It all started with a meme I saw recently of Squidward from Spongebob Squarepants.
Lying flat on his bed, the picture featured a depressed-looking Squidward listening to music with the Grindr logo on his phone screen. It was captioned: ‘Gays in the midst of yet another existential crisis.’
It was hilarious, and it was relatable – Squidward’s sad state of being is one I’m well acquainted with. Even though I actually haven’t used Grindr for the nine months since I entered a relationship, seeing Squidward like that really gave me a pang for the old days, but I don’t think that’s because I miss being in an existential crisis.
There’s something else going on.
From the age of, let’s say, 15 I started seeking out other gay guys on social media in my area, starting with boys from other schools in my town before eventually stretching out further afield. This was all before I had a smartphone and apps like Tinder and Grindr, so I kept it traditional: I added people I fancied on Facebook.
When I got my first smartphone when I was 18, I downloaded Grindr the same day. It was an app I’d heard everyone talking about (both straight people and gay people alike), and I wanted to see what the fuss was about. This was a natural progression from one mode of finding gay men to another, but I have to say the tone of my interactions dramatically changed.
Grindr is a mixed bag. The stereotypes about conversations solely comprised of dick pics aren’t necessarily fair... but they aren’t a million miles away from the truth. Personally, I would characterise dick pics as having a non-threatening omnipresence on the app.
“Shockingly, it turned out having an app on your phone full of like-minded individuals who compliment you and want to have sex with you is quite the thrill.”
Shockingly, it turned out having an app on your phone full of like-minded individuals who compliment you and want to have sex with you is quite the thrill. After some time on Grindr, it wasn’t long until I was on the likes of Tinder, Hornet, and Chappy. I even a brief foray with Daddyhunter.
Using apps like these became a central part of my day as routine as brushing my teeth... if I brushed my teeth every 20 minutes. I can confidently say I checked Grindr almost every day for seven years.
Now, I won’t go so far as to say that every gay guy acts this way but I’m certainly not unique; this is an established pattern of behaviour amongst my peers and beyond. Nor is it the proviso of queer people – dating apps are as ubiquitous in heterosexual spaces, almost an inevitable part of being single in the digital age.
I am off the apps at the moment. I’ve deleted the apps before – most often in a short-lived attempt to overhaul my life – but this time around it’s because me and my boyfriend decided we weren’t going to see other people.
At the risk of sounding unbearably smug, my current relationship is built on respect and affection. Because of this, I’ve drifted away from my love affair with dating apps – and drifted away the validation I got from them. The old thrill I got from checking them had slowly dissipated – not just because I was having regular sex but also because our relationship contains all the things I got from the apps anyway, and a lot of things I didn’t besides.
So why do I miss them? If dating apps are for finding a partner and I have a really great one, then why do I feel as though I’m missing out?
“Checking dating apps was ritualistic and impulsive and undoubtedly provided me with a sense of validation and sexual gratification.”
Gay men are often stereotyped – and we often perpetuate this ourselves on social media – as chaotic, insecure and neurotic, that we’re constantly horny or we’ve internalised so much shame we’re inevitably self-destructive. The fact that I’ve been meeting men online since the tender age of 15 does rather indicate that I might be all of the above, but I wouldn’t say that they’re my defining feature.
Checking dating apps was ritualistic and impulsive and undoubtedly provided me with a sense of validation and sexual gratification – so why now that I have a man I love to do those things for me (in a non-transactional way and everything!) do I feel a pang for Grindr Squidward?
I think it isn’t really about sex. On the surface Grindr is all about sex – but if you dig a little deeper it’s also about finding companionship, connecting with people, and a sense of belonging.
Okay, all those things are about sex too – but the point is that dating apps, for me at least, were never about purely hooking up. They were about connecting with other queer men; a way of reaching out to the wider community and establishing connections using the sole medium where I knew everyone there was like me.
Looking back, my first forays into internet dating were touchingly innocent: as a teen it would have been very difficult for me to pursue ‘traditional’ teen romances like other kids do.
Straight people can mostly explore relationships in public spaces, at school or social gatherings, without fear. As a young gay man, it wasn’t that simple: because there simply weren’t that many gay people around, and when there were the risks of open flirtation were obvious. From an early age, online dating provided a safe place for me to not only form romantic connections but – crucially – to find people who were like me to connect with, something which felt nigh impossible at the time.
As I got older, using apps definitely took on a different tone but they were still the means for me to connect with other queer men. I’ve formed a plethora of different relationships on dating apps over the years: friendships, long-term boyfriends, toxic on-off fuck buddies, but they were all born from a need to connect with others – because even sex is a mode of connecting.
For me the image of a queer man alone in his room with a dating app doesn’t conjure up feeling of loneliness because the apps themselves are a kind of oxymoron – they can be used by lonely people, but you’re not alone when you’re on them.
“As sad as it may sound to some, dating apps formed an inextricable part of my sexual development and discovery of my sense of self as a gay man”
I’ve definitely had some lonely times – and times of Squidwardesque existential crisis – where I’ve turned to Grindr and it wasn’t necessarily the healthiest course of action, but in my experience the loneliness and existential dread of being a gay teenager was mitigated through online dating.
While they may seem seedy to some and I’m definitely not in a rush to download them again, Grindr will always have a place in my heart. As sad as it may sound to some, dating apps formed an inextricable part of my sexual development and discovery of my sense of self as a gay man. They provided me with access to a world I otherwise might not have known.
So, I owe a lot to the apps and in some ways, they’ve shaped my life, I see the years on them as a journey of self-discovery where I gained a lot of things I liked – attention, sex and validation – and realised what I needed: security, emotional intimacy and respect).
I realise that my fondness for them indicates that being in a healthy relationship isn’t the norm for me, but they were the tools for me to recognise what I need to be healthy and in that way.
Like all the clichés about learning something from every failed relationship, I learned a lot from my relationship with dating apps. And for that I’ll always miss them like an ex.
Timothy Gallagher is a journalist, writer and anthropology graduate. Follow him on Twitter at @timmyyyggg
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