Tiny bottles of artisanal poppers on silver platters, held aloft by shirtless models, trim a gleaming path through the crowd of B-list gay celebrities on the top floor of the Standard Hotel. Outside, fireworks burst across the Manhattan skyline. It was June 2016, I was 24, and it was my first Pride in Modern York City. I was at Slumbr, a party hosted by the homosexual sex-and-dating app Grindr, which boasted themed suites planned by artists such as Juliana Huxtable, Jacolby Satterwhite and Stewart Uoo, their bathtubs brimming with booze.
By the end of the night, the party had mostly emptied out. A pretty boy found me wandering in the hall and invited me to his room for a drink with Joel Simkhai, Grindr’s founder. I sat down on the couch and someone’s tongue shot into my mouth. At first, I was too surprised to resist. I looked to the young man for help, but he had already begun to undress. As Joel went to fix us drinks at the bar, I bolted out the door. It wasn’t the first time I had dash from a Grindr affair, and it wouldn’t be the last.
If Slumbr marked the beginning of my life in New York, it also marked the end of something: six months earlier, Simkhai
>Who am I to inform others to pick up a hobby or undertake something “complex”?
I don't produce this assertion as some form of gatekeeping, and I don't expect everyone to have the equal values. I don't contain the answers, but I want
What’s The Deal With Grindr Flakes?
A conversation with that guy who disappeared…
By Bobby Box
My name is Bobby Box and I am a Grindr flake.
I’m not active on the apps right now, but let me tell you, when I was on the digital meat market I was flakier than a stale croissant.
I exhibited my worst behaviour when I first moved to Toronto roughly two years ago. As every Grindr user knows, when you’re visiting or new to an area, you’re a shiny fresh toy that all the boys hope for to play with. This rush of attention is addictive, and I was more than joyful to chat and send a not many suggestive photos. In most cases, this was the furthest I would go.
I wanted to move further, but my insecurities always prevented me. Do my images accurately capture my appearance? Is my apartment immaculate enough? Do I suck at sex? Am I going to have to deliver on the filthy things I texted?
These are some of the many thoughts that raced through my brain after agreeing to a hookup. The noise from these thoughts – merged with the sexual preparation, making sure my apartment was in order, and the nervousness that comes with rendezvous someone new – would always outweigh my desires.
Anthony, 28, has only ha
ByChris Staudinger
Strange things happen when you’re a queer infant in church. One minute, the holy spirit is lighting the hair of the disciples on heat and the next, I have a sudden and inexplicable erection. Once in church I wished that everyone in the building who was like me would have a luminous beam of light rising to the sky from where they sat, a beam that only we with the beams could see, and no one else. “Like me” meant, for the most part, queer and different. I knew that out of the hundreds of people sitting in that church, I couldn’t be the only one, and I wanted to know who they were. It bothered me that we were invisible to each other.
Can you imagine the reaction of my childhood self if he was told that such a miracle of technology would endure in a mere 20 years? Because it does, in a lot of ways, with Grindr and Scruff and the other gay dating/hookup apps that are free and free to people with smartphones. If I’m in a crowded room (or a church), I can grab out my phone and find the signal of other gay people nearby. The technology goes beyond my childhood dream, and we can have conversations, laugh, share naked pictures, and even hurt one another, without anyo
There'sanew flake in town, and he's popping up everywhere -- bars, parties and social events. But, mostly, he's on the dating and hookup apps. He's the cute guy that flirts appreciate crazy, but never quite commits to seeing you in person.
Like most people, I'm running in to this new flake way everywhere I leave. He doesn't just respond to your texts; he actually initiates them (a sure sign from normal guys that they're into you). He tells you how hot he thinks you are, and sends loads of pics and goes crazy over yours.
But meet? Excellent luck.
Let's give this New Gay Flake a nickname: The Typist. Because he'd rather type out vowels and consonants into cyberspace than talk and chuckle in real space.
The Typist never, EVER suggests meeting, even after he tells you how much he wants you. It will always be you who makes the proposal to meet and his replies will fall into three general categories:
1. He'll ignore your suggestion. He'll keep texting as if you never asked him to coffee, drinks or dinner. At first, you ponder maybe your chat didn't go through. You check and, yep, sure enough, there it is -- right below his text telling you how he can't wait to see you. You ask