I hate being referred to as an influencer. “I prefer the term content creator,” I say, smiling through gritted teeth, before listing the myriad other jobs I’ve have had in the creative industries, from writer to editor, creative consultant to consumer behaviour analyst, gallerina to photographer.
Though the videos I make and the things that I write – these days, largely about perfume – all come from a place of deep passion, my content is also curated. To exist online is always a performance. Which is why, whenever someone wants to exchange details after meeting organically, I give them my phone number. This is partly practical, as I am far more likely to answer a text than a DM. But it is also because I want them to get to know me – not my social media persona. Or at least, I thought I did.
A few weeks ago, I met a guy at a party. It was giving modern day meet-cute: an hour and a half of non-stop talking, him touching the small of my back as other partygoers brushed past, me apologising for my slightly inebriated yapping, him insisting it was charming.
We had our first date the following day (I told you we had chemistry). As I pulled up to the bar, I was wondering if he’d stalked me yet. There’s plenty of material: my digital footprint stretches back about a decade (and don’t even get me started on Getty Images). As for him, when I’d tried to find his socials using the name he had saved in my phone, coerced by my gay best friend, I got nothing. All became clear over cocktails, via his throwaway comment: “I don’t use social media.”
I’m a Hot Internet It Girl, so why did I feel a wave of relief wash over me? Well, when I talk about performing online, a big part of my performance is presenting a version of me that is risqué, sexy and somewhat insane. I love a chronically online, absurdist meme. Ninety per cent of the outfits I post tend to fall into the “revealing” category. One of my most popular series is called “The Smell of Sex”. Another starts with the hook, “My ex told me I’m evil… Maybe he’s right.” That same ex informed me he’d thought I was a “stupid Instagram girl” after stalking me on my socials before we met.
So is it any wonder I was relieved to learn this new guy was interested in getting to know me without any preconceptions? “Straight men shouldn’t be allowed to have social media,” is an ongoing gag I like to wheel out in the right setting – namely, in front of the gays and the girls – and finally, here was an offline man, there because of our sincere IRL connection, and not because he’d seen my bikini pics.
Still, by our second date, I had started to feel slightly uncomfortable. A little bit vacuous – stupid, even. He described reading and watching documentaries like a real human person, while my evenings are consumed mostly by scrolling, editing and optimising versions of my creative output into something that might feed the ravenous algorithm. He isn’t offline offline – he’s not living off the grid with a brick phone – but nonetheless, something was dawning on me: as someone who posts videos online, writes blog-style columns and attends events with brands, knowing he couldn’t see any of that was actually making me feel a bit… insubstantial. Stripped of on-screen context, I worried I sounded ridiculous or self-obsessed (partially true), or like a bank-rolled nepo baby (I wish). Had this guy even heard of #PerfumeTok? Or, indeed, the influencer economy?
Then there’s the matter of The Viewing. To my mind, the most revolutionary development of the last decade is the function that allows you to see who has viewed your Instagram Story. Wondering whether or not you’re on their mind? Check your views. Craving affirmation? Thirst trap. Want to make sure they think you’re edgy and esoteric? Cryptically post a page from your unread copy of Infinite Jest.
And on the flip side, what context did I have for him? I had no list of our mutuals, no access to a tellingly curated page of his photos, no ability to sleuth my way through his followers or dissect his Stories. I found myself stumbling over mental hurdles to negotiate chat without being able to reach for the shared references of the chronically online. I couldn’t rest on my comfortable conversational laurels.
I was forced to reluctantly admit it to myself: there is a part of me that draws security from my curated online persona. This dream version of me is like an avatar I can control and use as a shield IRL. When people interact with my screen self, they’re not only being encouraged to believe certain narratives or buy certain things, but also to perceive me in certain ways. With him, I can’t work behind the scenes in an effort to shape how he sees me. I am literally just a girl standing in front of a boy.
On our third date, he asks if I’ll show him some of my videos. On the things-that-are-painfully-cringe scale, watching a clip of yourself talking to camera with someone you fancy ranks pretty highly. But pushing through my embarrassment, I experience something unexpected: someone recognising and appreciating the work I put into what I do, noticing the research and thematic strands, praising my editing. It turns out someone’s attention carries more weight when you know they’re not frittering it away on a feed in their every spare moment. And God knows, I love attention.