105 funny dares for couples to try tonight

A couple doesn't wear out on the big subjects. It wears out on Tuesday evenings, the ones where every day looks like the last, where you each end yours in front of a separate screen, and where neither of you could say when exactly you stopped surprising each other.

The dare is the silliest cure there is for that, and probably the most effective. Not the dirty dare — that one already has its own article — but the funny dare, the one that has you singing with a mouthful of water or wearing cat whiskers for an hour. Looking ridiculous drops your defences faster than any conversation about the relationship ever will.

Here are 105 dares sorted into four levels, from pure absurdity to the sensual, along with the frame to set before you start and how to pick the right level for the evening actually in front of you.

Why a ridiculous dare beats a conversation about your relationship

Play between adults gets treated as harmless regression. The research says the exact opposite: it's a skill, it can be measured, and it predicts how solid a couple is better than most of the variables we prefer to look at.

The researcher René Proyer broke this disposition to play into four facets, and each one repairs something specific.

Playing for the other. Using humour to lighten the mood and defuse tension. It's the strongest known predictor of a drop in avoidant attachment: an exchange that was about to tighten up turns into a shared moment instead.

Playing without a plan. Treating the evening as an experiment rather than a schedule. Couples who are willing to let the shape of a night depend on a random draw handle uncertainty better in general.

Playing with ideas. Verbal sparring, wordplay, challenges that make you think fast. This is what keeps intellectual admiration alive — the kind that fades the moment you believe you've worked someone out.

Playing with the absurd. Agreeing to impersonate a penguin in front of the person you live with. It's the best test of psychological safety there is: you only make a fool of yourself in front of someone you're certain won't use it against you.

That leaves the question of dosage, and there's a number for it. John Gottman and Robert Levenson established that a stable couple produces at least five positive interactions for every negative one, arguments included. Below that ratio, the relationship runs down. A dare that lands is a deposit into that account: laughter, affection, admiration — precisely the three things that neutralise contempt.

The same lab measured something else, and it's even more telling. We spend our days holding out small openings to each other — a remark, a hand on a shoulder, a suggestion to play. Couples who last respond to them 86 % of the time. Couples who split, 33 %. Agreeing to carry out a dare on a night when you're tired is answering one of those openings. It isn't the dare that counts, it's the answer.

The frame to set before the first dare

Two minutes of conversation is enough, and it decides everything that follows.

The safe word. Pick a word together that has no business in a living room — "pineapple", "radiator", "safari" — and that stops everything the moment either of you says it. Never "no" or "stop", which are part of the game and get lost inside it.

Three passes each. Before you start, each of you gets three free refusals, to be used without explanation and without a replacement dare. A dare drawn at random is not a debt: if it produces shame or genuine anxiety rather than amused awkwardness, it's void, deserved or not.

That precaution has a name, and a theory behind it. Betty Martin showed that any interaction reads along two axes: who acts, and who it's for. On one side the person who gives, following the other's wishes rather than their own, and the person who receives, which is often the harder of the two. On the other, the person who takes, acting for their own pleasure, and the person who allows, granting that right knowingly.

A dare works when each of you knows which of the four you're in. It goes wrong when the boxes blur: giving turns into a sacrifice you'll charge for later, and taking turns into helping yourself. As long as the frame stays explicit, you're playing. The moment it goes unspoken, one of you is enduring.

Three ways to get the game started without thinking about it

The jar. Copy out the dares you like the look of onto slips of paper, together, on an evening with nothing planned. Colour-code them by level and fold them into a jar left somewhere visible. The draw at the top of this page does the same job without the jar.

The chore bet. Whoever puts off a task for the third time draws a dare. It's the only known way to make domestic procrastination entertaining.

The graft onto a game you already own. Chess, Scrabble, Mario Kart, a hand of cards, best of three at rock-paper-scissors: anything that produces a loser will do. The game only picks who performs — the dare does all the rest.

Absurd dares, to drop your defences

The level that's after nothing but laughter. These need no props, no existing intimacy, and they work as well on a Sunday afternoon as they do at midnight. Their only goal is to have you both look ridiculous in the same room, which remains the quickest way to disarm a tired ego.

1. The statue. Your partner picks a pose — the thinker, a flamingo — and you hold it for two minutes. They can do anything to break you except touch you.
2. The mouthful concerto. With your mouth full of water, sing the chorus of their favourite song. No spitting, no swallowing.
3. The inside-out parade. Put on three items of clothing inside out, seams showing, and cross the living room like a supremely confident model while they commentate.
4. The three-animal dance. Sixty seconds of choreography blending a gorilla, a penguin and a mosquito, to the most epic piece of music your partner can find.
5. The life of a mosquito. Mime the entire life of a mosquito, from birth to its tragic death under a magazine. Not a word.
6. The invisible solo. One minute of air guitar to the metal track they choose, played with total seriousness.
7. The declaration to a slipper. Two minutes of passionate love declaration addressed to a slipper, a broom or a toaster. The trembling voice is compulsory.
8. The food critic. Blindfolded, taste the mixture they've made you — ketchup and honey, say — and describe its notes without laughing.
9. The doorstep bark. At the next ring of the doorbell, bark once before opening, then switch to the politest voice you own.
10. Socks on your hands. A thick sock on each hand for thirty minutes, with a pot of tea to make regardless.
11. The indoor forecast. Deliver the weather forecast for the living room and the bathroom in the voice of someone announcing the end of the world.
12. The alphabet in squats. Recite the alphabet backwards while doing squats. One mistake and you start again at Z.
13. The disastrous wallpaper. Take the worst selfie you can manage, double chin included, and it stays on your partner's phone for twenty-four hours.
14. Three words to smuggle. Call a friend or relative and slip platypus, xylophone and bulldozer into the conversation without them noticing.
15. The vinegar brushing. Thirty seconds of brushing your teeth with a drop of white vinegar or neat lemon juice on the brush.
16. No hands. Eat whatever is on your plate — a pancake, a biscuit, spaghetti — without hands and without cutlery.
17. The imposed accent. Your partner picks an accent, and you hold it for the next quarter of an hour, whatever happens.
18. Blindfolded makeup. They get two minutes, blindfolded, to put lipstick and blusher on you. You keep the result.
19. The domestic T-Rex. Fold five items of clothing with your elbows pinned to your sides. Only your forearms are allowed to move.
20. The silent dance. Two minutes of frantic dancing in the middle of the living room, in complete silence, while they watch.
21. The shopping rap. Improvise eight bars about your last trip to the supermarket, hand gestures included.
22. The sweet insult. Say the tenderest thing you can think of — "you're a little cloud" — with the tone and gestures of someone in a towering rage.
23. The migrating penguin. With a cushion clamped between your knees, cross every room in the house without dropping it.
24. Cat whiskers. Your partner draws a nose and whiskers on you in washable pencil. You keep them for an hour.
25. The literal translation. Pick a well-known song in another language and sing it back word for word, straight-faced.
26. The spin. Ten fast spins on the spot, then walk straight at your partner for a high five. They aren't allowed to move.
27. The fridge inventory. Open the fridge and sing its exact contents to the tune of a tragic opera.
28. The stapler pitch. Two minutes to convince your partner to buy a completely ordinary object at an outrageous price. They're allowed to haggle.
29. The invented posture. Invent a contorted yoga pose, give it a serious name — "the doubting cat" — and make them copy it.
30. The five emojis. Your partner pulls five random emojis off their phone. You reproduce each face for ten seconds.

Service dares, to take something off their day

The most underrated level on the list. Unshared chores are the leading source of silent resentment in a couple, and a dare that removes one from your partner's day is worth three romantic evenings. They're also the only dares you can claim without embarrassment on a night when one of you is exhausted.

31. The butler. For the rest of the evening you address your partner formally, call them Madam or Sir, and answer everything with theatrical deference.
32. The croissant dawn. On Sunday you get up forty-five minutes before them, and the table is laid with something fresh by the time they appear.
33. The washing-up amnesty. Your partner is granted immunity: not a single kitchen or washing-up chore for five days.
34. The full dinner. You choose, buy, cook, serve and clear a meal made up entirely of their favourite dishes. They don't set foot in the kitchen.
35. Rule of the remote. For forty-eight hours they decide everything that goes on the screen and all the music in the car. No complaints are admissible.
36. The chauffeur. You drive them everywhere they need to go this weekend, and open the door for them every time.
37. The chore pass. Write out a voucher for one cancelled chore. They can play it any time within the month, without warning.
38. The drawn bath. You run the bath, light the candles, warm the towel, and keep the rest of the world away for as long as it lasts.
39. The mystery date. You take charge of the next outing end to end: booking, route, timing. Your partner only has to get dressed.
40. The washed car. Their car gets vacuumed and washed, without being asked and without you announcing it first.
41. The day of yes. For twelve hours you say yes to everything they propose. The safe word still sits above it; everything else goes through.
42. The keeper of the quiet. Two hours in which you take the children, the animals, the phone and the door. Your partner hears none of it.
43. The laid-out outfit. You choose, iron and lay out the complete outfit they'll wear to work tomorrow.
44. The glass never empty. All weekend you handle the coffees, the teas and the drinks. Theirs never reaches the bottom.
45. The bill. The next restaurant is entirely on you, and you say nothing about what they order.
46. The hated chore. Work out the task they loathe most — the litter tray, the oven, the bins — and take it on for a month.
47. The shopping assistant. Three hours around the shops, bags carried, useful opinions offered, and not one sigh or glance at your watch.
48. Coffee in bed. For a whole week, the coffee or tea arrives in bed before they've put a foot on the floor.
49. The overdue repair. That thing that's been dragging on for months and annoying them — the bulb, the hinge, the seal — is fixed within twenty-four hours.
50. The reclaimed cupboard. Empty, clean and reorganise a cluttered space, following their filing logic rather than yours.
51. The cave evening. Four hours in which they may shut themselves in a room to read, game or sleep. You don't knock.
52. The slate wiped. Cancel a debt, an unpaid bet, or a reproach you bring up too often. Permanently, and without returning to it.
53. The steward of the journey. On the next car trip you handle the sat nav, the stops, the tolls and the snacks. They just drive, or sleep.
54. The call they're avoiding. Take on the tedious administrative call or the difficult letter they've been putting off for days.
55. The lunchbox. Make their lunch for work, with a treat they aren't expecting and a note tucked underneath.

Romantic dares, to find each other in the same room

The level that takes the most nerve, by some distance. Impersonating a penguin is easier than looking at someone in the eye for two minutes without speaking. These dares work on what you know about each other — the kind of knowledge that goes out of date if nobody updates it.

56. Fifty kisses. Fifty kisses in a row on the face, the neck and the hands, without stopping and without counting out loud.
57. Five invisible qualities. Write down five character traits you admire in them — nothing physical — and read them out while holding their gaze.
58. Two minutes of silence. Sitting face to face, hands held, you look at each other without speaking for two minutes. Neither of you looks away.
59. The handwritten letter. Write out, on actual paper, the memory of the two of you that comes back to you most often, and slip it under their pillow.
60. The first date, replayed. Recreate your first date in the living room: the music, the drinks, and the things you said that night.
61. The message from across the room. Send them a long, detailed message about how you feel, while they're sitting directly opposite you.
62. The slow dance for no reason. Lights off, one song, and you ask them to dance in the middle of the living room on a Tuesday, with no warning.
63. The poem about the quirk. Four improvised lines about an endearing habit of theirs: the way they frown, the way they hold a mug.
64. The public photo. A real photo of the two of you, posted with a sincere caption and not a trace of irony.
65. The secret handshake. Invent an elaborate greeting, with slaps and slides, that ends in a hug. Teach it to them: it belongs to nobody else.
66. Married in five minutes. Imagine you're getting married in five minutes, and improvise the one-minute speech explaining why you'd do it again.
67. The admiring shoot. Five photographs of them taken around the house, looking for what makes them beautiful rather than what would make a good picture.
68. Three specific thank-yous. Name three things they did this week that nobody acknowledged, and say why they mattered.
69. The memory hunt. Hide three notes around the house. Each one recalls a memory from that particular room, and the last one leads to a hug.
70. The kept secret. Confess a thought, a dream or a small thing you've been hiding out of shyness for a while.
71. Five songs, annotated. Put together five tracks that tell the story of you two, and explain each choice as you listen to them together.
72. The bad portrait. Five minutes drawing their face in a notebook. The result doesn't matter at all — the time spent looking is the point.
73. The closing argument. Two minutes of courtroom advocacy, before an imaginary judge, proving that your partner is exceptional.
74. The three questions. Ask three open questions — their biggest current fear, a dream they've shelved — and listen without offering a single piece of advice.
75. One minute, heart to heart. Standing, arms around each other, chest against chest, breathing in the same rhythm for a full minute.
76. The digital curfew. Phone, tablet and laptop put away from seven in the evening until the following morning. All you have left to look at is the evening itself.
77. The exploit retold. Recount a recent success of theirs out loud, however small, in the vocabulary of a legend.
78. The word on the wrist. With a soft pen, write a heart, an initial or a word on the inside of their wrist. They'll see it all day.
79. Five minutes, no solutions. They unload about whatever is annoying them. You may not offer a solution, put it in perspective, or argue the other side.
80. The day ten years from now. Eyes closed, describe a perfect day the two of you will have in ten years, colours and smells included.

Sensual dares, to end the evening somewhere else

The last level, the one that stays on the threshold. Nothing here is explicit: these dares move the attention from performance to curiosity, which is exactly what a couple needs when desire has started to feel like an appointment. If you're after what comes next, it's in the 91 dirty dares.

81. The forgotten zone. Ten minutes of oiled massage on a place nobody ever massages: the scalp, the palms, the calves. And nothing follows it.
82. Three kisses to guess. Your partner is blindfolded. You choose three places on their body for a long kiss, and they have to name each one.
83. The ice cube down the back. An ice cube travels slowly from the nape of their neck to the small of their back, and you hold it there until it has melted entirely.
84. The ridiculous striptease. Two minutes of striptease, to deliberately absurd music: a cartoon theme, something from a lift.
85. Hands behind your back. Remove one item of their clothing — a sock, a loose T-shirt — using only your teeth, hands behind your back.
86. The chosen outfit. Your partner goes through your wardrobe and assembles what you'll wear for the next hour. You don't see it beforehand.
87. The voice note from the next room. Leave the room and send them a detailed voice message describing what you want to happen later.
88. Forehead to forehead. One minute rubbing the tips of your noses together, foreheads touching, eyes wide open. The nervous laughter is part of the dare.
89. The drop of honey. A drop of honey or syrup placed somewhere on their body, which you remove with your tongue without leaving a trace.
90. The reading aloud. Find a suggestive passage in a book and read it to them with every ounce of intonation you have.
91. The improvised pole. A door frame or a broom handle becomes a pole, and you owe them sixty seconds of choreography.
92. Three appointed points. Your partner names three precise places on their body, none of them sexual, where you must place a five-second kiss.
93. No touching allowed. You give them a dance up close, with one rule: they may not touch you, not once.
94. The sentence written by tongue. Write a short sentence with your tongue on their shoulder blade or stomach, letter by letter. They have to decipher it.
95. The clothed shower. You get under the shower fully dressed, and stay under the water for as long as your partner decides.
96. The confessed detail. Describe to them, in precise words, the detail of their body that has the strongest effect on you right now.
97. The feather and the scarf. Three minutes travelling over their body with a feather, a silk scarf or a brush. The obvious places are off limits.
98. Yes, no, maybe. Make them three proposals for the rest of the evening. They must refuse one, accept one, and leave the third undecided.
99. The bathroom photo. Shut yourself in the bathroom, take a highly suggestive photo of yourself, and send it while they wait in the next room.
100. The life model. Take a pose on the bed, dressed or half-dressed, while your partner pretends to sketch you. They look at you for a long time.
101. The caress in slow motion. One single caress, along an arm or a back, stretched over two full minutes. Not a second less.
102. The first-move fast. For two hours you may not initiate any physical contact at all. You're left with your eyes and your words to make them want to.
103. The soft bite. Take the skin of their collarbone, wrist or earlobe very gently between your teeth, leaving your breath on it.
104. The whisper in public. At a restaurant or in the street, lean into their ear, whisper something extremely explicit, and keep a straight face.
105. The blank cheque. Your partner makes whatever request they like, and you honour it. The safe word and the right to pass still sit above it.

The debt trap

A system of dares has its own way of turning against a couple: it converts affection into currency. The day one of you only cooks dinner because you lost, only says something kind to settle a score, the game has replaced the thing it was meant to restart.

The rule is simple. A dare exists to provoke what no longer happens by itself, never to excuse what no longer happens at all. If you notice that the only piece of attention all week was a dare, stop the game and ask the real question — that one doesn't get drawn from a jar.

What six months of playing actually changes

Arthur Aron showed that couples who regularly share novel activities escape the dopamine drop that follows the first few months. That isn't a metaphor: their brains replay, on a smaller scale, the chemistry of the beginning. The novelty doesn't even have to be spectacular — it only has to be unforeseen, which a randomly drawn dare guarantees by design.

You just need to know what the game doesn't do. It reinforces a couple in peacetime so they hold together in wartime. It repairs nothing during the war itself, and our games claim no more than that: faced with a betrayal or a settled resentment, a dare reads as misplaced lightness, and it makes worse what it meant to lift.

Your questions about funny dares

Which level should I pick for tonight?

Look at how tired the other person is before you draw. A first-level dare demands energy: offered to someone who's just come home from a punishing day, it lands as one more chore. On those evenings, draw from the service dares instead, or from the minute heart to heart. The right dare isn't the funniest one, it's the one they can receive at that particular moment.

My partner refuses to play — what now?

Don't push, and start with the silliest thing on the list. Someone who finds direct intimacy uncomfortable will refuse "look me in the eye for two minutes" and accept "impersonate a penguin" — even though the two produce the same closeness. The absurd is a Trojan horse: you laugh first, and get closer without noticing.

Isn't there a risk the game turns competitive?

There is, if contempt is already in the room. The unmistakable sign: the winner starts choosing dares that settle a score rather than raise a laugh. From that point it isn't a game any more, it's a reproach dressed up as a rule, and the jar is better put away.

Can a dare be used to defuse an argument?

During a minor spat, yes — it's one of the best tools there is, since a ridiculous dare breaks the escalation in about three seconds. On a real conflict, no. The dare will read as a way of not taking the subject seriously, and it will be received as contempt.

Do you need a game to play dares?

No. Any pretext will produce a loser: a bet on a match, a hand of cards, best of three at rock-paper-scissors. If you'd rather someone else handled the draw and the build in intensity, that's exactly the job the Oopsia games do.