I was recently chatting on Grindr with a muscular, moustachioed man named Kevin who remarked unprompted that he didn’t understand why everything with online dating “needs to be about sex.” He was seeking someone to connect with emotionally, he said. But the social media page linked in his profile seemed to suggest otherwise, with a neverending feed of gorgeous nudes and countless interactions cheekily inviting followers to sit on his very large cock and rub his very defined six pack.
I was taken aback. Of course, emotional and physical connection aren’t at all mutually exclusive. But Kevin’s public and private personae seemed so at odds that I couldn’t help but question if he was being facetious. Looking back, though, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Over the years, I’ve found again and again that many queer men present themselves online as uber sexual beings when that’s far from reality, or just one small aspect of who they are. For some, there’s a pressure to present as the hottest and horniest regardless of how you may feel inside.
As a sex educator and columnist, I’ve felt this pressure myself. At one point in my early stages of coming out, I would post a hairy-chested thirst trap or a sexually suggestive anecdote every other day. But in reality, I’m a demisexual who is too anxious for most casual encounters (though I certainly have my moments). The difference between the two identities was so stark that a man I was dating at the time began calling me “Robert” in person, since “Bobby” is who I am online.
Why did I do it? Because I was newly out and wanted to be confident and liked and desired by men. Projecting this image seemed like the most logical way to do that, and it seemed to be working for everyone else.
As I suspected, I’m not alone in that experience. According to psychotherapist and certified sex therapist Todd Baratz, projecting an inflated sense of sexual confidence online is common for queer men because it’s become engrained in gay male culture. “Many gay men experience shame around not being this sexual machine that we’re often depicted as or encouraged to be,” Baratz tells me. “We are usually represented in one way: hyper-sexual, with abs, in leather, or showcasing some other kink.” You know this depiction well: Think of Tom of Finland, the early 2000s Queer as Folk, or any poster promoting a gay event.
While there are many gay men who identify with that image, there are just as many who don’t. Sometimes, this causes people to adopt public personae that are more in line with what is expected of them when it comes to sex and sexuality. As a result, some gay men, like Dylan Cain, a 29-year-old avid Twitter user with a substantial following, have online identities at odds with who they are offline. “I feel bombarded by nudes or sexually explicit content every time I'm on Twitter,” he says. “I like to keep most things about my sexual life private, yet I contradict myself and arguably compromise my values by posting thirst traps and sexual stories for more likes and followers.”
For some people, they feel they need to lust just to be noticed. Marcel Olcyzński, a 30-year-old erotic illustrator, said he feels the need to “keep up with other gay men that appear always horny and in the best shape.” He adds, “I think sexuality is super important, but sometimes I tend to feel like I need to care more about presenting it online than experiencing it in real life.”
Dylan and Marcel are just a few of many queer men who confess to this behavior. The majority of people I spoke to told me that they will lie or stretch the truth on social media to make for a more entertaining story that’ll receive more engagement — a kind of editorial photoshop, if you will. But it’s worth noting that the majority of people lie online: In one study published in Computers and Human Behaviour, only 16 to 32% of the sample reported self-honesty. “Online deception is the rule,” the study concluded, “not the exception.”
Of course, this influence isn’t limited to queer people or sexual content. Research discussed in Psychology Today found that social media is much more influential than face-to-face groups when it comes to radicalizing opinions and behavior in general. For example, someone who is pro-life could end up more pro-life as a result of social media. Reasons are varied: there’s the design of social media platforms themselves, which incentivizes engagement and leads users to compete for the attention of mass audiences; then there’s the fact that we’re spending more time online in general, which leads people to encounter these extremes more often and normalize and emulate them. In either case, social media and increased internet use is leading many users to act in more radical ways online, which, of course, extends to how we act sexually, too.
Practicing promiscuity solely online has become so common that Vice’s i-D recently coined this phenomenon the “slut (non-practicing)” era. The assumption is that this practice is a direct result of younger generations spending most of their lives online, making desirabity more appealing than actually having sex. “To be a slut-in-vibes-only,” the writer Tom George explains, “is an ownership of a sexuality that is completely our own, expressed through the way we dress, the way we strut down the street whilst listening to Doja Cat, our horny bookstyling and thotty digital footprint.”
Although George was writing about people of all sexualities, this reading can take on particular meaning for queer people. Many of us were never allowed to express ourselves how we wanted to as young adults. Now, the internet offers a chance to make up for lost time. “Acceptance and validation has not historically been the experience that most queer people have had,” Daniel Olavarria, a psychotherapist in New York City who specializes in identity and oppression, says. Posting sexually charged content online can play a dual role for some people: It can be a way to seek validation while also reclaiming one’s sexuality as a perfectly healthy aspect of our identities.
It’s important to note that while some may feel pressured to present sexually online, many others do it because it’s authentic to them and how they feel. We live in a generally sex-negative world, and queer people have always been at the forefront of breaking down that stigma. “It can feel empowering to have the opportunity to curate an identity, and a world in our account, that is free from the points of shame and struggle that may have defined significant parts of our lives,” Olavarria says.
And as George, our non-practicing slut, points out, your online and offline personas don’t have to match to be authentic if that’s how you feel. As long as you’re not hurting anyone, you can be whoever you want to be online. But for those of us who do or have done it to fit in, that’s precisely why the pressure to be promiscuous online can feel so limiting.
Since coming out as demisexual this spring, I’ve felt much more comfortable being my authentic self online. I was reluctant to come out; I feared it would make me less appealing. But, I felt it was important to know that sex positivity has nothing to do with how much sex I have or how many thirst traps I post online.
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