Look, I’m a feminist or whatever, but I still like it when a guy picks up the check on a date. I understand that in our post-gender, social-justice millennial era, the idea of subscribing to traditional gender roles in a relationship makes you an honorary fascist, and yet, I can’t help getting wet whenever a willowy, beaked artiste pulls out his wallet and says, “Babe, I got this one.” Now, I’m not saying that I’m looking for a sugar daddy to bankroll my leisurely life of masturbation and blogging. But I want to know: Can I be a self-sufficient, #empowered woman and still enjoy it when a guy plays “the man”?

In terms of gender equality, we’ve come a long way in recent years. At 32, I often earn a similar income to the men I date, and I like being in relationships that feel equal. And yet, there’s also this old-school part of me that likes when a guy takes the reins, in ways that extend beyond just his wallet—like, offering me his jacket when it’s cold, or helping me down the stairs when I’m wearing nonsensical shoes, or spanking me when I get too drunk. You know, lovingly misogynistic Don Draper shit.

For instance, a few months ago, I started dating a guy who I’ll call Lindsey (because if I were a boy, that’s what I’d want to be called). One Wednesday afternoon early on in our courtship, I got a text from him that read: “Tonight, we’re going on a boat. Dress up.” I assumed he’d eventually text me an address, but, to my surprise, that evening he actually appeared on foot at my apartment, like a gentleman from the past, or the Seamless guy. He even held the cab door open for me. Naturally, I took this as a sign that he might murder me, but he’d parted his hair, and he looked like a bulimic Paul Ryan (aka my dream, at least in terms of looks), so I got in the car. The evening featured a sailboat ride around Lower Manhattan, followed by dinner at a restaurant where the median age of diners was about 74. I loved it. It just felt so freeing to not have to think about anything—where we would go, how we would get there, or whether I’d have to do that awkward slow-motion bag-reach move when the check came. It was implicit that the night was on him. I was like, “Wow, I feel like a whore—in a good way.”

Of course, what’s inherent in my subby femme fantasy is that the dude is opting into the game. Like, I wouldn’t find it hot to beg a guy to buy me a steak (that’s the wrong type of “daddy”). But in my experience, I think that men (and some women) often like—and feel empowered by—being able to play the traditionally male role of the alpha provider. And then I can reciprocate by buying him breakfast in the morning, or whatever. It all evens out in the end. (And realistically, splitting the bill after the age of 30 just starts to feel a bit juvenile. Like, putting two credit cards in that little tray—it’s tragic.)