Like many Gen-Z Queer masc people, Grindr has distorted my understanding of romance. If you’ve never explored Grindr, its format atomizes potential lovers into a series of alienating statistics: M. 26. 205 lbs. 6'2''. I’ve learned to scrape together intimacy in what shreds it remains through clues scattered through a hookup’s apartment.
All told, a shoe rack, a bookshelf, a bedside table, and a bathroom can almost make you believe you just fucked a real person. Over time, I think I’ve learned more about what I want in an apartment than what I do in a relationship.
The first introduction to the apartment is the shoe rack, whose lack thereof should signal a swift retreat. Hopefully the shoes are at least aligned, and if you’re lucky there will be a selection of Blundstones, running shoes, sneakers and dress shoes to show the true versatility of your host.
Keys hung up near the door is an encouraging sign.
Once inside, he’ll usually offer a drink, so I ask for water and wait for my next clue. Tap is great, bottled is sadistic, sparkling is pompous, but there’s no substitute for a man who pulls a chilled Brita jug from the fridge – woof.
After a few sips and sentences of small talk about careers, life stage and any other superficial information that helps us appraise each other, he’ll start to direct me towards the bedroom.
Kissing ensues, followed by some degree of disrobing and body dysmorphia. As things heat up, a key moment arises: he reaches over to the bedside drawer for a bottle of lube, allowing a brief glimpse into the bedside drawer of a stranger. Typically it’s various amounts of drugs and sex gear, but personality seeps out in the fancy watches or decorated boxes that lie inside. The top of the drawer itself can be scattered with photos of loved ones, retainers, books, rings, a wallet, receipts, or figurines. As we move through various positions, I make note of other artifacts in the room: a dusty bookshelf, a withering houseplant, a hastily stashed pile of clothes.
In between rounds is a perfect time to further investigate the bookshelf. I wish that instead of nudes I could receive photos of their bookshelves to save myself discovering the person I’ve been having sex with has a copy of Elon Musk’s memoir (true story). Once, I discovered a copy of “Sex Addiction 101” and pointed the irony out to my momentary partner. He said he hadn’t read it.
Once the sex is over, I make my pilgrimage to the bathroom, shutting the door behind me to be left alone in a stranger’s apartment.
As my gaze wanders around the surface of the bathroom sink, from used floss to an American Psycho-level skincare routine, I fantasize about my toothbrush taking its place in the holder next to his, or where I might place my own pill container amidst the organized chaos. I turn on the shower, hoping for more than steam and soap scum.
As I lather up, whether it’s with 7-in-1 shampoo or a product worth more than my monthly grocery bill, I come to face reality and notice my hopes for connection circling the drain.
Sobered by the cold air as I towel off, I take my leave from the bathroom to collect my things from where they lay scattered around his apartment. Moving towards the door, I realize it’d be creepy to say goodbye to someone whose name I learned from a pill bottle. I hear the door lock behind me.
This article is from Reclamation, The Ubyssey's 2023 sex and relationships issue. Read more personal essays and student stories from Reclamation here, and sexual health and education articles here.