“Should I go meet up with this guy from Grindr?” I looked up from the article I was reading on my phone to focus on asiame dating app download my friend Austin. It was past midnight, and we had decided to spend the night in our hotel room, sipping on cheap vodka from the corner store and laughing at stupid memories. It was my first time visiting Los Angeles, and I had made a promise to myself before my plane even took off that I would try to take advantage of everything – and everyone – that LA could offer me.
Launched in 2009, Grindr describes itself as “the largest social networking app for gay, bi, trans, and queer people” that “represents a modern LGBTQ lifestyle
A woman on a mission, I kept suggesting mixed or women-focused bars around the city, but our group was mostly comprised of gay men and straight women, so I found myself exploring the gay male locales instead. I didn’t mind dancing my heart out to top 40 pop hits as speedo-clad men danced on the bar, but it made me feel like I was missing out on all the queer women that “The L Word” had led me to believe lived nearby. I had spent the majority of my trip mindlessly swiping, hoping that someone – anyone – would be willing to meet up for a quick bit of “getting to know you” (wink, wink) with the East Coaster on vacation. I received match after match, but it seemed like no one really wanted to have a conversation beyond introductions. Even when things would turn flirty with a girl or two, it was swiftly ended by bouts of ghosting or absurdly late replies.
Which is exactly why, when I looked up at my friend from across the room, I couldn’t help but feel upset. I had been swiping and messaging for a good 5 days to no avail, and here was Austin, about to go off to meet someone who had only made contact minutes before.
“Duh, of course,” I managed, trying to make my tone sound more cool-friend than freaked-out-queer. I rolled over to check my phone as he sprinted out the door, and I had zero notifications. I let out a heavy sigh and sat up, suddenly too defeated to fall asleep. I wish Grindr was for queer women, too, I thought. Or, at least, I wish there was a Grindr for queer women.
” But any random person on the street could tell you that Grindr is a hook-up app for gay men. Every single aspect of the app seems to be set up just to make hooking up easier. Fifty photos of users in the area are displayed on the home screen at any time, with green dots next to names to signify that they’re online right now. If you see someone you’re interested in, all you have to do is click on their profile, scroll through their photos, and then message them. There’s no swiping left or right, no waiting for a match back in order to make contact – you just go for it. Users set up their preferences, including age, what they’re looking for, what “tribe” they’re interested in (this is the label that gay men identify with, such as bear, twink, or otter), and whether they only want to see profiles with face pictures attached to them.
I turned to the only solution my gen Z brain could think of: dating apps
But there’s a lack of service like this for women – particularly queer women – and I’m not the only one to notice.
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