Grindr

At the recommendation of the guy who cuts my hair, I downloaded Grindr onto my phone two weeks ago. I shot and uploaded a seemingly flattering photo—nice Idaho boy; marriage material—and within one minute I was getting chat messages. “Cute,” “Great profile pic,” “You’re hot,” or, what I’d come to realize is ubiquitous, “Hey.” It was thrilling. Even the disingenuous ones appealed to my vanity and my libido. But I didn’t respond to anyone at first. I wasn’t sure what to say, and I didn’t want to give the impression of being glued to my iPhone (even though I was). But then I eased into it and started writing back. “Hey. What’s up?” I’d usually say. Eighty percent of the conversations stopped there. For the others, there’d be two or three exchanges before I’d get asked, “Got any other pics?” I didn’t have any other photos of myself worth sharing. I’d already spent enough effort on my profile one. So those chats ended there, too.

I had standards. I wanted to get to know someone. “So you work in education?” I asked, based on the info supplied in a profile. Or, “That song is the greatest karaoke song in existence,” I said to one guy who listed lyrics I recognized. To someone whose photo was taken on an idyllic summit, I wrote, “Wherever you are looks so nice right now.” Those all went unanswered, and probably for good reason. But it didn’t bother me too much. The hope that there’d eventually be a taker, and the attention from the other people, was enough to keep me logging in even if it wasn’t yet getting me anywhere.

One night I was riding the bus home from dinner and got a message from a fantastically attractive man who offered no identifying traits—no profile name, height, weight, location, nothing. “Hey.” “Hey,” I replied. “What’s up?” he asked. I’d had a couple glasses of wine. “I’m riding the bus, probably best not to use Grindr here.” “Why?” “Uh, I don’t know, weird sidelong glances from strangers?” “LOL!!!” Then we shared our locations. He was heading out for a drink in the East Village, and I told him I was going to bed. “You ever come to the east vill?” “Yeah,” I lied, “I’ll be there tomorrow.” “Let’s meet up!!” he said. “We’re all set then, I’ll see you tomorrow” I wrote. This earned a quadruple-chinned emoticon (“:)))))”) in reply.

In my left-brain I knew the plans were probably bogus, but the next morning I attended to my body hair and picked out my best pair of underwear anyway. Sitting at my desk, I checked Grindr compulsively to see if he’d logged on. He hadn’t. I finished a bunch of errands after work and then got dinner, near to the East Village. I saw that he’d logged on, but he wasn’t writing to me. At 9:30 I wrote, with attempted nonchalance, “Hey, are we going to make this happen?” And that was the end of that.

I got home and had a few chats with other people, which all ended when I was asked for more photos. I realized at this point that exchanging a bunch of photos was Grindr protocol, but I just didn’t have the guts. This is mostly because I’m not a sexy photo type. When I try to make a sexy looking face, it leaves the impression that part of it is paralyzed. So before bed I deleted Grindr from my phone. I laid there and felt oddly cleansed, as if I’d regained my footing from a potentially dangerous stumble. I would wake up the next morning better poised to find the fulfillment, connection, and meaning I now was certain I valued most in a relationship, even at the cost of maybe a few more months or years of celibacy. I would be patient.

*

I woke the next morning and worked at my desk for about two hours before I re-downloaded Grindr. I was itchy for the attention. This time I felt like an old hand. Immediately upon receiving messages, I either ignored or responded. I initiated a few with guys I found attractive, and I didn’t take offense when I didn’t hear anything back. That afternoon I went into my bathroom and took a shirtless photo. I finessed until the light favored my tricep, in hopes that it would distract from my bony, concave chest. When the next guy asked me for additional photos, I cropped out my face and sent it to him. “Very nice,” he said. “Send me more sexy pics!” “Sorry dude,” I said, “that’s as sexy as it’ll get around here.” (Line in the sand.) That chat was finished.

The next night I was at a party where I suddenly found myself in a nauseating state of drunkenness. I left, walking the three miles home. The cool breeze abated my nausea but didn’t undo the effects of the alcohol. I got home, logged on, and a few chats quickly materialized. One guy asked what brought me to Grindr. It was 2:30 AM, I was in my kitchen pouring a glass of water and eating a piece of bread, and I wrote, “I don’t know… desire and loneliness?” Then he asked for more photos. I sprawled out on my bed and waited fifteen minutes. “U there?” he asked.  I sent him my shirtless photo. “Got any nudie pics?” I waited another 10 minutes, breathing my hot alcohol breath into the room and staring at the ceiling—“Still there?” he asked. I got up, went to the bathroom to take nudie pics, and then I sent them. I’d decided in those few minutes to suppress my critical faculties, to act impulsively and just keep typing. And once I made that decision to commit, it got kind of exciting. Ten minutes later I was on my way to his apartment.

The number of guys I’ve met at bars or parties and gone home with wouldn’t fill the first page of a little black book. I just haven’t understood how to make the transaction: how to find the midpoint between expressing crude, overt interest, and mucking it all up with too much vague Midwestern friendliness, all while minimizing the risk of bruising my ego. But Grindr, combined with a state of non-sobriety, made it so easy. And even though I was not good at taking “sexy pics,” I discovered I had a real knack for sexting. Those messages—“Hot,” “What r u, a size queen?”—they poured right out of my index finger.

While I was walking to this guy’s house, I remembered one of my first adult romantic pursuits. I was 22, during Friendster’s heyday, and had developed a crush on an actor/comedian I was messaging with but had never met in person. I found his website and signed up for his newsletter. This is how I heard he was throwing an after party with his friends for an improv show they’d all done. It was an open-to-all invitation, not a personal one, and I decided to go. And against all rules of logic I decided not to warn him that I was coming. I flipped my scarf over my shoulder and called up two lady friends.

It’s so embarrassing to picture: breathlessly anxious, standing at the door of that apartment by the BQE giggling with my girlfriends, trying to figure out how, exactly, I’d explain my presence once I got inside. I remember the stupid Urban Outfitters hat that I wore, the gel I lathered into my hair, the hand-me-down puffy jacket that was the warmest coat I had, and the chunky Banana Republic cashmere scarf I thought was so luxurious. After I was let in, I singled him out. Ta-da! It was clear immediately that I shouldn’t have come—he wasn’t interested in me at all—but thankfully he was gracious. I spent the evening hanging out with my friends and not talking to many other people. I should have left after one drink, but I stayed until after my friends left and after I'd exhausted conversation with the few people I met. For a while I stood by myself out in the cold on a corner of the patio and smoked cigarettes one after another. I wanted to delay how I knew I would feel when I headed home, which was a whole new territory from disappointment, more than simply misjudging a risk I took. It was a type of humiliation that was then new to me.

What, I wondered as I conjured up that uncomfortable memory, would my 22-year-old self think of my 30-year-old self, walking over to a stranger’s house at 3:15 AM for a hookup? That 22-year-old was pretty sure I’d co-own a brownstone with my partner by now. But maybe he’d see some measure of progress in how at least I learned how to navigate a hookup? Maybe.

I got one more message from my Grindr guy. He wanted to know if he should answer the door naked. That gave me pause, and I thought about turning around. “If you want to?” “Ha, ok,” he replied. I arrived at his building and let my finger hover the buzzer for a few seconds. What were my intentions here? Was I really this horny? Surely I could have just gone to sleep— Suppress, suppress, I thought, just see how it goes. He buzzed me in and I climbed up to his floor. He wasn’t naked when he answered the door. We shook hands, we stripped down, and from there it was a quick, mostly nullifying transaction, not aided by the bourbon punch, beers, and wine I’d enjoyed earlier in the night. Talking for the few minutes afterward, while I got dressed and skimmed his bookshelf to find several overlapping interests, was probably the best part. It struck me that this might be an interesting start to a friendship. Then I said, “Well, that was fun!” and I left.

Not too long ago, I would have expected that I’d feel as if I'd hit rock bottom after that. But to my surprise I felt no shame or guilt. I felt fine. I said, out loud to myself at 4 AM on the empty streets, “That was easy.” I couldn’t say that it was truly fun, but it was easy. I got home, brushed my teeth, and passed out. When I woke up the next afternoon, I wasn’t prepared—but I wasn’t dismayed, either—to find the evidence of my tryst still open on my phone. But it did amplify my hangover.

After I used Grindr like this, for its intended propose, it became dramatically less interesting. The chats that came in over the next couple days didn’t seem tinged with thrilling possibility anymore. They seemed lamely calculating, sharing the same base common denominator. The faces all began to look familiar. I stopped responding to anyone, stopped checking in as frequently, which gave me some downtime to figure out what exactly I was doing in the first place.

* 

Anyone who knows me probably agrees that I’m a bit of a prude, and few would assume that I’m cut out for Grindr. However much I share the easily exploitable, arguably biological, seed-planting urge of its users, I’m sure I have more of a biological urge towards companionship. This is what led me there in the first place. Before a date, or when I go to a gay bar, or when I’d respond to a chat on Grindr, I can’t shake this feeling: I always fast-forward, painting a detailed picture of the long term. It’s why the breakups I’ve experienced have been so devastating. I create an entire imaginary history from just a couple details, sometimes even before we’ve met face to face, and by the time I’m a year or two into the relationship it's begun to feel criminally real. It’s misery to sleep with someone who doesn’t inspire that in me, and it’s misery to be forced to abandon it during the collapse of a relationship. I know it’s not ideal. And this tendancy probably irritates the crap out of Grindr’s most avid users as well as the more forward thinking gay guys I know—there’s one profile description that says, “Just because I messaged you doesn’t mean we’re going to get married,” which, okay, okay—but it’s what keeps me from becoming suicidal about my future, at least with regards to romance.

Which leaves me struggling to figure out how to close this up. I’d like report that I deleted Grindr from my life, but I haven’t yet. My interest is waning, but I still open it up every once in a while for the faint rush of possibility I feel when I see who might have messaged me or which new faces might appear. And this makes me wonder what I should do, besides transferring that energy to lustful gazing at whatever interesting and attractive man happens to be sitting across the subway from me, guys who might not be gay and, if gay, might not be single. At least Grindr can, to some extent, weed out the unavailable. The dating mechanisms I know—online sites, hookup apps, even gay bars—are engineered to keep us constantly looking towards the door for whatever greener pasture might walk in, which further complicates the difficulty of managing expectations. Should I resist those sites, apps, and bars? They're not all horrible—some of it has been fun; I have no real regrets yet—but I know from talking to my gay friends that I'm not alone in feeling perplexed.

Before I blocked him (I blocked anyone I recognized), I saw one of my exes on Grindr. I don’t speak to him, and in hindsight it’s clear that one of the many reasons we were incompatible is that we don’t understand each other very well. But maybe his younger self would be surprised to find his older self logged onto Grindr, too? Or maybe Grindr is simply the future, and maybe I’ll get used to it.