By continuing to use our site, you agree to our Private Policy and Terms of Use. Much like Facebook and Twitter, Grindr is a community of people interacting politically, revealing how our desires are shaped and politicized by culture. Why am I on it? What do I want? Who do I talk to? Which profile picture should I use? Where should I hook up? When am I going to delete this?
For those of us who use Grindr, these questions probably sound familiar. I know that they haunt my subconscious pretty much every time I load the app. Some of my friends even like to joke that I spend so much time talking about Grindr, as opposed to talking on Grindr, that I'm just a "Grindr Academic. I find the joke endearing. But, we should not trivialize the politics of Grindr.
So, what can this space of hooking-up teach us about sexual and racial politics? Whether you are cruising for casual sex or complaining about love or procrastinating online, Grindr has rapidly transformed the way we negotiate intimacy and frame sexuality. With millions of users worldwide, Grindr has become a source of sexual sustenance. From the moment I tap on to Grindr, I'm connected to a range of other profiles via my geographical proximity to them.
I am enmeshed in a process of--as one user so neatly describes--"window shopping. Some profiles display semi-nude selfies that invite "NSA" no strings attached sex while others display a photo of a night out in a club to indicate their interest in "friends, dates and maybe more.
I can use Grindr to organize casual sex, professional networks, neighborhood parties, friendship, and dating. There are infinite intimate possibilities. In the words of Lauren Berlant and Michael Warner, these new "sexual counterpublics" emerge to facilitate new forms of emotional and sexual labour that do not just revolve around the traditional imaginaries of reproductive or matrimonial relationships.
