It’s midnight on a Friday, and I stumble home after an hour at an incredibly lame Pride Night. Me and my homegirls tried to season the function, but not even we can shake ass to pop girly remixes under oontz oontz beats. We have to get this white man off aux. How did not a single Beyoncé song get spun? Was Nicki busy that night? I understand Rihanna has pissed us all off with the lack of an album drop, but not even “Umbrella” made an appearance? My lesbian friends were too nice to say they wanted to leave, but I could tell the overwhelming population of gay men and straight couples had taken its toll. We say our goodbyes.
A wasted buzz and pregame lead me to my bedroom, alone with my thoughts. Boredom overtakes me as the contents of a shot glass did only moments earlier. The night’s still young. I had assignments due at 11:59. I have a test on Monday. Maybe I’ll study? As I contemplate cushioning my GPA, my phone dings with an infamous high pitched tone. It’s the notification sound of a godforsaken app: Grindr. I will get no work done tonight. Instead, I will spend my evening admiring a stranger’s body.
I open the app and am met with a sea of white torsos, a snowstorm of blossoming six packs. I can’t help but giggle as I imagine everyone flexing for dear life in their bathroom mirrors. Boys making sure their Calvin Klein covered bulges are just the right amount of visible. Bios are littered with “looking for fun!,” “fwb?,””who can host?” Or, as I see it, assorted ways of confessing to each other that we are all lonely. There are so many fish in this digital sea. With a swipe of my finger, I grow gills and iridescent fins: I become one of them.
Immediately, the taps start rolling in. Tapping on Grindr is the gay equivalent of poking someone on Facebook. You get notified that you’ve been tapped, then it’s up to you whether you want to tap back, pull off the band-aid and message them or just ignore the gesture entirely. Educating straight people on Grindr wasn’t on my 2023 bingo card. Anyways, after the taps, the messages soon follow because 1.) Have you seen me? and 2.) I am a walking experience. Black skin in the gay community is a kink in itself. The texts range from:
“I’ve never tried chocolate”
And you won’t be trying it tonight.
“Bbc????” x5
Why are white men so obsessed with the British Broadcasting Corporation?
“Into raceplay?”
I was wrong before.
I am not swimming in bodies. I am drowning in them. These boys are not merely fish in this digital sea, but piranhas. Cold-blooded creatures who try to consume you. They savor flesh until you sink, bite into skin until you bleed lust. I am more meat than man. I am more body part, bucket list conquest, than person. To be Black … on Grindr … in Ann Arbor is to be simultaneously craved and unwanted.
I know what you’re thinking: Just delete the damn app! And I do, over, and over and over again, but deep down we all long for community … touch … connection. An 18-year-old version of me opened Grindr under the safety of his blankets. In the dead of night, he did what he had to do to feel alive. When your family can’t hold your secrets, maybe a middle-aged stranger can. Maybe he’ll hold you, and your lies, and it will feel right.
Until it doesn’t.
The app doesn’t simply stain my screen. It bleeds into the real world. Necto on a Friday night is just Grindr in Ann Arbor plus Katy Perry. The music is whiter than the boys littering the sticky dance floor. So I grind to EDM and pretend to know every word to “Oops, I Did it Again.” The nights are only satisfying if I pretend they are.
I pretend not to hear the colonized chorus of:
“Can you vogue?” “I’ve never been with a Black guy before!”
“Slay the house down boots sis!” “I don’t date Black guys, but you’re different.” “bbc?”
“Is it as big as they say?” “no Blacks, no femmes” “Can you do a death drop???”
And a direct quote from vers4now who is 59 miles away (not nearly far enough): “I need a big sexy Black man with a big juicy c*** to worship.”
Grindr in Ann Arbor is a clear representation of queerness on this campus: a space meant for all MLM that dissolves into a playground for attractive white queers. An apparent hotspot for liberal diversity that just divulges into microaggressions, exclusion, and fetishization. Why am I always begging for space in my own safe spaces?
The app that shall no longer be named has since been deleted. Honestly, I’m still not sure whether this is a permanent solution, or a temporary fix. For better or worse, it has been there for me entirely too long. Will I still go to Live or Necto on Pride Night? Yeah. I will just hold my people closer than ever. We’ll clink glasses before every shot. We’ll make our own music with aggressively shouted “ayes!” and “periods.” We’ll dance in close contact, and ignore the white men watching hungrily. We’ll walk home together, and fall asleep in each other’s arms. I refuse to continuously beg for safe spaces, I’m learning how to create my own.
MiC Columnist James Scarborough can be reached at jscar@umich.edu.