the “flyerfication” of dating

what happened when I flyered for companionship on the mean streets of New York

welcome to strong feelings! Essays by writers we love, in which they share their most impassioned opinions on a given subject. In today’s strong feelings, writer Tess Garcia recounts her four-week experience flyering for companionship on the streets of New York City.

In October, The New York Times published an article titled “With Little Luck on Dating Apps, Some Singles Shift to Pitch Decks.” Weeks prior, I discovered Williamsburg's “singles wall,” where hopefuls paste Polaroids and handwritten bios to a McCarren Park facade in the name of love. A month before that, I showed up to a friend’s party wearing a “flyer dress” featuring New York’s infamous “Looking for the Perfect Woman” flyer, which artist Dan Perino has posted all over the city since 2014. 

I ended my first serious relationship in 2022. This summer, I started to crave romantic companionship for the first time since then. But whenever I opened a dating app, I lost faith in finding it. During college, swiping through potential matches felt like a game, but post-graduation, it feels more like a chore, and no match has led to more than a couple hangouts or hookups. As I grew disillusioned with digital romance, I became fascinated by Perino and the patrons of the McCarren Park wall, who seemed to reject modern dating’s technological “advancements” in favor of an algorithm-free approach. So when mixed feelings’ Editorial Director, Amalie MacGowan, suggested I flyer for dates and document my experience, I jumped at the chance.    

I’m not the first Gen Z-er to turn to loose leaf for love. In early September, content creator Scott Kress went viral for putting up fliers of himself with the message: “LOOKING FOR A BOYFRIEND!” He took the plunge after what he aptly describes as a “dry spell” on dating apps — and after seeing Perino’s fliers on a trip to New York. “I was like, not only would this be the funniest video, but I could kill two birds with one stone, because I could have a funny video and maybe snatch myself a boyfriend out of it,” Kress says. He made a few fliers with a fake phone number to show in the video, but included the real thing on 100 copies, which he posted around Los Angeles. 

Around the same time, I stopped by Staples to pick up 50 fliers with my face on them. Each displayed facts that I viewed as crucial to attracting the right crowd, from need-to-knows (age, sexuality) to likes and dislikes that tell you a lot about a person (likes women’s sports, dislikes Elon Musk). Each flier included a photo of me and a QR code to a Google Form, which interested parties could fill out for the chance to be contacted by me. The form featured four required fields: Name, age, a link to social media or other proof of existence, and how I should contact them if interested. A bonus prompt asked: Write me a sales pitch for our first date. I hoped the simplicity would increase the likelihood of a straight man completing it.

For a month, I searched for companionship on lamp posts, the doors of accommodating restaurants, and everywhere in between. If we hung out in that window, my friends knew I’d arrive with a stack of flyers and tape. With their help, flyering became an adrenaline rush that left us giggling for blocks. For safety, I avoided posting in my neighborhood, and opted for the perimeter of high-traffic establishments that I thought would make great date spots. Outside the Brooklyn Museum? Sure. In the East Village, across from a cafe I’ve wanted to try? You bet. Anywhere but the Wall Street Bull was fair game.      

This is how it went.

week one: shame high, prospects low

Six days in, after I sprinkled a dozen fliers through Manhattan and Brooklyn with my best friends, I received my first Google Form response. He was nine years older than me, and upon further investigation, I learned he followed me on Instagram the night before submitting his responses. His account was private, and between that and the form, I only knew his age and his favorite NFL team. 

I respected his choice to stay incognito, but I knew the best way forward would be a polite IG message thanking him for his interest, and clarifying that a 5-year age difference is usually my cap in romantic dynamics. He took it well.

“Haha yea just saw it and wanted to brighten your day 🙏🏼, wish you the best,” he responded.

If nothing else, this was great practice in A.) drawing boundaries and B.) using the prayer-hands emoji. 

week two: Solo Flyering & Dog Breeders

By now, I’d accepted that the only way to increase my response rate was to post more fliers, and that meant flyering alone. On a sunny Monday afternoon, I used my lunch break to tape copies through Soho. I was already nearby for work, and the lack of weekend tourists made the neighborhood feel like a luxury ghost town with perfect ambiance for romanticizing my experiment, free from witnesses. 

Time slowed down as I taped a flier across from Dominique Ansel Bakery, another near the Chobani store (I crave balance from a partner). I felt like I was watching myself from the outside. Other than nerves, my body processed no emotions as I observed it, taking stock from a safe distance. I don’t know what aspect of flyering scared me most. Maybe it was the prospect of a stranger rejecting me via QR code, or the thought of New York teenagers pointing and laughing as I flagrantly put myself out there. I experienced neither scenario, but the sheer possibility planted a knot in my chest. I posted a measly three fliers that day, and I walked away from each too fast to see if the tape even stuck. 

Days later, my Google Form had two new respondents. The first, a 31-year-old, provided an Instagram account for his dog breeding business. Because I’m allergic, and because he didn’t answer my bonus prompt, I didn’t reach out. The second, also 31, offered a first date pitch of “Tacos.” His Instagram was private, but I liked the dimples in his profile picture, so I sent him a follow request. He provided his phone number in the form, which I initially balked at (I don’t need to know your area code yet!). But when two days passed without him accepting my IG follow, I threw caution to the wind with a “Hi” text. A day later, I received the response every girl dreams of:

A tasteful 9 hours later, I cut to the chase in my next message:

And then I left it alone, because I refused to double-text a man who pitched me a date in one word. 

week three: Do People Think I’m Joking?

Mr. Taco Date left me on “Delivered.” By now, he’d approved my Instagram follow request, but hadn’t followed me back. I let our exchange dissolve into untapped potential. 

At this point, I’d had less inquiries from men, and more from female friends who spotted my fliers in the wild. “omg saw this on my way home from work today and can i say im obsessed,” one messaged me on Instagram. Another left a comment on a Partiful event I hosted: “not in town but rooting for ya!!! and saw ur poster in LES!!”

Compared to my friends’ enthusiastic encouragement, the respondents to my form seemed completely devoid of charisma. That juxtaposition was a helpful reminder: I was flyering to see what was out there, not to lower my standards. 

Just as I’d abandoned hope, a hot new bombshell entered the Google Form villa, complete with a public Instagram full of jawline-forward photos. He specified that I should reach out there, so I did. His response — coupled with Mr. Taco Date’s recent ghosting —  made me ask myself: Did these men see me as the sketchy one in this situation? 

Surprise, surprise: Our conversation stopped there. 

week four: Sending Reinforcements

I emailed my editors to warn them: Our grand flyering plan was a dud. As a last-ditch effort, they offered to post a few copies around central Brooklyn for me. I agreed and figured nothing would come of it. But two days later, I found myself tagged in a cryptic Instagram post from an account called WhatIsNYDating.

Image via @WhatIsNydating

According to their bio, the account is “exploring NY’s dating scene; the good, the bad, the undatable!” The comments below my flier demonstrate just how polluted the dating pool is in 2024. “My gut tells me that this person is the living embodiment of ‘external locus of control,’” wrote one user. “Now list the red flags,” said another. 

If misogynistic comments were a cloud, a silver lining came through 7 new respondents within days of the IG post. Their ages ranged from 18 (never) to 42 (not for a few years). There was a 28-year-old in the bunch who I found pretty attractive, partly because he wanted to take me to a women’s basketball game (yes).

I struck up a conversation with Mr. WNBA on Instagram. To his credit, he didn’t ghost. But every time I asked to get together, I watched him wriggle around the question. I quickly realized I was more invested in the New York Liberty winning a championship than I was in his company. I did the right thing and let the conversation die. Actually, maybe I ghosted, but what was I supposed to do with this?

now what?

Over the course of my date-flyering month, I watched my priorities shift. For the first two weeks, I checked the fliers’ Google Form responses so often, they became an extension of my social media consumption. Yet during the last two weeks and beyond, I forgot to check them most days. By the end of the month, men were hardly more than an afterthought that I knew I had to think about for this article. I was too busy pursuing other interests, like stand-up comedy classes and planning an upcoming solo vacation, to yearn for my mythical, perfect partner.

Confession: I also went on two Hinge dates in this window. The first was fantastic and reminded me of how many great people I have yet to meet. The second was the kind of horrible that required my friend to call me and fake an emergency so I could leave. Juxtaposed against my flyering experiment, these experiences brought me to one conclusion: Whether you meet someone through a flier, an app, or a chance encounter, dating is going to suck sometimes. That’s the price of opening yourself up to the possibility that one crap-shoot try will lead to a connection.

Kress says flyering hasn’t made dating any easier for him, either. “It didn’t work for me,” he explains. “The first day, I had a call within 30 minutes. It almost seemed too good to be true. I was like, wait, this man on the phone is giving everything. And then he never texted me after that. I never heard back from him again, but I think I was just surprised that anybody reached out. After I posted my Reel, I got a few DMs on Instagram. None of them were a match made in heaven.”

Mr. WNBA still hits me up every now and then, but I'm no longer rushing to make something happen. If anything, I’m proud that I didn’t once see the flier responses as a reflection of my worth. I was great before I tried this, and I’m great now. My standards for a partner are high, and they’re not going down, no matter how many men ghost me via Google Form.

But if you want to try flyering for yourself, don’t let me stop you. With the right privacy measures, it can amount to a riveting social experiment. “I had a great time doing it,” Kress says. “Put up some damn flyers and see what happens. Don’t get your hopes up, is all I’m saying.”