One of my earliest memories engaging in the queer online dating scene was through a popular gay hookup app called Grindr. Grindr leverages a location-based modality, in which the profiles displayed are based on how close other users are to you, even displaying an estimate of how far they are in feet/miles.&nbsp;When creating a profile for Grindr, you are provided a series of prompts to describe your physical attributes. These characteristics include describing your age, weight, body type, race, position (i.e. top, bottom, verse), and “tags” (i.e. what you are looking for). Additionally, Grindr provides the user the ability to include photos or forgo any images altogether for anonymity.The app’s emphasis on physical attributes, and emphasis on things such as one’s weight, body type, and race, enable users to perpetuate unhealthy hegemonic standards. This has typically manifested in the glorification of muscular, white men as the perceived model of attractiveness, and those who do not conform to such standards to be the other.When I first began using the app, I was most shocked by how blatantly discriminatory users felt empowered to be. I have seen my fair share of biographies with phrases such as “no fats”, “no femmes”, or variations to indicate racial “preferences” including “whites &amp; asians +++” or “no blacks”. This common practice is not only detrimental to the mental wellbeing of BIPOC communities, but it perpetuates the subordination of these communities, deeming us inferior or less attractive than our white counterparts.As a queer latino, it was absolutely shocking and appalling to see often white users or blank profiles (i.e. those who did not include images) so confidently fetishize underrepresented communities. Additionally, I also have experienced my own fair share of being objectified and fetishized for being Mexican american. I cannot count the number of times people have messaged me calling me “papi”, sent me unsolicited nudes, and even telling me how “I look cute for a Mexican boy” (as if that’s a compliment?).&nbsp;If not focused on my race, then it is my body that other queer people using Grindr tend to focus on. Among the gay community, there is an entire slang dictionary to describe every body type imaginable; there are twinks, bears, otters, twunks, hunks, daddies, etc. It is almost comical the way in which our community forces us to fit into categories, and oftentimes creates an artificial hierarchy amongst these groups. Most often than not, white masculine men are seemingly glorified, and other individuals are either pressured or insulted for not meeting these standards. This expectation is not only unrealistic, but pressures queer BIPOC individuals to fit into a mold, contributing to the development of mental health conditions, including eating disorders, depression, and other concerns.While much of this blog has been a critique of the ways users have engaged with gay dating apps, and my own negative experiences using them, I do not intend for this blog to be an attack on dating apps altogether, or to demonize casual sex. I like to consider myself a sex positive person, and have benefited at times from the use of dating apps – in fact my current partner and I met on Hinge and have been together for nearly 2 years since matching on the app.My intention in sharing my experience is to provide a first hand account of the ways in which BIPOC youth, such as myself, face normalized discrimination from a community that already endures oppression from larger society. Engaging with spaces such as these unhealthily taught me at a young age that enduring shame and insults for not achieving the idolized white, masculine physique was an egregious sin. Additionally, it misled me that hooking up and engaging in casual sex is simply “a part of being gay”; that there is little room for emotional intimacy without the transaction of casual sex.It was not until years later, and after getting tired of the meaningless hookups, that I realized for myself I did not need to conform to this normalized practice. That, in fact, I could still be queer, and choose to invest my time in fostering more meaningful relationships. Additionally, by creating these boundaries, I began to learn how to be compassionate towards myself and boost my self-esteem. Understanding the complex ways in which the body type idolized by the gay community is rooted in hegemonic standards empowered me to reject these notions, and love myself for who I am.If you are also a young person struggling with these issues, with the belief that you are not enough – that you are not masculine enough, skinny enough, hot enough, attractive enough – I encourage you to shift your thinking. Being a queer person is hard enough in the face of structural discrimination and social judgment. We do not need to perpetuate these unrealistic and harmful social expectations that pervade our community’s dating scene. The first step in challenging this is being kind to yourself.

Isaac Lara

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