The modern-day "ideal partner" through the female gaze

Green flag men taught us survival. Now, we’re asking for something that feels like home: desire, devotion, and self-awareness.

Part I: We’ve found green flag men. Congratulations to us.

You know him. The “Green Flag Guy.” Shows up on time. Texts back within minutes. Remembers your oat milk. Says things like, “Let me know when you get home,” and “I filled up the car so you can use it tomorrow.”

But still… something’s off. Like a rom-com missing the chemistry. He’s responsible. He’s not a walking red flag. And yet—he’s not quite it. Not yet.

We throw around phrases like “green flag,” “emotionally available,” “committed,” “supportive” like they’re synonyms—but they’re not. And even though pop culture keeps serving up examples of both incredible and deeply mediocre partners, we’re still left wondering: what actually makes someone an ideal partner?

So we keep asking ourselves the same questions over and over again, not just because we’re unsure, but because we’re also unsatisfied. We don’t know why we feel so unfulfilled. We know for sure we’re not looking for the perfect man either; we know it’s impossible. Are we just being too picky, too greedy? Or are our needs genuinely unmet? Is my partner not doing enough, or are we just fundamentally incompatible?

Which brings us to the bigger stuff: Why do “good” people still make terrible partners? Why do women feel like they’re communicating well and still not being understood? Why do men feel like they’re doing everything, and still not enough? Why does modern dating leave so many of us resentful—of each other, ourselves, even romance itself? Why does modern dating feel like we’re all stuck in a loop of therapy buzzwords, mismatched timelines, and halfway-there green flag relationships?

The male gaze shaped the blueprint of men for women

It’s easy to instinctively picture the alpha men when society paints the image of the ideal man. The heroic archetype. The charm of Henry Golding, the build of Michael B. Jordan, and the soft, knowing smile of Henry Cavill. Maybe even a dash of Robert Downey Jr.’s quick wit. Chiseled like a Greek god, with a jawline sharp enough to cut through silence—or another man. Maybe he’s a quarterback, running as fast as he runs from his problems. He’s inked just enough to seem rebellious, but not so much that he looks like a basement punk. He’s too cool to care, because he’s stoic. Polished. Always composed. He gets the girl because he’s a go-getter. The kind of man who doesn’t take no for an answer. A relentless chaser—effortless, but never idle.

But when we finally get “the guy,” why don’t we feel at peace about it? Why do we sleep at night still yearning for I-don’t-know-what and still meet with haunting emptiness every time Laufey is on?

And the butterflies crept in, not when we’re with him; but rather when we were just talking to the sentimental boy next door. The one who stays home to write about stars instead of chasing them. The one who notices small things. Who sees the world slowly.

Like we adore Chris Hemsworth from afar but we feel our lips curl into a smile when Shawn Mendes talks about love like he’s still trying to understand it. Or when Glen Powell gazes at a woman like he’s really looking. When James Franco, as Harry Osbourne, smiles that aching smile—half mischief, half sadness. When Andrew Garfield reads a love poem and his voice cracks, and suddenly we feel everything he’s trying not to say. It’s in those moments—fleeting, fragile, cinematic—that something inside us falls in love. Unexpectedly. Entirely. Without permission.

And then there’s the guy friend. The one we feel safest with. He’s kind, unassuming. The one who makes us laugh, teases us, in Tom Holland-esque banters—effortlessly close, like breathing. The one who texts, “Please let me know when you’re home. I mean it. I won’t fall asleep until I hear from you.” Why does that feel like the most desirable thing of all? Why does basic decency suddenly feel like a grand gesture? Why does care feel like intimacy? And is wanting that intimacy too much? Or have we simply forgotten what it feels like to be gently loved?

We sat in that unease long enough—past the part of us that want to blame ourselves for being “too picky,” to a point we start to see the real fracture:

The ideal man, as we have been taught to recognise him, was never actually built for us. He was built for men. Built by the male gaze, for the male gaze. Constructed out of a fantasy not of love, not of intimacy, not of relational electricity—but of power, status, utility, and self-congratulation.

A man was ideal if he could be envied by other men, not if he could be felt by a woman.

But increasingly, that old blueprint is cracking. Women are finally reclaiming the right to not only refuse what we don’t want, but to define what we do. We’re no longer satisfied with the mere absence of harm, nor confusing absence of badness for presence of goodness.

We’re learning, sometimes clumsily, sometimes in bursts of rage or grief, how to articulate the textures of our own desires after centuries of being told we shouldn’t have any at all.

And it’s messy. Because desire that’s been silenced for generations doesn’t return in perfect, confident declarations. It returns in stammers, overcorrections, and in the heartbreak of mistaking the bare minimum for the dream. In the confusion of wanting more but not yet having the language to demand it.

What the female gaze demands of an ideal partner: The Three Efforts

But if we want to understand why “good” relationships can still feel so quietly devastating, why women can love their partners and still feel profoundly unseen, we have to go deeper than the green flag discourse.

We need to start by asking whether a man is first and foremost a “good human being with basic human decency,” then we can start asking whether they are ready to be partners: emotionally, sexually, spiritually, practically. And that means recognising that the ideal partner isn’t someone who just avoids harming others.

The ideal partner, through the female gaze, is someone who chooses desire, labour, and self-responsibility daily, deliberately, and with depth.

Through this lens, he’s defined by three interwoven characteristics: effort for the partner, the relationship, and the self. Without all three, love collapses into either a performance of duty or a hollow theater of affection. And we’re tired of performances. We’re tired of carrying the invisible weight of emotional labour and relational maintenance while being told we should be grateful that he texts us good morning.

Note: This is not in any way to diminish the role of the women in making the ecosystem ripe for the men to grow in these three elements. So, while we ‘re illustrating the framework below in the context of men, the framework also applies to people of all genders as romantic partners.

Part II: Bear with us; we’re totally overanalysing this, but it’s worth it.

Love is a verb. And intimacy emerges when love is a daily active choice.

Love, when left unexpressed, doesn’t quietly wait. It shrivels, fades, and slips into the background until it becomes an ache you can’t name. It’s the daily, deliberate practice of desire. It’s not grand gestures or cinematic moments, but the small, specific, often unnoticed ways of saying: I see you. I want you. I still choose you, even here, even now.

It’s the flirtatious smile thrown across the dinner table after a long day. It’s the hand on the back as you pass each other in the kitchen. It’s the meme sent because only the two of you would understand why it’s hilarious. It’s catching their eye across a crowded room and feeling the world collapse into a private universe only you two inhabit.

Without this, even the most stable relationships feel starved. Because love, if not actively expressed, becomes a ghost story inside a living body.

But wanting, no matter how electric, no matter how intoxicating, isn’t enough to hold a life together. Some men know how to spark that feeling. They know how to look at you like you are the only thing worth breathing for. They know how to make your skin hum, your heart stutter, your body remember itself. But they also know how to disappear. When effort for the partner is the only thing they know how to offer, you find yourself burning bright… and then burning out.

Him, we call the Romantic Performers. The ones who ignite you but can’t hold you. The Ted-Mosby’s. The Edward-Cullens. They stare at you like you’re salvation, yet never quite step fully into the messy, living, human parts of love. They know they want you. They just don’t know how to stay.

He’s intoxicating. But he burns bright and fast and then leaves you cold.

Desire isn’t enough. It’s about the commitment to grow together.

It’s where love stops being a feeling and starts becoming a practice. It's the part where you move beyond the electricity of connection and into the slow, sometimes tedious, profoundly sacred work of building a life together. It's about taking co-ownership. Not just of the good times, but of the hard parts: the routines, the compromises, the mental load, the shared dreams that don’t just happen but have to be constructed, piece by careful piece.

It’s noticing when the groceries are low without being asked. It looks like scheduling the difficult conversation instead of avoiding it. It looks like holding your partner through their messiest grief, not because it's fun, but because you chose this person, and you choose them still.

Without it, even the most romantic relationships collapse under their own weight. Because if a man can show up with passion but disappears when it's time to share real responsibility, he becomes a beautiful but unreliable narrator of love.

But of course, we all know too well the men who show up, but only for the parts they were taught to value. The ones who never cheats. Who doesn’t ghost. Who never leaves… but also never quite… arrives? He never fails to pay the bills on time, but he simply fails slowly—by making love feel like an obligation rather than a living, breathing act of devotion. We call them the Responsible Roommates—because that’s exactly who they become. Think Mike from 17 Again, who understands the duties of marriage but somehow forgets the daily magic of choosing someone again and again in the every day.

And even when responsibility and romance exist side by side, even when the flowers arrive on anniversaries and the bills are paid on time, something still rots under the surface if one thing is missing: the self.

They make relationships their one and only thing. They give and give and give until they are a shell of their former selves, quietly eroding under the weight of their own self-abandonment. This is the Repressed Devotee. Think Charlotte York from Sex and the City, who bends and softens and perfects herself endlessly to fit the shape of a life that still leaves her hollow.

When someone gives without tending to their own inner world, they eventually wither. And no relationship, no matter how lovingly built, can thrive in the presence of that slow decay.

Which is why we need the third, most neglected layer.

Heal, so love has somewhere safe to land.

Self-work is the quietest, most invisible labour, but it is the ground beneath everything else. It’s the work of facing your own patterns before they sabotage the life you’re trying to build. It’s recognising that the anger, the withdrawal, the neediness, the fear—none of it will stay politely contained just because you love someone.

This means cultivating emotional regulation instead of demanding your partner to do it for you. It means noticing the ways you flinch before you lash out, the ways you shut down before you vanish. It’s the difficult, tender art of drawing boundaries, but only enough that they don’t become walls. They communicate needs mindfully enough not to project them as ultimatums. Apologising without twisting the knife of guilt. Taking responsibility for your inner world so your partner doesn't have to become its janitor.

Without it, even a man who loves well and builds well will still, eventually, hurt you in ways he doesn’t understand. And will never understand. Because without self-work, love becomes an arena where old wounds re-enact themselves over and over again.

But having this alone, of course, isn’t enough. Because you’ll find yourself a Self-Work Hermit. It’s the man who has journaled his childhood traumas into oblivion. Who knows every attachment theory. Meditates. Sets boundaries. Who is deeply in touch with his own needs—and yet somehow, still holds you at arm’s length. He never feels like he’s ready for a relationship. This person is Emma Morley from One Day, whose self-discovery often runs parallel to connection but rarely entwines with it. Think Clementine from Eternal Sunshine, so busy untangling herself that she forgets love requires being tangled with someone else, too. Too busy focusing on things they can fix about themselves while forgetting that the relationship needs so much fixing too.

The Self-Work Hermit can talk beautifully about intimacy. But when you reach for them, there’s often a subtle withdrawal. A prioritisation of their own growth over the shared life you’re trying to build.

Part III: What we’ve called yearning is actually reclaiming our needs

The green flag men we talk about: Present but unplugged

And so we’re grateful we’re now increasingly surrounded by men who have clearly done some major work. He’s emotionally literate. He divides chores without being asked. He knows how to communicate, compromise,and respect your boundaries. On paper, he is everything we were taught to want: the poster child of modern partnership. And yet, when you’re lying next to him, there’s a kind of loneliness that you can't explain without sounding spoiled. A silence between bodies that should be familiar but feels impossibly distant.

This is the man we often call Green Flag. Safe. Respectful. Responsible. But something essential is missing: the active, daily wanting. The effort not just to maintain peace, but to cultivate presence. The instinct to reach for you not out of obligation, but out of genuine hunger. The Green Flag checks every logistical box, but somehow, being with him feels more like living inside a carefully negotiated treaty than inside a life built together. You’re protected, but not adored. You’re respected, but not ravished. You’re chosen, but sometimes… unnoticed. Unseen.

It’s not that he’s doing anything wrong. It’s that the bar was set so low—just don’t be abusive, don’t disappear, don’t cheat—that the absence of harm started looking like the apex of love. But it isn’t. Safety is the floor, not the ceiling. It’s the minimum required for intimacy to even be possible, not the final destination.

Craving more than this is not greedy. It is not ungrateful. It is the natural human yearning for connection that doesn’t just stabilise you, but ignites you. Women are finally learning that wanting to feel chosen, desired, actively loved—not just accommodated—is not asking for too much. It’s asking for what was missing all along.

Because love, real love, should not feel like walking on well-polished floors. It should feel like walking into a fire you both chose to build and choosing, every day, to keep it alive.

The centre: The ideal partner through the female gaze

You want to say how you feel but the words don’t come out right. They gather in your throat, thick and sharp, tangled with the fear that maybe this is the moment he’ll flinch. Maybe this is when you’ll become too much. So you hesitate. You fidget with your sleeve. You say, “It’s fine. I’m just tired.” And you hope he doesn’t press. And you hope he does.

But he notices the crack before the fall. He reaches across the space between you, gently, slowly, and takes your hand, like he’s done it a thousand times before. “It’s okay,” he says, voice low. “You can tell me. I’m all ears. Do you want me to just listen?”

And you nod, unsure, eyes already welling. He doesn’t try to fix it. He doesn’t offer platitudes or rush to the part where it’s all better. He doesn’t say, “it’s going to be ok,” like he thinks he’s expected to when he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t tell you to calm down. He doesn’t shrink from your storm. He just stays. Quietly. Tenderly. With you.

And when you finally speak, when the sob breaks through your sentence, when your voice cracks mid-thought and you apologise for it—he still doesn’t say much. But the way he looks at you says everything. I’m here. I feel you. I love you.

And then the overthinking begins. You start to panic inside, Am I dumping too much on him? Is this selfish? Should I be handling this on my own? Why can’t I just be easy to love? But then, he squeezes your hand. Not hard. Just enough. Just once. As if to say, You are not a burden. You are not a mess I’m here to clean. You don’t have to be okay to be held. And in that moment, something loosens. The guilt you’ve carried for being too emotional, too complicated, too much begins to fall away. Because for the first time, someone isn’t trying to carry you out of your feelings—they’re sitting beside you in them. And you’re not too much to handle. You’re not too much to love.

And when that happens, you start to breathe differently. You don’t have to shrink. You don’t have to over-perform your worth. You don’t have to narrate your pain for him to believe it. You finally feel what it’s like to be met. Not saved. Not managed. Not tolerated. Met.

That’s when you realise: this—this is the love you were never taught to expect, but always knew to want. The kind that doesn’t ask you to earn softness. The kind that doesn’t disappear when it gets hard. The kind that feels, at last, like home.

They’re not men who arrive fully formed. They’re men who wake up every day and choose to love. Not as a performance, not as a default, but as a living, breathing, relentless act of effort. The Chandler to Monica, the Patrick to Tiffany. The Fonny to Tish. The kind of love that’s built, not fallen into. The kind of love that survives not because it’s easy, but because it’s chosen, taken care of, noticed—deliberately, stubbornly, beautifully—over and over again. Because love isn’t just chemistry. It isn’t just kindness. It isn’t just showing up. It’s effort, everywhere, always—partner, relationship, self. All at once. Every day.

This is the kind of man women are learning to name, to seek, to insist upon. We’re starting to understand that love shouldn’t be a hunger strike. It’s a feast built together. And if it isn’t, it’s not worth it.

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Cover art: Venus and Adonis, Titian (1553-1554). Museo Nacional del Prado. Open access: The Metropolitan Museum of Art.