If you would’ve told me a year ago that I’d be running a dating and lifestyle empire from a window seat at Chateau Marmont, half-writing, half-texting ‘what are we?’ to someone I met 48 hours ago, with a dirty martini in hand — expanding across three cities no less — I would’ve said, “Sure, right after I find a guy on Raya who actually follows through on a second date.”
And yet, here we are.
Love, Sex, LA isn’t just a love letter to Los Angeles anymore — she’s got sisters now. We’re officially expanding with new editions in Scottsdale, New York, and Miami — each with its own unapologetic, sexy, sometimes-cringey, sometimes-magical flair. We’ve got new girls — real girls, raw girls, the kind of girls you want sitting next to you on a chaotic Sunday brunch — picking up the pen and telling their city’s dating stories with that same Love, Sex spark. Girls who get it — giving voice to dating disasters and champagne victories from coast to coast.
The dream was never just to tell my stories — it was to build a whole table where every city could pour their chaos, their lessons, their tequila-fueled epiphanies into the conversation.
And speaking of chaos…
In a moment of bold optimism (and maybe mild insanity), I decided to dip a toe into Miami’s dating pool during my minimal time there.
How do I put this gently? If LA men are Peter Pans with podcast mics and closet commitment issues, Miami men are… pirates. With boat shoes, suspicious career paths, and a cryptic “in politics and crypto” LinkedIn tagline that really means “I will disappear faster than a free bottle at Story nightclub.”
One Miami guy ghosted me before we even made it to appetizers. Another — the politician/crypto king — gave me the ick so fast I almost needed a wellness retreat to recover.
Let’s just say: if “red flags” were a city, Miami might just have its own zip code.
Sure, LA boys come with their own fine print (Peter Pans, faded TikTokers, and a whole subsection called Raya Burnouts Anonymous), but there’s something oddly charming about the way they at least pretend they’re emotionally available… until they’re not. I’ll take my LA guys — flaws, ego, emotional unavailability and all — any day of the week.
At least when an LA guy ghosts, he usually has the decency to post a thirst trap on Instagram afterward so you know he’s alive — just emotionally unavailable.
But the real plot twist? Back in La La Land this past weekend, I became the ghost. Yes — the girl who once drafted heartfelt essays about being haunted by men’s disappearing acts… vanished before a first date even made it past the group chat. He texted ‘still good for tonight?’ and I — like any heroine in a plot twist no one saw coming — chose a dirty martini at a hotel bar with a side of bartender banter so good it deserved its own podcast episode.
This is a guy I matched with on an app called the League. Honestly, from his Instagram posts and his texts, he seems really sweet, polite, and all the qualities that make up a “green flag” — so what’s the issue? The truth is, sometimes the thought of meeting someone new and getting to know someone all over again sounds exhausting. The small talk, the curated highlight reel of their best traits, the charming facade that eventually melts into something less shiny. The slow reveal of the emotional baggage they swore they left at baggage claim. Dating isn’t hard because people are bad — it’s hard because pretending to be ‘new’ gets old. At the start of every new relationship, you both act like clean slates — like you’ve never been hurt before, like you’re fresh and wide open to love, like you don’t have past scars, trust issues, or complicated emotional histories. You put forward the best, most polished version of yourself — smiling through small talk, telling charming stories, glossing over past heartbreaks — pretending you’re new to all of this.
But the truth is, you’re not new. You’ve lived. You’ve been hurt. You’ve made mistakes. And after a while, pretending you haven’t — pretending you’re a blank page when you’re actually a whole messy novel — just gets exhausting. It’s not cynicism exactly — it’s emotional fatigue. You’re tired of introductions when you’re craving depth.
Sometimes it feels less like falling in love and more like interviewing for a job you’re not even sure you want. So I left his text on delivered. It wasn’t that I took the easy way out, maybe more so, the lazy way out. We’d never met, so was it really ghosting?
At the end of the day, I’m a firm believer that what’s meant for you won’t miss you — even if you’re hiding out at a hotel bar with a dirty martini and no plans to check your phone. The right people, the right paths, the right moments — they have a way of circling back, no matter how many exits you take. And if something isn’t meant for you? You could build a shrine to it, light a hundred candles, and it still wouldn’t stick. So one little message left unanswered by me? It’s not a crisis — it’s a quiet reminder that what’s real doesn’t require a chase… and I’m too busy living to keep refreshing my inbox.
Maybe the tables have turned. Maybe, gulp, I’ve become the storm. Maybe the real Miami souvenir wasn’t a new fling — it was the realization that sometimes, ghosting isn’t personal… it’s preservation.
Sometimes, you don’t need to go on another mediocre date to know you deserve a great one. Sometimes, self-respect looks like politely disappearing into the night without a dramatic goodbye.
In other life updates: the Love, Sex, LA podcast is officially launching — and it’s basically the chaotic group chat you didn’t know you needed. Reality TV energy meets unfiltered girl talk meets that one text you send your best friend at 2 a.m. that says, “Should I just show up at his house?” There will be guests. There will be dating confessions. There will definitely be martinis.
And most importantly: there will be proof that no matter where we are — LA, Miami, Scottsdale, New York — the search for love (or at least a decent hinge date) is a universal language.
If there’s one thing I’ve realized lately, it’s this: The chaos, the weird dates, the cringey moments, the unexpected plot twists — they’re all necessary. They’re proof you’re living, loving, and daring to romanticize the ride, even when it feels more like a rollercoaster at 2 A.M. in Hollywood.
Loving recklessly.
Failing gloriously.
Living unapologetically.
Here’s to new cities. New storms. And the same perfectly dirty martinis. Stay tuned, lovers. We’re just getting started.
Xoxo,
Alexandria