Protein Shakes and Dick Pics: My Month as a Masc Guy on Grindr was Boring

The author, trying to act masc. Image supplied.

I'm what you'd call a "fem" gay guy. Which isn't really a problem until I go on Grindr. Most people think the popular hook-up app that gay men love to hate is just about sex. But for a lot of guys, Grindr is all about being masculine.

Masculinity—that beefy barometer of one's manhood—is one of the most sought after qualities for men on the app. Often people will brand their profiles with aggressive declarations of "masc 4 masc" and "straight-acting only."

For some, being masc is a kind of rebellion, pushing back against the "fem" or camp stereotype of gay men. In the wider world, gayness is still often measured by how effeminate you are, how strong your lisp is or how many Cher albums you own. As opposed to, say, how much you like fucking guys.

I've long been an outcast of the "masc 4 masc" culture fostered on Grindr. To be masc, you need the muscled gym bod, the low gruff voice, and excessive body hair. Admittedly, I don't have the body of an Adonis, or the low voice of a country music star. And because I lack an obsession with piercings, tattoos or beards, I'm read as feminine.

Online, guys often fem-shame me for my more effeminate proclivities—including my appreciation of Cher's back catalogue. And if you want to be fem-shamed, Grindr is the place to go. As many others in the gay community have no doubt experienced, getting called a sissy twink is a pretty daily occurrence. Guys frequently make me call them before they'll agree to meet up, so they can make sure my voice is low enough, gruff enough, for their standards.

While recently cruising Grindr late one night, I got into a heated conversation with yet another headless torso—the profile pic of choice on the app. My throwaway comment ("I really don't identify as either top or bottom") quickly devolved into an antagonistic debate over gender roles in gay relationships. We had very different views on the whole cult of masculinity that subsumes many men within the gay community.

Torso was convinced masc meant top (the partner who gives during anal sex) and feminine meant bottom (the partner who receives). Realising I was getting nowhere, I blocked the headless torso. But the anger of the conversation festered as I stewed over the whole obsession of being masc.

I wanted to test out his claim: that masculinity reads better on Grindr. Is it really the most prized quality found in another gay male in the queer community? I decided to try a month-long experiment of playing masc. I mean, how hard could it be? I just had to change everything about myself.

So digging out the gym membership I'd long abandoned, I started with some upper-body exercises. I grew out my facial hair, badly grooming my fraying whiskers into some semblance of a beard, and invested in a masc wardrobe: Baseball caps, tight tank tops, and some tight gym shorts that showed off my butt in a subtle I'm-not-really-trying way. Then I snapped a couple of selfies in my new masc gear, glaring stone faced at the camera. Finally, I rebranded my Grindr profile to say "Masc Twink."

I felt like an idiot but soon enough, the messages flooded in. Men of all ages wanted to chat, to fuck, to just talk, to exchange pics. It was this bizarre turnaround that saw me, a lonesome bookish wallflower, wading through the headless torsos, welcomed into the realm of the masc gay male. I quickly picked up the vocab that seemed to go with the territory. Men expected me to be gruffer and more curt: "sup", "nm", "yer u?"

I found the more distant and rude I was during conversations, the more masc guys were attracted to me. Chats largely centred around what gym I trained at, whether I was actually masc in person ("u masc man? yer?"), and how aggressive I was during sex. But then again, most of the men hitting on me were middle-aged white guys with muscled bodies and inflated egos, who thought grilling me on what protein powders I use and what dance music I listen to equated to flirting.

The straight-acting masc world of Grindr was an exciting but ultimately alienating world. The fact my pictures looked far more masc meant I was placed up on a shelf I couldn't have dreamed of reaching for before. But the men I met there were aggressive, unapologetic, and blunt. Hook-ups in this world were more like transactions, and sex just a way to measure each other's masculinity, rather than actually enjoying yourself.

Self-loathing was everywhere, even more inflamed than when men used to call me fem. Battles waged between men trying to outdo each other on who was more masc. "You train 5 days a week? 6 here mate!"

So by the time the month was up, I'd had enough. I decided to change my profile back to bookish, skinny boy aesthetic I'd long embraced.Frankly, I couldn't imagine having to performing my "masc" persona in the flesh. The idea of walking into some guy's place—baseball cap back, tight tank top on—and having to live up to the apparently masc and muscular image I had projected on Grindr scared the shit out of me. I just couldn't bring myself to accept the polite offers to "come by n fuck."

And though back my regular self I received far fewer cock photos from headless torsos, it was a relief not to measure my legitimacy as a gay man by my beard length or the size of my arms. Plus, it meant less time in the gym.

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