The Sex Appeal of Dating a Plant Dad

Last summer, when my brother dropped off two giant plants for me to babysit while he moved to the middle of the jungle in Colombia for two months, I warned him it wouldn't be my fault if they died. I didn't care for children or animals: the closest I'd ever come to having a pet as an adult was my collection of leather bags. But as the days passed, I was caught off guard by the feelings I developed for those plants.

My god, how wrong I'd been to dismiss plants as an unnecessary responsibility that wasn't for me. While they appear almost absolute in their momentary stillness, their liveliness transformed my apartment into something aspirational. When I was a kid, I watched my mom sing to her plants, complimenting them like girlfriends. “It helps them grow,” she told me. I assumed all parents were insane.

Now, I understand that a special bond is formed when you put effort into keeping anything alive. The love is mutual; my plants grew bigger and greener under my care. Perhaps for this reason, I refused to return them. Thankfully, my brother congratulated me as their new owner. Or, as I called myself, their plant dad.

These miraculous, green creatures appeared to exist purely for beauty and leisure, requiring nothing more than water and sunlight. I'd wish to be a plant if they had more active sex lives! And so, instead of photosynthesis, I invited Craig over, a guy I was dating who coincidentally worked at a flower shop. “Oh wow, that's a Bird of Paradise, and the other one is a Dracaena,” he informed me. I felt like I had an impromptu gender reveal party. “That's a good thing?” I asked, and he confirmed they were impressive houseplants. I beamed with pride.

Craig clearly takes work home with him, as he owns 100 personal plants (and fun fact: a dick piercing). I was surprised when he approached my plants excitedly and stroked their large leaves like petting fur. In fact, I might've considered his green thumb a red flag had these two beauties not fallen into my lap like my own Cindy-Lou Who, warming this Grinch's heart. Witnessing the contrast of a masculine guy masterfully handle something so delicate was a turn-on. I knew he'd be equipped to deal with my feelings. He seemed to possess all the great qualities of an actual father or pet owner — attentive, responsible, open to commitment — without the nuisance of either entity.

“Oh no,” he said upon further inspection.

“What is it?” I demanded.

Unfortunately, the Bird of Paradise had some gory, leaf-eating bug infestation straight out of a horror movie. One of my biggest fears is a spider planting babies inside me that slowly eat me alive, and I couldn't believe it was a reality for one of my plants. Craig showed me they weren't inside the plant but looked like brown specks flecking the bottom of the stems and some leaves. “What do I do?” I asked desperately. He explained I had to get a wet cloth and wipe them off leaf by leaf, spray with an anti-bug pesticide, and repeat the process in a week for any survivors.

For a moment, I'm ashamed to admit I considered replacing the plant. I mean, I eat steak, wear suede shoes and leather jackets, and sleep like a baby with a wool blanket. And yet, it pained me to think about throwing my plant out. I hadn't even had the chance to name it! I told Craig he'd better get to work, as dealing with a horde of bugs was beyond my scope. Watching him salvage my beloved plant from Satan's teeny tiny spawns meant more to me than any fancy dinner or gift I had ever received from a man, well, Cartier earrings not included.

It took Craig 40 minutes, and afterward, he said I'd just need to order some pesticide. I glanced at him to signal we'd spend our evening fetching some. He immediately understood.

Unrelated but relevant, the worsening climate crisis and the onslaught of natural disasters have made me reflect on the fragility of the planet, Mother Nature, and humanity. An ecosystem so often taken for granted, while I've spent most of my life oblivious to anything beyond the reflection in the mirror. Meeting someone who deeply valued something I once considered so inconsequential as a plant was seductive.

Although Craig lacked the high-paying job or luxury home I once considered must-haves for my partners in my early twenties, he offered a nurturing and caring side they often lacked. I didn't mind being the career-oriented one, even if I was still doing the cooking since he only knew how to operate a microwave. Relationship dynamics weren't black and white anymore, and I was happy with Craig as long as he ensured all the bugs were dead. I've never felt more like a parent to be sacrificing a date night, without hesitation, for my plant's wellbeing.

To be clear, I'm not proclaiming Craig's the one — I've only known him for a hot minute. But in the end, my Bird of Paradise was saved, and I get to experience the many benefits of dating a plant dad. There's an undeniable sex appeal to it, especially in an era where toxic masculinity is making a comeback in US leadership, clawing away environmental protections.

Mostly, though, I'd want to date a plant dad because being one made me a better person.

Jamie Valentino is a Colombian-born freelance journalist and romance columnist published in the Chicago Tribune, the Houston Chronicle, Men's Journal, Reader's Digest UK, Vice, and more. Jamie has worked as a travel correspondent, covering the 2022 World Cup from Argentina, siesta culture in Barcelona, and the underground nightlife scene in Milan.