It’s 1.30am on a Tuesday. The silence in your apartment reaches deafening levels, the loneliness wraps tightly around your neck. The hours of mindless scrolling on TikTok can’t keep your feelings at bay, so you make the dreaded choice.
You download Grindr. Immediately, you’re greeted with a grid of faces. You click through your preferences, choosing the age, height and location of the person you’re looking for. Not long after, you find your match, go to their house (naively hoping for connection), only to be back by 3am and in need of a shower. The apartment is still as empty as when you left.
This is an experience I’ve had too many times to count. It’s emblematic of where young gay men are at when it comes to online dating. Through the customisability and hyper-sexual nature of dating apps, we are left with interactions that feel more like transactions rather than courtship. If we continue to allow this to be the norm, I fear it will have bitter consequences.
For those who aren’t clued up on dating apps, users create their own profiles which include multiple photos. Nowadays, people can include details such as their location, age, height, relationship status, and even their weight. Then other users can create specific settings called “preferences” that allow you to filter people by the characteristics you desire. Yes, you can select a weight preference.
As a result, dating apps are no longer places to connect. They are meat markets where the best-looking bod gets the buyer’s attention. They are places where you can make more modifications than at a McDonald’s kiosk. Worst of all, I fear the huge companies behind these apps know this and choose to embrace it rather than creating a healthier environment.
So why does this all matter? Some people just want sex, so this will work for them. If you’re looking for a meaningful connection, go somewhere else. The problem is, there often isn’t somewhere else to go. It’s tricky to meet other queer people in real life. The pool is already tiny and it can feel like the only option is to go to a gay club. If that isn’t your thing, then you’re left with finding someone through a dating app.
The repercussion of this is that we are creating a generation of queer men with warped understandings of what dating looks like – a generation who will find love in the aesthetic value of someone, not for their heart. A generation who finds captions such as “No Asians” or “Masc only” commonplace. This breeds a way of thinking that affects intimacy and even self-worth – dating apps will truly make you feel like you don’t deserve love or simply that you’ll never find it.
Not to mention how all of these meaningless connections will make you feel in the moment. Walking home from a late-night encounter, I feel hollow. My heart carved out, my stomach slashed open, nothing left of me but broken parts. I feel the light of possibility grow dimmer and I’m swallowed into darkness.
I guarantee there are others who have had a similar walk home.
Yet, it doesn’t have to be all doom and gloom. The technology that we grew up with is maturing and through this, we, as a society, can continue to evolve our relationship to it to actually benefit from what it has to offer. Change will come as more pressure goes on the companies running these apps to do better.
Looking at newer apps such as Hinge (with an interface that allows users to show more of their personality), there’s definitely promise. Ultimately, we need to recognise there is an issue and that we need to do something about it. This all starts with education and we must focus on creating greater awareness within the queer community. Through this, we’ll be able to demand better experiences and hopefully find new ways to connect.
Until then, I’ll wait for 1.30am to come around, and do the same thing all over again.
Jake Tabata is a writer, director and actor whose work primarily examines queerness, disability and Japanese diaspora perspectives.
