As A Lesbian, I Can’t Help But Romanticize Grindr

Featured Image: Photo Illustration by Filip Radwanski/SOPA Images/LightRocket via Getty Images

I was on a walk with my wife near our apartment when I noticed another what-seemed-to-be lesbian couple walking on the other side of the street. Instead of getting my wife’s attention and subtly directing it to the lesbians across the street, my gaze lingered a second longer. I noticed one get the attention of the other and subtly direct it to the lesbians across the street, who were my wife and me.

I couldn’t believe it! This was even more exciting than spotting lesbians in the wild. I was spotting lesbians spotting ME in the wild! I kept exchanging glances with them, and as I turned to my wife to explain what was happening, they disappeared around a corner. 

My fleeting connection sent me scrambling. I certainly couldn’t try to follow them, even though I felt the momentum of my body shift toward their direction. I reached for my phone, wishing there was a way I could search for them. I certainly couldn’t Google them or try to piece together an Instagram handle. I wished there were an app that I could see where queer women were in my area. And then I remembered that it does exist, but it’s for queer men. And it’s called Grindr.

We’re all well aware that creating in-person community is difficult for queer women. We can cite a gorgeous combination of misogyny, homophobia, the stunning lack of lesbian bars, and lesbians’ proclivity to couple up and domesticate. We know the problem. We’ve all read the thinkpieces. Hell, I’ve written the thinkpieces. But joining a flag football team can’t be the only solution to finding lesbians near you.

Our phones are our lives these days. The internet goes with us wherever we go, and social media allows us to feel like we’re connected with the world around us, no matter how accurate or inaccurate it is. But Grindr takes that one step further. Gay men don’t need to wonder if they are alone. They can go on their phone, open up Grindr, and find an ally and confidant down to the inch (don’t be gross, that is NOT what I mean!).

When I walk down the street, my eyes survey passersby for indications of lesbianism. I summon the powers of Dyke Darwinism and add up the odds for every sign of queerness I can find.

Septum Ring: 50%

Earrings that Mrs. Frizzle would die for: 65%

Glasses with thick ass frames that art teachers dream of: 30%

Two girls walking together in obviously thrifted outfits: 40%

Nails: short and unpainted is 20%, but it shoots up to 90% if they have “vampire nails” (IYKYK)

Tattoos: 15%

Tattoos that appear to have been done in someone’s basement: 75%

Thrifted workwear: 70%

Carabiner on the hip: 98%

Once I feel like I have enough information to confirm I’ve spotted a queer woman and not a false positive like a vegan yoga teacher or an elder emo or a mom from the Midwest, I do what any of us would do: nothing. The aggregate information sits in a database in the back of my mind labeled “Queer Women I’ve Seen In Public.” The file is only opened to add another entry, but no previous entries are revisited. It’s just to know.

I’m not looking to date anyone, and I’m not trying to force strangers to be my friend (unless they want to. That’s the Sagittarius in me.). I just want to know that I am in good company. Being a lesbian can be isolating, even in the gayest of cities like New York, and simply knowing I am in the same room/building/500-foot radius as a lesbian makes me feel less alone.

I’d love to open my Scissr app (I feel like that’s the obvious choice here) and gaze at the little dots on my phone. I’d imagine their lives and speculate what they were up to. I’d think about what show they were watching just because it had the promise of lesbians in it. I’d wonder who they think about when they hear “Subway” by Chappell Roan. I’d ponder where they buy their shoes and if they are comfortable, mostly because I’m curious what people are wearing for shoes these days that aren’t just sneakers or Doc Martens.

I’d picture their pets and what they named them and why. I’d think about whether they were the only queer woman in their friend group or if they tapped into a network, maybe via the Scissr app. I’d feel empathy for those who felt weird as a kid without knowing why and envy for those who have always known themselves. I’d wonder if they were as lucky to have as supportive a family as my wife and I. 

I keep thinking about those two lesbians and how, in that tiny moment, we were all mirrors. Lesbians spotting lesbians spotting lesbians. It felt like a glitch in the queer Matrix, or maybe a secret handshake we all somehow know but never acknowledge. I tried to memorize their microbangs so I could recognize them in the future, but I doubt that’ll ever happen.

All I ask for is proof of life. A quiet knowing that there are others like me, scattered through the city, orbiting close enough to pass on the sidewalk but far enough to vanish before we can say hello. Little dots, already out of range.