One even posed beside a Range Rover to really drive the message home that, "I ALSO EARN LOTS AND LOTS OF MONEY".
The model informed me that Raya isn't just for single people, either. One half of the app is dedicated to professional networking, perfect for boring relationship people like me.
Immediately, three things were crystal clear:
1. AFL footballers are a bit cr*p.
2. If we were in Harry Potter, Raya would be the Hogwarts of social networking apps.
3. For journalistic purposes and the benefit of news.com.au readers (and *cough* maybe a teeny tiny bit of self-interest), I really wanted to check out Hogwarts. Immediately. And while I didn't have an owl, or a Dobby The Friendly Elf, I did have a new Ludicrously Hot Person friend who could give me a taste of what all this elitist, we-hate-muggles fuss is about.
ONE WEEK ON RAYA
Given I am neither a swimsuit model nor an AFL footballer, I knew my chances of getting approved on Raya were sketchy. What I didn't anticipate was a two-week-long stint on the "waiting list".
Oh yes, did I mention that part? A waiting list.
Getting accepted on Raya isn't as simple as being recommended by a friend from the upper echelons of society. Oh, no. After that, you still need to get approval from the app's developers that you are worthy of their platform.
I'm still unsure of what criteria the app developers work off (hotness, definitely hotness), but it didn't work in my favour. Despite submitting our applications at the same time, my girlfriend was accepted 10 days before I was, leaving me to perish in the waiting list with a warm, stabbing sensation in my soul.
After you jump through the first two hoops of finding someone to invite you, then being taken off the waiting list, you're asked for your credit card details because — duh — Hogwarts isn't free, silly! You want egomaniac athletes and self-described "entrepreneurs" posing on flights of stairs for absolutely no reason at all? That'll be $11.65 a month, thanks champ.
I passed over my money through gritted teeth and got to work designing my profile, which was far less sophisticated than one might expect for an app that costs three soy lattes a month.
Instead of filling out a personality test, or listing your favourite foods, Raya simply asks you to choose a few photos of yourself and sets them in a slideshow to backing music, akin to the weirdest Power Point project in the whole world.
I would have taken screenshots of all this and more for you, dear reader friends, but that's against Raya rules. In fact, the app developers are so secretive about their platform, and the members on it, that trying to take a screenshot will instantly return a warning message threatening the "suspension and/or removal of your membership". Boo.
Shoddy photos-of-my-phone-screen aside, I can't deny that I enjoyed checking out the people on Raya.
My first 10 people were, in this exact order: a film director; a model from Byron Bay; a "meditation and yoga entrepreneur"; a singer/songwriter; a model from Berlin; a hypnotherapist named Forest; a famous Australian author (who absolutely did not strike me as the type to join Raya); an AFL player with all the expected look-at-my-bicep photos, a Married At First Sight contestant I forgot existed, and a Silicon Valley tech developer.
If you are on the app for love, an obvious downside is that Raya doesn't really care for geographical limitations. Forget a 10-kilometre radius — the app will show you people from all corners of the world, boldly assuming you're the kind of person to fly to Madrid just to woo that super-hot yoga entrepreneur.
I tried to match with a few people professionally, but found the pool of people on there for platonic connections to be hopelessly shallow. Everyone's too busy swimming in the dating section, it seems.
So, overall, do I think Raya is worth it?
No. Save yourself from the impending realisation that you are, in fact, a bit of a w*nker for jumping through a series of hoops only to hand over your card details anyway.
And then go enjoy a reward in the form of three soy lattes.
