I’m tired of being shamed for using Grindr – gay sex is not dirty – Metro.co.uk

This week, I was suspended from Grindr. My crime? Impersonation – of myself.

That’s right, at some point this week someone declared me an imposter and reported me for catfishing. Confused? Me too. To be honest, I found the whole thing rather hilarious and posted a screenshot to Twitter, catching the attention of a few thousand people.

I’d have a laugh, contest the suspension, then continue my absent-minded late-night scrolling – or so I thought. While many found it funny (there were several ‘master baker’ and ‘soggy bottom’ tweets), I also received a number of messages which felt inadvertently shaming.

I have no doubt that many were meant to be received as compliments, but comments such as ‘Grindr is gross, surely you don’t need to be using that’, ‘I wouldn’t expect a boy like you to be using Grindr’ and ‘you can do so much better than that disgusting app’ stung rather than soothed.

Now, I’m among the first to acknowledge Grindr’s foibles. In my view, it divides the queer community into unhelpful tribes, can encourage unhealthy or predatory behaviour – from persistent and unwelcome advances to taking undue risks. Until recently, it even allowed users to separate profiles according to race.

It is intensely problematic – but it can also be a tool for connecting people, helping them make friendships, go on dates and yes, have sex. It’s the latter of these for which Grindr has gained its notoriety, which, to be frank, I’m beyond tired of.

When I was younger, gay sex was something that was never spoken about. Boys and girls kissed each other in the playground, but it didn’t even cross my mind that I could kiss a boy. At secondary school, same-sex intimacy was the topic of clownery and derogatory speculation.

As I became more fascinated by the whole idea of sex, I soon learned that there were precious few places where my sexuality could be explored freely. In my late teens, Grindr burst onto the scene – and while I was closeted, I found it to be something of a lifeline. No previous apps had come close to the connections to the gay community that it offered.

While now I can often get frustrated by endless faceless profiles, as a teenager I was one of them. I met and made friends with various people who I’d never have talked to otherwise, and I was able to explore in a discreet, safe and consensual way.

Not all of the people I spoke to became sexual partners – rather, this was a method of engaging with a community of peers that sometimes felt very far away.

The first time I heard a derogatory comment towards Grindr was from a gay person when I was at university. They described it as the ‘seedy underground’ of the gay community. Since then, I heard similar things from many other gay people and quickly figured out that Grindr was something that most of us used but that none of us really talked about. 

To talk about it was to ‘out’ yourself as ‘dirty’, or ‘sleazy’.

I don’t blame them. Queer people learn quickly that both their sexuality and their sex lives must be secret to protect themselves from society’s blushes, as well as from the threat of violence from others. It’s, therefore, no surprise that we’ve learned to police ourselves.

Thankfully, attitudes are gradually changing and it’s easier than it’s ever been to explore our desires more freely.

There’s a slow move toward inclusive education, groundbreaking queer representation in the media (including intimate scenes in shows such as It’s A Sin which were previously unthinkable) and, of course, the advent of dating apps. Despite all of this, we still judge one another for how we express our sexuality – the messages I received this week are proof of that.

The more we suppress young sexualities, the more we embed a cycle of shame, which can lead to young queer people being forced into dangerous situations as they tentatively try to explore their desire.

I’ve been alarmed by the number of queer people I’ve talked to who have shared similarly upsetting experiences where people have taken advantage of their naivety. It’s beyond time we started actually talking about gay sex – how it works, what it means, and how to keep safe.

Gay men acting on their sexuality is not ‘disgusting’ and nor is it ‘gross’, as was suggested by the messages I received (from both straight and gay people). Such language rests on outdated, homophobic ideology which puts us at two ends of a scale – either we’re the hyper-sanitised gay best friends or extreme sexual deviants.

Grindr can be whatever people need it to be, and they shouldn’t be made to feel embarrassed for using it

It is really sad to see fellow queer people policing these nonsensical stereotypes within our own community, but that’s how shame works. It’s learned behaviour that slips beneath our skin, and it certainly got under mine.

In my early twenties I became a serial deleter of Grindr, ever fearful it would be discovered on my phone and I’d become the subject of ridicule or exclusion. I’d bury the app in folders among the most mundane others so that nobody would happen across it if they borrowed my phone.

I’d join in with denigrating Grindr among both straight and gay friends to feel like I fitted in, but with every dig I fed my own shame about the fact that I’d be logging on when I got home.

It wasn’t until I found a group of queer friends in the last few years that I finally began to feel comfortable. Shedding shame isn’t easy but being surrounded by people who spoke freely of their sexual exploits and mishaps freed me from feeling I needed to be embarrassed by the fact that I have a sex life.

I only recently began talking about my (mis)adventures with my best friends, and the reciprocal excitement from them has been truly transformative for me.

Grindr is a part of my dating life, and I am no longer interested in hiding it. To do so continues the cycle of shame – keeping parts of myself in the shadows for fear that I’ll be judged.

That’s why I found the replies to my jovial tweet uncomfortable. I’ve worked hard to free myself from feeling ashamed, and the words in those messages are ones that I previously used to define my feelings towards my sexuality.

Grindr can be whatever people need it to be, and they shouldn’t be made to feel embarrassed for using it. It might not be for everyone, and that’s fine, but I take issue with the suggestion that some people are ‘better than’ Grindr – or any dating app for that matter.

We all have individual needs, wants and desires, and we should be allowed to express and explore them however (and with whomever) we please. It’s about time we stopped policing each other’s sex lives.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing James.Besanvalle@metro.co.uk. 

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