The first gay bar I ever went to was called Tramps. Sequestered in an area in Oklahoma City called “the strip”, it was a stone’s throw away from the Habana Inn, a gay hotel complex and cruising site.
“We’ve got to show him,” my friend said with a grin. I had just turned 21 and had only been out of the closet for a few months. It was a time of rapid discovery, a time when the experience of looking and being looked at in a sexual way was new, exciting and addictive.
“Show me what?” I asked. I was led to a small courtyard outside. We stood up on a concrete bench so we could see over the fence and into the Habana Inn.
“Look,” my friend said. I saw men in trucker hats with hands in their pockets, nervously making the rounds. Occasionally, one would stop in front of a window and give it a knock. Sometimes, the door would open and he would step inside.
A drag queen poked her head out the door. She pointed an acrylic nail at us. “Y’all quit looking at that!” We giggled and scampered back into the bar. Being “in” on this joke was the first time I really felt like I was gay. Not in the sexual sense, but in a cultural one. I was a holder of secret knowledge. I went home that night feeling like I had completed an initiation ritual.
I gave little thought to who those men were. Over time, I learned they were truckers, fathers, husbands to wives, and out, older gay men. Most of them, though, were in the closet. I still had a lot of internalized homophobia at the time, and I’m sorry to say that I judged these men and saw them as freaks. I still believed, albeit on a subconscious level, that gay sex made you dirty, and cruising for it made you pathetic.
It’s the same internalized homophobia that makes gay men shame other gay men for using dating apps today. Read up on your queer history and you understand that, in fact, these apps can be a godsend for those have experienced violence and those of us who grew up in areas without any LGB resources. They have provided us with a means of connecting with each other that simply never existed before.
A study published recently in the Archives of Sexual Behavior seems to corroborate this. Taking in data from 1973–2014, it found that Americans are experimenting sexually more than ever before.
The study also found that the midwest and the south, in particular, have experienced a rapid increase in same-sex behavior. It suggests that one possible reason for this is the emergence of sexual and social networking sites, or “the apps” as we would call them.
“In other words, while those in the East and West may have long had access to potential sexual partners via urban centers with strong LGB communities and venues, those in the South and Midwest may have benefited more from the emergence of sexual networking technologies in terms of access to potential partners,” the paper said.
For someone like me who grew up and came out in Oklahoma, this rings true.
I’m not here to mount a wholesale defense of apps. There are plenty of troubling things that happen on Grindr and Scruff and the like. Body shaming, casual racism, and internalized homophobia run rampant, emboldened by anonymity. “No fats, no fems, no Asians” is such a common profile bio that it has become a meme. Black people regularly report racism and harassment on the apps.
I’ve been told I was too fat or not muscled enough. If I were to print out all the “Hola Papi” messages I’ve received on Grindr, I could cut them into strips and decorate a piñata with them.
But what I am saying is that for those of us far from the bars and community centers of California and the north-east, these apps provided us with a channel to talk to each other, meet each other and, yes, hook up with each other.
Today, we gay men are enjoying an unprecedented level of acceptance. I say we gay men, because bisexual men and transgender men are not as fortunate, and gay men of color often aren’t able to find acceptance within our own communities. Things are better, though we’re still far from equality.
You want to know how? I still don’t feel comfortable holding a man’s hand in public because I fear violence. I do not feel comfortable approaching a man I am attracted to, because I fear a violent reaction. The spaces where I feel safe and free are still limited. When I was in rural Oklahoma, this applied tenfold.
Gay men slut-shaming other gay men is nothing new. I see it every day. I see gay men lamenting that romance is dead (when was it alive for us – during the 80s?) and that dating apps are turning us all into sluts.
Personally, I don’t think having a lot of sex makes you a bad person, nor that anyone should have to justify using an app for hookups. But I am especially happy that these apps exist for men who live in often-overlooked parts of the country. I don’t see it as a negative thing. I see it as the continuation of a legacy of survival against societal shame. Be it an earring or a strategically placed handkerchief, gay men have always invented clever ways to find each other. And recently, they’ve just got a whole lot better at it.
