Chapter 6
Mallory
Welcome to Grindr!
Please upload your pictures!
Pictures.
I quickly google what pictures should I use on Grindr, but I already have a hunch that the answer may cause a few minor hurdles for this mini deep-dive into the gay psyche (let’s call it that for now), what with me being a cisgender straight woman.
I assume I’m not Grindr’s typical participant, but I could be wrong. I often am.
An in-depth Buzzfeed article that I quickly scan tells me the photos I choose really depend on how I align, but a two-word post at the top of a Reddit support forum helps clarify what is expected.
Male nudes.
Liked by 13,212 people.
I feel a little uncomfortable. Something is telling me this venture is perhaps a tad too voyeuristic, that I’m prying, or even meddling. That dreaded word problematic circles somewhere in the depths of my consciousness.
I remind myself of the truth.
This is not problematic.
This is unhinged bravery.
The Buzzfeed article suggests that Grindr is perfect for people who are newly ‘out’, or simply questioning.
I’m simply questioning. I want to learn.
I do. Don’t journalists do this kind of thing all the time?
Learning is important, especially for the privileged.
In fact, I think more people should probably be doing this, to broaden their understanding of the experiences of others.
For example, I for one did not know that a ‘power bottom’ is both a sexual and a social position, according to Buzzfeed.
The politics of hook-up apps are apparently very nuanced.
Ronan groans, turning slightly.
His eyes remain shut, his lips vibrating on a long and extended outbreath.
After our first ever kiss, all those years ago, the first thing Ronan affectionately told me was that I needed to floss and not just brush.
My mother never encouraged me and my brother Nick to floss.
Just a quick scrub would suffice, she’d say.
She was a busy woman and didn’t care for materialistic things, like floss.
Ronan said it was completely disgusting to live like that, especially in adulthood, and still I’m not sure if he was being serious – it’s hard to know sometimes with all his Irish charm – but the outcome is that I now spend an extra five minutes doing it every night. He never mentioned it again.
He hasn’t brushed his teeth tonight, let alone flossed.
My mother loves Ronan.
I miss Nick.
Male nudes.
I don’t have any of those. Not one.
According to Buzzfeed, I don’t actually need pictures to proceed with creating an account.
I could use a blank profile, but having one means very few people will interact with me because a faceless/bodyless profile picture means I could be a total nutjob – and I need people to interact with me or it would defeat the whole point of this venture.
I want to give myself the opportunity to talk candidly and openly – to learn – and I don’t want to play games.
Straight to the point is what people on this app appreciate, apparently.
I suppose I could google pictures of a male porn star and borrow them – the actor doesn’t even need to be gay, just nude (maybe with a cute bookish quality so he’s still got me in his essence?) – but it might take me a while to find shots that look reasonably down-to-earth and not taken in some obvious and tacky studio (I don’t mean tacky in a derogatory way – I’m very sex positive of course – I just can’t find another word for it).
And I wouldn’t want to get done for copyright infringement.
I’m sure there’ll be something about using fabricated pictures in the Grindr small print, and anyway, authenticity is the whole point here. I want to appear as real as possible.
Ronan snorts. I look at him.
Ronan.
Ronan is real.
That’s interesting.
He turns again, this time flat onto his back, so everything splays out.
I glug the rest of my wine and, a little clumsily, open my phone and get up the camera app. I pause for a moment, looking through the screen, wondering if this is some kind of abuse. It’s not abuse. He’s my husband.
Meek Mal.
I begin to take a few (maybe twenty) photographs of him. Ronan loves to be photographed. And he looks good – really good. The lighting is perfect (thanks, Pooky!). And anyway we have in the past (maybe ten years ago) sent nudes to each other, so what really is the difference?
It’s funny actually.
The male body.
It looks funny.
Meek Mal does have fun too!
This is bravery.
Unhinged (drunk) bravery.
I open up my photo gallery and half squint at the grid of beige and pink: Ronan’s most strikingly made of Tailor Tack and Camomile, but also the other Farrow )
No. Sounds like a builder. Which I’m sure is a thing – a vibe – but I’m not sure I want it to be my vibe. Speaking of, what do I want as my vibe? I feel a little flurry of excitement. I can be anyone. This is. new. Different.
Am I having fun?
I settle for:
Chat?;)
Nice and simple, subtle, though I wouldn’t go so far as to say classy. But definitely restrained. And discreet.
I navigate to the Profile Grid tab on the app, and I’m met with an abundance of squares.
My hands begin to shake again as drunken adrenaline takes hold of me, infecting my bloodstream.
I scan through each one. There’s a variety of pictures: some faces, smiling, gentle and happy; moustaches, earrings, beards, crotch shots in boxers, nipples, sunsets, fists, leather.
It is so interesting, a patchwork of the beauty and complexity of the human experience, where people can truly be themselves.
Each profile name gives a brief glimpse of the person behind the square: 24 shy, DNA Injector, ￡￡￡, Chillin, Timmy, Mr Fugly Slut, Fat4Fem, Masc ONLY, RiceDaddy, Whites 2 the Front, Broke but Cute, Tina, Tina, Tina.
There are a lot of men on here called Tina. There are measurements too. Not just size, but geographical distances. I look at the top row of profiles, the ones nearest to my current location.
My adrenaline peaks.
They are so close.
Top4Btm
129 metres away
Perhaps I know Top4Btm. I can’t tell since his picture is of an armpit. But 129 metres means he is most likely on this street, or one adjacent.
I don’t know all the gay men round here, and have remained in the house a lot over the past seven years, but the idea that this sort of underground network allows people to meet, and talk, honestly, makes my skin prickle.
What a joyful thing. A place where people are free to explore and discuss their desires outside the gaze of heteronormative ideals and societal norms. Without shame. Incredible.
Virginia Woolf would have loved Grindr.
Come to think of it, the whole Bloomsbury set would have. Duncan Grant, Maynard Keynes, the lot of them would have had the time of their lives. Liberation and self-actualisation in its highest form.
SxyRodent
348 metres away
SxyRodent is a little further away. His picture is of an actual face.
However, sadly, it’s one I don’t recognise.
At least I don’t think I do. He has a sort of youthful glow about him – and slight danger in his eyes.
He is a little ratty actually, so his name makes sense.
Come to think of it, he actually looks about seventeen.
I wonder what the terms and conditions say about age.
Surely you can just lie about it – that must be a design fault?
I wonder if his mother knows he’s on here.
I could go on Mumsnet and see if there are concerned parents out there, if they are aware. Concerned Parents of Grindr Users.
No.
I cannot control other people’s choices. This is the truth I am seeing.
The truth!
CashPig
412 metres away
CashPig looks a little older and is wearing some kind of mask with ears – he actually looks quite cute and playful.
I don’t want to stereotype, but he is what I imagined I’d find on here.
Behind the mask his eyes look a little sad, a wealth of pain perhaps lurking under the pig face.
Make people cry. I click on his profile to see a list of letters, tags, that make no sense to me.
NPNC. RN. UC. WS. NSA.
Discreet.
I spend a few minutes eyeing up some potential conversationalists, seeing if their tags make any sense.
Discreet. Discreet.
So many discreet.
This is perfect.