The moral of this amateur experiment is simple: The grass isn’t greener on the straight apps. The grass is just… different. Sometimes it’s astroturf. Sometimes it’s actually just painted concrete.
And just like that, the romance died. Not because there’s anything wrong with Call of Duty. But because I realized—he wasn’t looking for a date. He was looking for a warm body on his couch who wouldn’t complain about the Mountain Dew cans.
Here’s the thing nobody tells you about being an amateur gay blogger: you have to fail publicly so other people feel less alone. So here is my failure.
I swiped left so hard I nearly cracked my screen protector. amatuer gay blog
[Your Name]
So hey—if that’s you? Send the message.
Okay, don’t yell at me.
Within three minutes, I got a match. A woman. "Hey! Love your smile! Do you go to Hillsong Church?" I politely replied that I am, in fact, a gay man, and she unmatched faster than I can say "internalized homophobia."
Then came the guy. Let’s call him Brad. Brad’s profile had six photos. Five were of his truck. One was of his dog. His bio: “Conservative. God first. Just seeing what’s out there.”
For context, I’ve been out for about four years. I have a Grindr horror story that involves a unicycle (don’t ask), and a Scruff success story that ended after three dates because he didn’t like The Golden Girls (dealbreaker). So why did I go back to the dark side? The moral of this amateur experiment is simple:
But here’s what I’m holding onto: For every Brad with a truck, and every Mark with a controller, there’s a guy out there who is also tired. Tired of the games. Tired of the scripts. A guy who just wants to hold hands at a farmer’s market and complain about the price of tomatoes.
Did I find love? No. Did I find a decent bagel place recommendation? Also no. Did I get a story to share with you guys? Absolutely.
I matched with a guy named “Mark.” Mark was cute. Glasses, stubble, a photo of him reading a book in a coffee shop. We chatted for an hour about The Last of Us TV show. I was swooning. I thought, This is it. This is the meet-cute. Sometimes it’s actually just painted concrete
Me: “I’m a freelance graphic designer.”