Mobile dating applications for gay men have revolutionized how we seek and relate

with others. With just a few taps, I can find romantic or sexual partners within my geographic

proximity (Goedel & Duncan, 2015). Branded as inclusive and diverse alternatives to popular

dating apps that primarily cater to heterosexual relationships, gay dating apps provide a

space where I can connect with others like me and express my gender identity (Grindr, n.d.).

However, dating apps, especially as a space socially produced by gay men, still serve to

empower traditional masculinity and perpetuate the marginalization among the marginalized.

To understand how dating apps contribute to traditional masculinity and the

marginalization among the marginalized, they must be understood as socially constructed

spaces that contribute to the phenomenon of marginalization among gay men. Lefebvre

(1992) proposed three ways to understand a socially produced space, namely conceived

space, perceived space, and lived space. He defined a conceived space as the designed

aspects of a space, which often mirrors a dominant ideology. Meanwhile, perceived space is

defined as the space perceived by physical experience, which includes patterns of behaviors

and ultimately influences attitudes toward that space. Lastly, the lived space relates to

individuals’ symbolic and affective relationships with the space. In his seminal study,

Taywaditep (2002) described gay men’s rejection of effeminacy and adoption of masculinity

as an important social asset. He proposed that, as gay men develop in a heterosexist

environment, they begin to feel ashamed of their effeminacy and eventually change their

gender identity and expression into the acceptable In doing so, gay men marginalized their

own kind and opted to present themselves in a way that aligns with the dominant

characteristics of masculinity.

Grindr and Bumble users curate their public image by selecting images and editing

their bios to present a version of themselves. These apps allow their users to display

pictures, given that such pictures comply with the app’s community guidelines. Users can

also indicate basic information about themselves, including their name, age, measurements,

and the type of relationship sought. Apart from these pieces of information, these apps also
allow users to write a short introduction about themselves. Users can freely flaunt their

personalities without being constrained by pre-selected options.

However, it is important to note that the content produced in such dating apps is not

the same as the content shared in these apps. While users indeed produce the profiles

themselves, the actual products being shared are what these profiles represent: a specific

representation or “version” of a person. Walther (1996) developed the hyperpersonal model

of computer-mediated communication (CMC) with the advent of desktops and electronic

messaging technologies (e.g., email). This model posits that users maximize computer

features (i.e., editability and asynchronicity) to manage other users’ impressions of them and

improve social relations. Aside from desktop communication, selective self-presentation also

extends to online dating in that dating apps possess certain features analogous to those of

desktop or email communication (Alibazah et al., 2020). Users can edit textual descriptions

of themselves (i.e., bios), select which images to display, and even withhold certain

information on dating apps. These affordances allow users to portray a version of

themselves that they believe will garner them the most favorable relational outcomes

(Walther, 2007).

Despite the similarities between Grindr and Bumble, there are still differences in the

uses and affordances of the two apps. For one, Grindr evidently caters to the LGBTQIA+

community and solely focuses on homosexual and bisexual relationships. Although Bumble

offers its users the option to seek the same gender, it primarily attends to heterosexual

relationships due to the feature that allows female-identifying users to make the first move

and the limited number of male-identifying users who seek others like them. In other words,

Bumble was created for (and was marketed toward) women only (Young & Roberts, 2021). It

was only later that it added the feature to change to other sexual orientations, gender

expressions, and gender identities (Times of India, 2022).

Considering the type of audience targeted by Grindr and Bumble, users’ affordances

and preferences change with respect to the kind of self-presentation and the level of

self-disclosure on the apps. For example, Grindr allows its users to send private albums to
one another. These albums cannot be screen-captured and can be easily withdrawn by

users. This feature can be attributed to the stringent preference for masculine

self-presentation and Grindr's generally low level of self-disclosure. Cascalheira and Smith

(2019) found that traditionally masculine profiles on public grids had a stronger influence on

partner selection on Grindr. Meanwhile, Miller (2019) found a low level of face disclosure on

Grindr, which was then positively related to a higher level of negative attitudes toward

effeminacy. Relating to these negative attitudes toward effeminacy, many gay men

defeminize their self-presentation on public grids and private albums to appear more socially

desirable. Despite being originally intended to protect queer people, the conceived space

(afforded by features like public grids and private albums) on Grindr seemingly rewards the

concealment of outwardly (if not flamboyantly) queer representations.

Aside from that, the differences in self-presentation and self-disclosure between

Grindr and Bumble also change the way users form relationships with one another. A

prominent example is the type of relationship sought on these apps. On Grindr, users are

found to seek casual encounters and hookups primarily (Goedel & Duncan, 2015).

Meanwhile, less than 4% of male-identifying Bumble users use the app for casual

encounters and hookups (Bumble, n.d.). Considering these usage habits, users perceive

Grindr as a space only for seeking casual sex and not serious romantic relationships. Users’

perceived space on Grindr places non-heterosexual relationships as a passing fancy,

ultimately attributing heterosexual relationships as the more socially desirable end.

In turn, the representational space on Grindr relegates itself to a space of secrecy

and shame. To be discreet means to be masculine. To be masculine means to defeminize

oneself, especially when gender is seen as a binary of two forces. Miller (2015) found that

many profiles on Grindr presented masculinity in terms of body muscularity and

self-disclosure as masculine. In turn, the representational space as one of secrecy and

shame contributes to the stigmatization of homosexuality and sex in general (Parker et al.,

2016).
 Truth be told, among my deep insecurities as a gay man is my hypocrisy in what I

present about myself and what I seek in others. As much as I want to be myself, I also want

to be wanted by others. In my case, I’m more likely to express myself more authentically on

Bumble than on Grindr. My Bumble profile includes nice pictures of myself (with visible face

and all) and contains answers to prompts that best exemplify my personality. On the other

hand, my Grindr profile is sparse. It contains neither face pictures nor basic information

about myself. Nevertheless, I use Grindr because it provides a space specifically for people

like me despite becoming a weapon of exclusion. The sheer scarcity of spaces for queer

people forced me to make do with what spaces are available. Most of the time, these spaces

are claimed and then reclaimed by the queer people who inhabit them. If we do not occupy

these spaces, we won’t have the power to expand them enough to make our identities

known and integrate ourselves into society.

Queer people have always existed between liminal spaces, after all. I exist between

masculinity and femininity, between safe and unsafe spaces. It is precisely my existence

between two seemingly opposite forces that create a space that is mine and mine alone.
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Appendix

Figure 1

My friends and I attend Ms. Serena M. Vaswani’s seminar about authorship and

fandom
 According to the seminar, fan fiction has changed the way authorships work in

participatory cultures, such as fandoms. In these cases, authorship is not exclusively

attributed to the one who wrote the said fiction. Instead, it is shared with the rest of the fans

who create so-called “universes,” which are story worlds that may or may not align with the

original piece of literature. Sometimes, the one who wrote the piece of fan fiction disclaims

their work out of fear of punishment by the original creators. Nevertheless, the piece of fan

fiction is shared by the fan base, which are in part facilitated by virtual spaces on social

media.