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But Grindr is not about being clever, nor is it about the profundity of your conversations; it’s about marketing yourself as a person to have sex with, rather than a person to get to know.
Its beauty standards are as unapologetically mainstream — and often racist — as they come: chiseled, young, Caucasian,“masc.” On Grindr, though, there’s little time to bask in your insecurities or your politics.
His apartment was ridiculously lush, a lower Fifth Avenue penthouse teeming with money and power and plastered in fancy art.
So it made sense when I later found out he was a famous visual artist, more prominent in the ’80s.
I downloaded the app a few weeks into my freshman year in New York City, and it became — as it has for many gay millennial men — my first introduction to sex, a digitized But it’s certainly a far cry from what I was expecting.
In moving to New York City from a suburb of Baltimore, where the prospects for sexual activity for a gay teen are dire, I imagined I was migrating to a place where queer folk commingled in gay bars, a place where the telegenic gay romances we were trained to pursue — Glee’s Kurt and Blaine, specifically — took place in real life, for everyday bow-tie-wearing urbanites.
Older queer people have cautioned that the culture has ever been thus, from anonymous cruising in parks to the piers, bathhouses, phone lines, and today.
Casual sex is a fact of life for single people in the city, a place crowded with young, horny men reluctant to settle down — and all the more so when presented with this digital watering hole of sexual conquests.“But I’ve grown really complacent about fulfilling urges using an app, one that encourages my more hermitlikeelsewhere.And sometimes the thought creeps up on me, usually late at night, as I melancholically read Virginia Woolf and sip that Two Buck Chuck, that I’ve gotten too accustomed to this technology, both a gleeful perpetrator and self-loathing victim of the In Grindr’s marriage of the high tech and the primordial, its relentless focus on ease, it can seem almost too transactional, too watered down.When he asked who my favorite artists were, I mortifyingly responded that I was particularly fond of “Cindy Sherman and, um, Chagall.” As I left his place, he shoved 0 in my back pocket, slapping my ass for good measure.I didn’t moralize this experience at the time, and I try not to now, but I enjoyed how immensely powerful the experience made me feel, not like a boyish object at another’s mercy, but like an enterprising exhibitionist, acquiring conquests and stories I’d have for “I like to exchange flattering words, some explicit photos, and just have a steamy conversation where I can get off from the comfort and safety of my bed,” my friend Ethan says.