As a child, American sitcoms taught me that dating would either be the most crippling yet entirely necessary precursor to finding The One… or at least a series of goofy one-off dinners that would eventually bring me to my final destination.
Of course, thinking of dating as it were in 1994 is about as helpful as people with clear skin advising people with spots to ‘just drink water’.
Not only because today’s baristas are too busy making pre-ordered coffees to flirt with me as I order my usual, but because of how our digital culture has emboldened people to behave more violently than they would have on a blind date all those years ago.
I am not one who longs for a ‘traditional’ courtship that happens both offline and in the off-chance, when a life-changing someone helps me pick up the bundle of very important, loose papers I spilled when they bumped into me on the street.
I also don’t believe I’m above online dating, nor am I naive to the many relationships that have blossomed from the apps. I am, however, not a fan of unprovoked abuse being sent freely and without consequence.
I have lived online since I was nine years old.
I’m not afraid to meet people from a website. I’m past worrying if me tweeting about the Tories will put a future employer off me, or wondering what people from school think when they watch me dancing to Ariana Grande in cheap Amazon wigs on Instagram.
I have documented my journey with acne, became comfortable with my gender non-conformism, and learned how to celebrate being non-binary, all on social media. None of my accounts are private – who has time for a finsta? – yet I never receive direct abuse on those platforms despite being so, dare I say, unfiltered.
On the other hand, I can confidently say the majority of messages I receive on dating apps are sent with cruel intentions.
From the first time I downloaded Grindr at 16 as a curious, make-up-free cisgender boy, I was called a f****t. A f****t repeatedly told they were too feminine, unnervingly and unnecessarily camp; the reason gays were still ostracised; the problem with men these days; a freak; embarrassing; unworthy.
All from a few photos, if not just one.
This was when I wasn’t out as gay to my family or friends, and therefore already felt both terrified and vulnerable about having my face on a queer dating app.
I’ve been told to kill myself more than once. I’ve been told by the person 972 feet away they are coming to attack me and ‘kick the f**k out of’ me. I’ve been called a t****y. I’ve been told someone would rape me if they ‘found’ me outside, IRL.
These kinds of interactions happened across Grindr, Tinder, Chappy, Jack’d, Bro, and probably others I quickly deleted and forgot about.
Over the years, I would test the waters on various apps but then have to delete them again after a barrage of abuse. This was even before I started using ‘they/them’ pronouns on my profile, and before we were even able to do so.
The majority of the messages were sent despite my best efforts to mask any possible hints of femininity or androgyny, posting straight-faced selfies void of any ‘female’ clothing, make-up, visible nail polish, or dyed hair.
I was scared that an earnest smile would warrant threats of sexual abuse.
When I have presented as I am and claimed my pronouns on dating apps, the brave bigots multiplied tenfold. ‘Brave bigots’, I call them, in a subconscious attempt to detach myself from the profile they so violently loathe.
Truth is, there is nothing brave about these abusers and the blanket term of bigotry completely undermines the gravity of their threats.
I’m not alone.
Every day I scroll past a queer person sharing their latest abhorrent Grindr or Tinder exchange on social media, turning their trauma into comedic content because it’s such an accepted part of our culture.
If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry – right?
Me, I delete and I forget. By doing so, I isolate myself and miss opportunities. I carry those threats and opinions with me in silence.
When TV characters spoke of dating horrors, I never imagined I’d spend my early twenties doing cost-benefit analysis between my sanity and a potential free dinner.
The lack of monitoring on dating apps make them a dangerous battlefield for trans, non-binary and gender nonconforming people, as well as others who might just be read as such. They can be traumatising, and punish us when at our most vulnerable.
They distort our understandings of dating and self-worth, reserving those luxuries to binary people as conceptual heteronormative practices.
Until dating apps take responsibility and act to create safer spaces, I’ll keep shooting my shot on Instagram.
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