'5 Golden Rules Of Gay Online Dating'

This piece was originally published in full on SameSame.com.au, Thursday 26th November, 2015, available here. Some contributions made by SameSame's editor.

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Back in times of yore, gay men had to go down to the local cruising spot wearing a handkerchief in their back-right pocket to score on a Thursday afternoon.

Nowadays however, we rely on nabbing tail through a variety of colourful online dating apps.

There’s several apps which vary in function: Grindr, Scruff and Hornet, for the homos who want everything from good conversation to a quick root-and-boot. Then there’s Tinder andOkCupid, for those who might just be looking for someone to love. And if you’re a gay man on a desktop who wants to get down to the point, you can even hop on Squirt or Manhunt for some ready-made action.

There are many more – trust me – and I’ve just named the ones I’m most familiar with. They are also apps solely for gay men – bar Tinder and OkCupid – as I’m less inclined to reference services I have no business exploring.

Each service provides a different appeal, and the characters that frolic in each one vary like the colours of the rainbow. I’ve experimented with all of them over the past several years. And ultimately, I’ve witnessed some behaviour and learned a thing or two about online dating through the process of my exploration.

Which is why I’m qualified to be your gay app Agony Aunt. Lie down and put your feet in the stirrups, because I’ve got some firm advice to ram home…

Include a clear photo of your face

Dating in the online realm is meant to present a convenient alternative to dating in real life. To go without a clear face photo is to suggest one is hiding from ASIO. If I ever found myself on a blind date with a headless torso, I’d be more inclined to run screaming into the night than put out after my third beer.

Use a photo of your face. We want to see your marvellous mug, not your shirtless torso five years ago after you’d conveniently gotten back from the gym.

Of course, some folks are closeted. Stay strong, soldiers, and provide a face pic as early as you can in the conversation.

Engage in conversation

Nothing gets the ball rolling quite like using “Sit on my face” as your opening line.

Some apps give you more leeway. Grindr and Hornet in particular will let you discretely plug that you’re looking for fun ‘Right Now’.

But still, context is everything. Ask yourself: Is enquiring about fisting a query best saved for later? He asked how my day was going – do I need to let him know about my diaper fetish? And more importantly: Would I ask this person to urinate on me – over coffee at the local cafe?

Wait for the opportune moment.

Similarly: I know dating apps are referred to as ‘the fast food of sex’, but surely you can do better than ‘Hey, hru’. Get creative with your texting. There’s a world of words out there.

Don’t send unsolicited nudes

I’m guilty of this, but that’s only after 3am on a Sunday morning while plastered off tequila. My Grindr profile genuinely reads “Regularly delete this app out of shame.”

I always wonder what goes through the mind of men who decide to send unsolicited nudes. “How best can I win this strange man’s heart?” There’s really no reason to send a photo of your genitals straight off the bat.

Especially not when it’s poorly angled with harsh bright flash, and I can see your toilet in the background. Classy.

Although, on some of the raunchier apps – like Squirt – it’s acceptable to show off your Prince Albert.

Don’t be racist

This is referring to the trend of ‘no blacks, no asians’ – and other racist garbage written on dating profiles. If I had a dollar for every time I heard “It’s just a preference” from a man on a dating app, I could buy an island to maroon them on.

Remember: When hooking up, it’s best to say what you ARE looking for, not what you’re not. It makes you sound like an idiot with attitude if you’re saying “no” to various groups of people right up-front.

If you’re not into an entire race of people because you’ve met every single one of them and decided to broadcast that they’re all unappealing, then go for it – but be quiet about it. That’s only if you’ve met and engaged with every single one of them, though. Every single one. Otherwise you’re just an ass.

And lastly, be a decent human being.

If you’re on a dating app and aren’t interested in being romanced by a stranger, the best thing to give is a simple ‘Sorry, I’m not interested’. Their heart will go on.

But if he’s taken the effort to send you a creative what’s up – if he simply wants to chat – then is it really necessary to leave him in total silence? Or worse, tell him to fuck off?

Ask yourself: Am I perhaps a bit of a disappointment? Did something happen in my childhood to make me this way? Do I maybe need to log off?

Welp! I’m spent. That’s the end of my guide. You’ve taken my wise words, my well-seasoned advice – and you’re now ready for online dating. Or Grinding. Or Scruffing. Or hell, even Squirting.

'How chinos taught me to get over myself and stop being a judgmental twat'

This piece was originally published in full on FashionJournal.com.au, 17th November 2015, available here.

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It takes a wise man to know that he was wrong - but it takes an even wiser man to admit it.  

For years I passed judgment on people, based on what they threw on their bodies.

I have been a judgmental tween, the likes of which hasn’t been seen since Joan Rivers hosted Fashion Police (rest her soul).

Exhibit A: Kids running around the clubs wearing Nike tracksuits and lad jackets. I’m sorry, but you just look suspicious. 

This may have had to do with growing up rough and gay in the suburbs of Melbourne, where the only person you knew hanging on the street in trackies was your weed dealer.

This suspicion only transformed into horror as the look became mainstream, when it trended on Tumblr and became ‘sports luxe’. 

But that was, of course, before I discovered the look was crafted for comfort over style. Turns out the advancement into an Internet fashion trend was just a bonus. 

Exhibit B: Wearing activewear to anywhere but the gym? You must have something to prove. Your capacity to register leggings as pants is strange and terrifying. There’s a reason why that activewear music video is so damn popular.

Which is how I felt until some gal pals let me know that sometimes brunch on a Sunday doesn’t demand a fashion show. That, and it’s great for tricking people into thinking you really care about fitness.

All of my judgments, however, paled in comparison to the ones I held for chinos. 

Exhibit C: Chinos.

For so long I saw chinos as the legwear of pompous yuppie dickheads. 

This may, again, be due to my upbringing: growing up in the suburbs, surrounded by other regions of a higher class. Places populated with people from wealthy backgrounds – who deemed quiet residential areas further out from the city as lower-class shitholes. And they were never afraid to let me know. 

Even now, I can see them on my news feed, standing together in Instagram pics with other genetic lottery winners, holding glass flutes in their hands filled with Dom Perignon. Expensive haircuts, shirts buttoned to the neck, suit jackets…

Chinos. All of them, in cream chino trousers.

Pair those with boat shoes, and you have the quintessential posh Cool Dude yuppie. His shirt is Ralph Polo, he can personally relate to Gossip Girl, and his car cost more than my HECS debt. 

But one day, something changed.

One day, my skin-tight denims couldn’t hack the heat.

One day, I slid on my first ever pair of cream chinos.

And it was a revelation. A comfortable, breathable, aesthetically appealing revelation. 

They were beyond a summer comfort, and never again will I doubt their wearable beige bliss. I have embraced them like a mother might clutch a newborn, or a Xanax when that child reaches high school. 

My wardrobe and attitude has shifted. My scathing prejudgments were never based in truth, but a bitter, scorned, self-made fantasy. I was wrong about chinos, and I’m sorry. I was wrong about them all. 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to Ralph Lauren for some new slim-fits.

'Why nightclubs are just like Fashion Week'

This piece was originally published in full on FashionJournal.com.au, 2nd of November, 2015, available here.

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I’ve been a frequenter of the clubs for several years, working as a nightlife photographer. Long nights have been spent shooting nightclub babes, who slink past the velvet rope in droves, then chug tap beer and cocktails which cost as much as your rent.

I’ve also relished in #fashun, having snooped around with my lens several years in a row at Melbourne’s fab Fashion Week and events, shooting street-style, runway and backstage. This is contrary to the fact that despite utterly adoring fashion and all it entails, I have no personal style to speak of, preferring jeans, tees, and overworn leather jackets that repel passers-by with the party smell.

If there’s one thing I do note, however, it’s how strikingly similar both are to one another, in terms of patrons, etiquette and my general sense of ennui.

So let’s delve, shall we? Put down your gin for a hot minute, because here are a few reasons why nightclubs are just like fashion week.

They’re really not that hard to get into

Contrary to what bloggers and professional Instagrammers would have you believe, fashion shows are no longer the refuge of business executives and fash mag magnates. Nay, gaining access to a fashion show is about as easy as punching in your credit card details and buying a ticket.

Just like nightclubs, they want you to believe they are exclusive events for the crème-de-la-crème of society. As long as you don’t dress like you spend your weeknights at the pub, you’ll be just fine getting through the door.

Gay people reign supreme

Unless you’re the type of gal who hits up clubs that play Melbourne Bounce, the chances are you’re going to run into your fair share of homosensuals while visiting upon the local discotheque.

And why wouldn’t you? In spite of being a marginalised group, we’ve managed to plant our roots in every creative industry we set our minds to. We are the fashion execs, the stylists, the directors and the producers. We practically invented disco.

If you’re a bit of a bigot, I would shy well away from Fashion Week and quality nightclubs. With our gal pals by our side, we are the queens and kings of the fash-club circuit, watching models sashay down the runway.

As RuPaul famously says, “now sissy that walk.”

The ‘cool girls’ exist – with much embarrassment to be had

With every new club opening and runway show, there exists a conglomerate of known socialites who flock to designer threads and free booze like A Current Affair to suburban hoarders. These familiar faces frequent each launch on the social calendar, being somehow acquainted with every executive, designer and public figure in the room.

Sure, they might seem like your typical fashion-forward culture queens with an interest in the arts. But after a strained conversation involving much Stepford smiling and subtle digs on their part, it becomes clear that they’re less interested in fashion and nightlife, and more keen on boosting their Instagram following. Just smile and back away slowly.

The personal style will ruin your life

As mentioned previously: I am not particularly fashionable. That is to say, I’m not ‘on trend.’ I am both a glamour lover and a serial re-wearer. You can call me a fashion lover undercover.

If you’re someone who desires fashion icon status, but can’t seem to achieve it (like me), your self-esteem will be crushed like a kitten in a blender. Though many outfits stalking nightclubs and Fashion Week range from smart-casual to utterly disastrous, every now and then your eyes will fall upon a look that is so innovative and on point, it turns your future Vogue dreams to dust.

I look down at my floral shirt with cream chinos and sulk. Find me at McDonald's for a post-event feed, after feeling woefully inadequate for five straight hours.

I guess the most important similarity between Fashion Week and nightclubs, is when the going gets tough – when the vapid babes and superficial banter gets a bit too much – there’s a bar around the corner. And a Cosmo with your name on it.

And when a man takes his shirt off… he’s probably a model. And he’s probably about to stalk the runway, all for your viewing pleasure. Unless you’re at a club, in which case he’s some drooling bloke from the western suburbs looking for a root. If the latter happens: take that Cosmo, and drink yourself to oblivion. You have my permission. I believe in you.