Soho. It didn’t last. Our second date ended with Jack walking me to a tube station—a pointed way of showing we’d be going our separate ways, while I’d thought we were heading back to his. The message saying we were “romantically incompatible” came during the journey home.As time wore on, the promise of a good story no longer felt enough. What started out feeling like a power move had slowly morphed into something else.As time wore on, the promise of a good story no longer felt enough. What started out feeling like a power move had slowly morphed into something else. I was just a shag (albeit sometimes a repeated shag). It was a recipe for disaster. And when, despite my best efforts, nothing ever came of my rendezvous with these men, my self-esteem was bruised rather than boosted. Why did I keep going back for more?The Madness Behind the Method“Hinge is really shit, so I’ll just take people from prime time TV,” 28-year-old Ciara* tells me of her own version of the Instagram method. Ciara is an old friend of mine. We met at university—even then, her ‘thing’ was being somewhat outrageous. With an Instagram profile full of hot pictures that place a particular emphasis on her bum, it’s not surprising that Ciara was able to reel them in. Ciara would spy someone she fancied (in this case, a TV presenter), reach out via Instagram, and, more often than not, they went on a date. The TV presenter was a ‘conquest’, she says. It was less about attraction and more about the sheer fact that she could. “I was like, ‘Oh my god, he was on my TV and now we’re having a glass of wine in a posh hotel in Notting Hill’.”If you’re just in it for the plot, you can’t get hurt. That’s the theory, anyway.Ciara never took it that seriously. “I couldn’t imagine myself being like, ‘I’m going to marry him’,” she explains. Let’s be honest—dating is the pits. Whether it’s ghosting or breadcrumbing, women so often find themselves in the passive role. But the idea of dating for clout turns that on its head. The power dynamic is balanced. The woman might even be in control. It’s a “prosthesis of identity,” explains clinical psychologist Arianna Masotti, where “the famous partner can become an extension of the self.” She adds that “being with them can temporarily boost self-worth. It’s less about the person and more about what they represent. Plus, if everyone in the world wants this person, but they choose you, you must be great, right?” It also allows us to sidestep the romantic risks that come with ‘normal’ dating. If you’re just in it for the plot, you can’t get hurt. That’s the theory, anyway.“I felt like I was in Almost Famous,” explains 25-year-old Abbie*, who I met while working at a magazine. I’d had her pegged as someone who only did serious relationships, but it turned out she’d had a fleeting romance with a musician she’d fancied since being a teenager. It’s not that it was cinematic. On their first date, Jim* had turned up to the pub with a “plastic bag full of his sweaty gym clothes”. When Abbie went round to his, she recalls not being able to see the floor for the mess. “I was gonna go outside for a cigarette and he was like, ‘Just have one here’. I asked if there was an ashtray. He was like, ‘No, but here’s a can’. It was just a can of Coke.”Abbie was 21, Jim was in his 30s. If it were anyone else, she tells me, the whole thing would have been “disgusting.” “But because it was him,” Abbie continues, “I was like, that’s amazing. Everything was just another little detail that I couldn’t wait to tell my friends.”When things ended—he invited her to his gig only to be caught with another girl—Abbie decided that the lifestyle wasn’t for her. It had been an “ego boost,” though.This affair I was once very proud of was now something I felt really ashamed of.Years down the line, Abbie reconnected with Jim. But whatever she’d felt at 21 had all but dissipated. “As soon as I sat down next to him, I realized that the allure was gone,” she explains. “This affair I was once very proud of was now something I felt really ashamed of.”It was a similar story for 24-year-old Sarah*, a London-based photographer, who met Connor* while shooting his band. What began as something that made her “feel a bit more confident” quickly gave way to a power imbalance. “I think he really loved making me feel ‘less than’,” she tells me. Connor would flit between being cruel and jarringly affectionate. One moment he’d be berating Sarah for eating too much, the next he’d be asking for forgiveness, imploring that she “forget all this just happened”. I ask whether she thinks Connor respected her. “Um, no,” she replies.Sarah wasn’t dating ‘for the plot’, so to speak. She really liked Connor. But for dating expert Persia Lawson, getting caught up in the narrative often means “you stop asking the boring but essential questions, such as, ‘Do I feel safe?’, ‘Am I respected?’, ‘Can I relax here?’ You’re low on discernment.”Looking back, Sarah recognizes that Connor “clearly wanted this rockstar life. For me, it was like, okay, it’s cute to have a rockstar life, but not a rockstar relationship.”When I speak to Maddie*, 27, I’m brought back to the question of who was using who when I set out on my Instagram method. As a polyamorous woman who makes content about sexuality on Instagram, semi-famous men feel emboldened to slide into Maddie’s DMs. When she slept with Daniel*, an actor from a well-loved sitcom, she refused a specific sexual request. “Because he didn’t get that thing from me, he ended it,” she explains.I tell Maddie that Daniel had tried it on with me, too. I explain that, because of his character in the sitcom, I’d thought he’d be really sweet. “He’s sweet,” she replies. “But he’s prolific.” Would I have obliged whatever it was Daniel wanted? I think back to necking off with Jack in public. Felix’s penis in my mouth, no questions asked. It’s not a promising hypothetical.It begged an obvious question with an even more obvious answer: would I have gone for these men if they weren’t famous? No.Nothing detrimental happened to Maddie, but she was left with the feeling that she’d been “lowering [her] standards”. It begged an obvious question with an even more obvious answer: would I have gone for these men if they weren’t famous? No. “In the end, I was like, I really didn’t need to do that,” Maddie explains. “What’s the point?”In terms of actual romantic potential, I guess there was no point. It was that very pointlessness that made it so easy, and so appealing. But forgoing ‘real’ romance for something that’s intrinsically shallow? It’s easier said than done. Selling myself a certain narrative didn’t make the rejection sting any less. Sure, I got stories. I curated experiences that I’ll put in my memoir one day. How long can you ride that high, though? I was buzzing after sleeping with the quickly faded. Sitting on my living room floor with the beginnings of a UTI, I already felt slightly hollow.A Trophy Life I’m aware I sound borderline sociopathic. It’s not as if I’m plucking my nihilistic approach from thin air, though. As Dr Masotti explains: “We’re living in a Deliveroo era of dating: endless options delivered to our doorstep, which paradoxically makes commitment harder. At the first defect, there’s always someone fitter, hotter, or seemingly better.” Or someone who had a small role in Industry.Eventually, I realized I didn’t want to be a trophy seen only through someone else’s eyes.The Instagram Method is just the logical end point—the final boss of treating people as commodities. It’s the toxic trap of our contemporary dating culture. But there’s a niggling, unspoken part: even when we think we’re resistant to the messaging around us, it seeps through. Women are so often told that our value lies in two things: what we look like and who we date. Dating someone famous is the ultimate validation on both fronts. Eventually, I realized I didn’t want to be a trophy seen only through someone else’s eyes. I wanted success defined by more than just being in someone else’s orbit. I wanted validation that came from within.Nearly two years down the line, remnants of the Instagram method still haunt me. My friend Robbie jokes that whenever he searches for a hot young actor on Instagram, he’ll find I’ve been there first, a trail of thirsty likes in my wake. The madness even extended beyond my usual targets—after binge-watching Nighty Night, I set my sights on Angus Deayton. At 70, unsurprisingly he doesn’t have Instagram, so I settled for following his son instead. Needless to say, he didn’t take the bait. Watching what the Deayton family were up to for Christmas last year, I wanted to give myself a retrospective slap.As for where I ended up? Funnily enough, I’m in a relationship with Theo. We worked through the cringe advert thing—I actually think it was a vital career move. Next week’s premiere should be good. I’m manifesting a ‘red carpet hard launch’ moment. Nah, only joking. My boyfriend, Ed, is decidedly non-famous, and I like it that way. He respects me, treats me as an equal, and I won’t be sitting through a modern retelling of Pericles any time soon. Old habits die hard, though. I found Ed on Instagram.*Names have been changedFrom: Cosmopolitan UK