“Coming on Strong”
An exploration of social norms and ‘swipe culture’ on Tinder.
I, like many other Gen Zers, have downloaded dating apps in the hopes of finding romance, casual dates, and even friendship (e.g ‘Bumble BFF.’) Feelings of uncertainty and disconnect brought on by Covid-19, have left many of us craving intimacy, love, and connection. With little opportunity to attend events or frequent our favourite hangouts, people (yes, even those who swore they would “literally never” try online dating) are turning to apps like Tinder, Bumble and Hinge in the hopes of meeting their beau-to-be.
When my professor assigned our class a “social media norm breaching experiment” I knew I wanted to do the assignment using Tinder.
The Prompt:
“Using Tinder, contact or respond to each of your matches stating that you ‘really like them’ and that you would possibly want a relationship with them without having an actual conversation first. Record how they respond and determine whether norms were breached.”
I am a queer woman, and so my exploration of dating apps has been just that — very queer!
In conducting this experiment, I was very curious to know:
What kind of digital social environments, norms and/or unspoken rules govern straight women’s use of dating apps like Tinder?
What might “breaching a norm” look like in heterosexual online dating environments versus queer online dating environments?
There are a number of factors and unwritten rules that govern the LGBTQ+ community’s use of dating apps. Because of this “straight” Tinder looks and feels quite different from “queer” Tinder.
There might be plenty of fish in the sea… but maybe not so many in your city.
Online dating within queer communities places value on the maintenance of harmony between community members. If one lives in a smaller city (like Edmonton, for example) you can expect to come across someone you know in your swiping adventures. Because of this, respect and consent play an important role when addressing a potential match. There is strength in the unity and tight-knittedness of LGBTQ+ communities and word of dating faux pas or inappropriate advances travel quickly. Small communities need to stay together in order to survive. In other words, yes, you might need to be friends (or at least friendly) with your exes ex.
(Pssst, click here to read my thoughts on Lesbian TikTok!)
An empty bio is a no-go // love is blind
Gender and sexual identities within LGBTQ+ communities can be complex and sometimes require elaboration! Users may also indicate their preference for a certain “type” of queer person or queer relationship (e.g Femme 4 Femme) or use words to categorize or label themselves (e.g I am a ‘soft butch,’ I am a ‘stem,’ I am an ‘otter.’)
The small size of queer communities makes even the act of matching a difficult task. To stand out, one must demonstrate one’s wit. Apps like ‘Hinge’ (which I have found to be more queer-friendly than Tinder) require users to answer short prompts about themselves. Prompts include statements like “__x__ is a social cause I care about,” and “my love language is __y__.” Emphasis is placed more heavily on factors such as empathy, emotional intelligence, inclusivity, and inside knowledge of the queer community than on physical appearance. This is perhaps due to the fact that social activism acts as the foundation of queer communities, and queer people understand the role and importance of social awareness and community-building in protecting and uplifting fellow members of the LGBTQ+ community. Interestingly, myth also acts as a means of creating social cohesion within queer communities, with many users sharing their Myers-Briggs personality type and/or astrological charts.
An app by the name of “Lex” takes things one step further, distancing itself from the typical face-first approach of mainstream dating apps. The option to post photos of oneself is eliminated entirely, however, users may choose to link their Instagram account to their Lex profile. That being said, many opt to use Lex anonymously (an important feature for closeted queers.)
Tip-toeing into Tinder-Territory.
In conducting this experiment, it was important for me to protect my identity. Armed with eyeliner and a blonde Halloween wig, I transformed myself into my glamourous, fair-haired alter ego, “Britt.”
(I’d also like to note that my disguise was believable, having been ‘superliked’ by someone I’d attended school with for many years.)
In constructing my ‘alter ego’ I was conscious of my decision to alter my physical appearance. I was aware that in adopting this new identity as “Britt,” I was aligning myself physically with stereotypical ideals of feminine “beauty” as prescribed by the white male gaze. I did some additional research and came across an article written by a woman named “Brinton Parker” who recorded how men on Tinder reacted to ‘3-levels’ of makeup. In her article, Parker notes that “Tinder-dudes seemed to possess an antiquated mindset that a woman’s makeup/clothing reflects her sexual willingness.” In my navigation through the world as a woman who once wore a lot of makeup (former Sephora employee, hellooooo!) I have observed first-hand the reactions of men to varying intensities and styles of makeup application and would agree with Parker’s findings.
Tinder prompted me to enter a job title (I chose ‘server,’) a school (‘Grant MacEwan,’) my location (Edmonton,) and 5 passions (I chose: ‘Spirituality,’ ‘Wine,’ ‘Dog Lover,’ ‘Brunch’ and ‘Running.’) I intentionally did not fill out the 500-character “about me” biography section.
I was amazed at the ease of matching with men on “straight” Tinder. I felt immediately certain that the men I chatted with were “interested” in me, though it was clear that their interest was contingent on only one thing: my physical appearance.
As a result, I received these very… *forward* messages. (Warning, NSFW.)
“Are you ice cream? Because I have no idea whether to lick you or spoon you.”
“What did Cinderella do when she got to the ball? She gagged.”
“My hands may not feel like velvet but I can guarantee they feel better then that choker”
“Are you a cam girl? Usually a woman that makes a man a bit excited just from him looking at her is usually either a bot or a cam girl when it comes to tinder lol.”
“Hey are you a puzzle? Cause I could be the piece your lookin for… or I could leave you on the table unfinished.”
And, a SFW Honourable mention sent to me by a gentleman with a profile picture of Karl Marx;
“Comrade! How goes the class struggle?”
I matched with 30+ men and chatted with 15 of them.
Each of the men I chatted with initiated the conversation, and most addressed my looks. One match expressed his frustration that I hadn’t written a bio, complaining that he didn’t “know where to start theres no bio to go off of.”
I also noticed that because my profile lacked a bio, matches were quick to suggest further communication through Snapchat (7 out of 15 men sent me their Snapchat username.) I assumed this was because I presented only my (Britt’s) outward appearance and so my matches suggested Snapchat as a means of communication due to its similar visual nature. The apparent norm of continuing a conversation via Snapchat was not one I’d encountered in my conversations with queer women where phone numbers are exchanged, and conversations are had over text.
When I proposed a relationship to men on Tinder, our conversations went one of two ways:
1) Matches indicated by “leaving me on read” that I did indeed ‘come on too strong.’
2) Matches responded saying that they were open to dating, and asked how they could get to know me better. Snapchat was frequently suggested as the preferred method of communication.
Conducting this experiment made me understand that social norms are demographically and contextually-dependent. Where a dirty pick-up line might fly on “straight” Tinder, it would likely raise red flags on “queer” Tinder. The way in which users choose to interact with matches on dating or hook-up sites like Tinder, Hinge, Lex, Grindr, Her, etc are all unique. One must understand the social context, common practices and even language used by certain groups. The more ‘literate’ one is in the language of the app, the better the chance for romance, friendship, or sex.
In the future, I would be interested in conducting similar social experiments within the LGBTQ+ community and observing differences in the reception of similar messages.
Though I wreaked a little havoc in the lives of some Tinder Men, I managed to make at least one connection. Dear A****, I hope to see you on campus one day in the near future.
With love,
Britt.
