Sex hookup phone lines
bed, each of us on our i Phones, silently scrolling through Grindr and assessing the abs and buttocks of Union Square’s proximal gay men.
" I'm like pi baby, I'm really long and I go on forever. By looking at you I can tell you're 36-25-36, which by the way are all perfect squares. They're both hard for you Are you a 45 degree angle, Because your perfect.
In moving to New York City from a suburb of Baltimore, where the prospects for sexual activity for a gay teen are dire, I imagined I was migrating to a place where queer folk commingled in gay bars, a place where the telegenic gay romances we were trained to pursue — Glee’s Kurt and Blaine, specifically — took place in real life, for everyday bow-tie-wearing urbanites.
The reality, though, as reality tends to be, is something far more subdued, and it often feels far more sinister: We went to gay bars every so often as 18-year-old freshman, enamored with the garish pop music and drag queens, but eventually settled in and began to get our entertainment not from Cher sing-offs at Pieces but by inaudibly cruising through Grindr’s stock list of men, sometimes meeting up with someone, other times falling asleep phone in hand.
We pass around a joint, conversing every few minutes about a message we’ve received (“this guy’s hot”; “come look at this fairy”; “this fucking asshole just stopped responding”), either from a handsome prospect who lives a few floors down or the silver fox who’s 836 feet away, but the night ends as it started, with four single, fledgling gay millennials, supine and slightlystoned.
In places like New York City, sex, or the prospect of it, is laughably easy to procure thanks to Grindr, which launched in 2009, when my friends and I were closeted 14-year-olds, going to high school in provincial suburban towns, watching our straight classmates dip their toes into the world of promiscuity as we hunkered down and studied, sexless.