Sunday 31 December 2017

Grinding Poetry: queer men and hookup apps (& websites)

In this blog we want to collect poems (and short prose pieces) written by queer people (mostly men) in reaction to hookup apps (and websites), the likes of Grindr, Scruff, Daddyhunt, GuySpy, GROWLr, Mister X, Hornet, Randy, Gaydar, GayRomeo, Buttheads, Manhunt, and any other app or site that you know but I may have missed. 

Multimedia material (e.g. visual art, sound, ...) is also welcome . 

If you have any piece on the topic, would you like to share it with us? If you don't, would you like to write one and contribute it to this website? 

To submit a piece, email:

Copyright of each piece remains with its author.

These are the contributions so far: 

Look forward to your submissions!

Wednesday 15 November 2017

BEFORE by Leonard Łukowski

One morning, still drunk, cranked up on caffeine, basking in a post-fuck glow, you will proudly text your friend declaring you’ve just had sex with a guy who’s never been with anyone with a vagina before. Someone off Grindr. You will feel you’ve achieved. You will feel like a pioneering presence in a land of dick pics and hairy torsos. You’re not like other men, but you’re still a man, and your ability to pick up men on the gayest of apps proves it.

That afternoon the hangover will set in and you will ask yourself if the events of last night were really that great. You will recall the anxious, self-deprecating questions you asked your hook-up, seeking to pre-empt any doubts or disappointment your body may provide: ‘Do I look how you expected me to look? Did you expect me to be more masculine? Have you ever had sex with anyone with a vagina before? We don’t have to fuck like that.’ How when he first took your binder off you looked down at your chest embarrassed. How, naked and lying skin on skin, you couldn’t help but feel your body as feminised next to his, how the thought kept running through your head, but he likes men, what does he want with me? How, between fucks, on his bed, swigging cheap white wine, he asked you what your name was ‘before’ and probably this was just natural human curiosity, but what if it was because you were unconvincing as a man? How he’d asked what kind of girl you’d been, if you ever had long hair, if he could see a picture of you ‘as a woman’.  You’d got out your phone and showed him a picture taken at a drag night you’d gone to the other month as a garish queen named ‘Victoria Peckham’ and he didn’t even see the funny side. ‘No. I meant before.’ Then he saw you were getting uncomfortable and assured you he didn’t have a fetish. But it’s not like you were there for his personality. Maybe he was your fetish. 

Once the hangover lifts you will shrug off all the awkward stuff with Morrissey lyrics: ‘Why ponder life’s complexities when the leather runs smooth on the passenger seat?’ But you will know that, even before the stupid drunken lack of protection, before the confused, horrified looks on the faces of the pharmacists at your attempt to explain why someone who looks like you needs the morning after pill, before the lonely trek to the sexual health clinic where the nurse has to call another nurse who phones a hostile-seeming doctor to work out what to do with you, before the four week course of PEP, before any of that, life’s complexities already get in the way. You will know all this but you will continue to jizz on the passenger seat nonetheless. 

That night you will go to bed, thinking of the way his cum hit your stomach in the early hours, wrapped in the arms of your girlfriend who just wouldn’t understand.

Monday 25 September 2017

JOE: a prose poem by Serge Neptune

In the cotton-white 58th hall of the National Gallery, a wide rectangular frame surrounding a scene of Satyrs tearing each other apart while soaked up in drunkenness.  I ask if this resembles in any way a typical English pub. After a fortuitous change of subject, I find out you like big dogs and you’ve got one brother or maybe two, you’re quite fond of Games of Thrones. You carry with pride your Southampton scruffiness. On a day when January’s frost clings firmly to the streets of Streatham Hill you take the chance to show me the house. Your single bed appears to be rickety, noisy and too tight for the both of us. You enquire about the possibility of watching while other men mess me around. You lurk inside and leave your scented trail but without asking. You’re leaving for Egypt in few days and that will be the last I will ever see of you. It’s a long embarrassing wait before your Scottish flatmate terminates his shower. 

Monday 18 September 2017

FOUR POEMS by Dan Webber

Titles: "Homo On The Rocks",  "Anonymous at 6am", "You Only Send Kisses When You’re Horny", "NSFW".

Homo On The Rocks

I'm at a house party playing catch up, starting to feel the effects of a few cocktails,
and I set sail back to the bar 
I'm stood looking over the booze trying to choose 
When this guy next to me says 
"Oi mate, you don't want that drink, that's a gay drink" 
Now I've had a few sherries and I'm feeling pretty merry
Perhaps a touch more unsteady than I'd care to admit, 
but I'm reckon I can still hit this motherfucker if it comes to it  
"A gay drink?!"
I reply, manic twitch in my eye 
and I see the guys face drop
And before anyone can stop me, I say 
"Do you know exactly who you're talking too?
I'm Grindr’s finest 
the only cocksucker in the room 
and for you to assume that my choice of drink in any way reflects my sexuality is a travesty! 
It's 2017 
Where have you been? And what have you done? 
And what can I do to help you overcome this belief that gay means bad or inferior in any way?
It's sad really”
He apologises for any offense 
and I spend the next twenty minutes furiously texting my friends
In the morning, he may not remember
Liquor loosens lips
but I hope before the next time he opens his mouth he thinks


Anonymous at 6am

Hey guy,
Just to clarify
Never have I ever given the impression
Or mentioned, that I would be A-OK with a 6AM message to say
That I am invited round for fun! And I should totally come
I yawn, as you offer arse crack at the crack of dawn
and I’m forlorn at your approach
Encroaching closer and closer to the creepy
I’m still sleepy, I don’t need this, and yet still you persist
No I don’t know who you are
I didn’t fix your sisters car
Nor do I work at buttery reservoir
You have me mistaken
I haven’t taken you out for a drink before
I’m not that guy you think you saw
No, honestly? I’m not sure what I’m looking for
But I’m guessing it’s not you
And you’re continuously pressing the send key
Bombarding me and I’m still politely saying no
Your persistence isn’t flattering
Nor is the smattering of faceless nudes included in your flirtatious texts
I gathered than you are horny yes
But I’m really not feeling this.
“No worries” he sends and blocks me
Like I’ve done something wrong


You Only Send Kisses When You’re Horny

You only send kisses when you're horny 
And being at your beck and call is starting to get boring 
You had the chance for this to advance 
But you told me you wanted to keep things “caus” 
Well I'm done with that
I'm dressing smartly for a change
trying not to arrange 
A date that I know ain't going anywhere 
Just because I'm so damn scared of being alone
Or of staring at my phone all night
Wondering who else is awake at this time and feeling like this

You only send kisses when you're horny
And I know by now that cross is there to warn me 
But I'm still making mistake after mistake 
Taking whatever is offered 
Without hesitation, 
Without question, 
Without consequence or recompense 
In an attempt to feel a little less like me
Wrapped in an embrace I can pretend is real albeit briefly
And I say that this time is the last time
Until the next time I hear that message chime and  
and I'm there, right back by your side
Looking you dead in the eye and thinking 
What are we doing?
ruining a friendship
We both know this is never going to be a relationship 
And although you call me babe I wasn't born yesterday 
So please, please don't treat me that way 

You only send kisses when you're horny



I think being single has driven me insane.
I’m clearly not the same as I was when I was taken,
I’ve forsaken all my loyalty, my monogamy,
I still have the vow of poverty but now I’m shouting
“Look at me! Yes you, look. At. Me. Yes you, the handsome guy with the perfect quiff!”
(I never said I was good at this)

To quickly lower the tone, I wrote this on my phone and quiff came out as stiff
Which is a very different poem…

I keep meeting guys at events and becoming hell bent, trying to work out where I know them from
Every answer in my head seems wrong, when all of a sudden I get this hideous reminder
“Oh yeah, now I remember you, I’ve seen your cock on Grindr”
That’s normally where the conversation ends,
And my friends seem to part like the red sea
And no one really talks to me
Or even looks at me
So I quickly leave the kiki…


Dan Webber

Dan has been involved in the East Midlands arts scene for the last 14 years and is a respected actor, writer, producer and director. Through spoken word he hopes to change this.

He has appeared at YNOT Festival, Derby Comedy Festival, Bearded Theory Festival, Queer As Jokes, London and Incite at The Phoenix Artists Club, London. 

He was a finalist in the Poetry is Dead Good Mix It Up Midlands Slam in 2014, in October 2016 he was named BBC Local Poet for Derby for National Poetry Day and in July 2017 he was commissioned to write a poem for The Cathedral Quarter, Derby winner of Best City Location at The UK High Street of the Year Awards. 

Dan has supported Robb Johnson and Joe Solo on tour, is one sixth of Twisted Tongues (Derby Spoken Word Collective) and organises LGB-QWERTY, Derby’s only lgbt+ spoken word and variety night. 

Wednesday 11 January 2017

GRINDR: A PROSE POEM by Ernesto Sarezale

He put me off when he wrote: “You are a great guy. But you shouldn’t use the headphones you have on your pic.” “Why?” “Because they’re pink!” I almost blocked him. But I counted to 10. Such hot guy would not normally want to hook up with me. I typed in a hurry “if you don’t want to meet…” He replied in an dash: “I do want to meet”. And we met. But it was not easy. First he said he could not accommodate. I typed: “I can’t at my flat ‘cause I live with my parents. If we meet, we have to have sex on a couch at my uncle’s unfurnished flat.” So he soon changed his tune and he said he could host. When I got to his place, he was shifty: “You know, my flat was untidy.” But that’s not the only thing that annoyed me about him. Half way through, when he was about to give me a blow-job, he stopped and he asked: “Are you clean?” I wondered when was the last time I had had a shower. Did my willy smell? He explained: “Are you tested?” I got what he meant. “Yes,” I said. Which is true. It was six months ago. But I didn’t tell him when because he didn’t ask. I almost lost my erection. Gladly, his sucking was ace. I was soon stiff and ready. When I came, he came shortly after me. And he annoyed me again. He sprawled on his bed, breathing deep. “I feel so relaxed,” he said without looking at me, “it feels so good!”. He overdid it, rapt in his own satisfaction, he was almost falling asleep. So thoughtless.


It was sweet, must be said, that he never compelled me to remove my shirt. He said nothing  the moment his hands touched the body-shaping vest I was wearing beneath. I had put on weight over Christmas and was feeling self-conscious about the width of my waist. It’s good that he did not see me with my top off because body-shapers are made for white people and look very awkward on my dark skin tone. It would have been hard to get rid of that corset anyway. He was happy to simply strip me off my pants. He wasn’t all bad. I loved how he stroked my face stubble with his thumb. And when I asked him, post-coitus, “what’s that thing over there?” he stretched and jumped out of bed. He showed me with pride an award he had won as a student back home. He looked back at me. He got close. He crouched and kissed my soft cock. I warned him: “It will get hard again…” “That’s OK,” he replied. And I was reminded of how, earlier on, in the thralls of passion, when almost against my will I shouted “Daddy!”, he looked at my eyes, put his ear on my chest and said: “Your heartbeat sounds just like the overture of Rigoletto”.  

Sunday 8 January 2017

WINDOWS by Serge Neptune

A trill rises from the murky pits of my computer’s audio system, 
with the same indiscretion through which trees tickle a scorned window. 
The trill is familiar, heard it lots of times, once turned my head, 
Planetromeo’s blue website winks at me, cheeky.
I took as a sign the two times I tried to install Grindr in my phone, 
the app crashing both times, therefore never really used it.
Planetromeo doesn’t crash. Planetromeo is an old faithful friend.
The pc window whistles out another window which whistles out 
your message, an intriguing summary of our first meeting. 
Your ass has made a very good first impression.
Few things count more than a good first impression.
We decide to meet and I pour myself in the cold streets,
Mouth steaming, heading to your studio flat in Hackney.
Upon discovering I would mark you, that my jaws
were thirsty for bruising, my lips willing to suckle and scathe 
you showcased delight on your face 
like an expensive watch from a Selfridges’ display.
We undress each other in a rush, the rush mellows.
You hold my head still, implore my lips to stop,
Cause you might come already.
Turning me over you push me down, my nose sinking 
in the pillow, my nostrils filled with linen, ignoring the stink of ratpiss.
You lift my snow-white bum cheeks, 
Face my narrow opening which mirrors the loneliness of both.
Not long after we start, I beg you to dig deeper 
and harder and faster inside me
Yet what I really mean is I would like you
to hold me tight and kiss me sweetly and never let me go,
but I don’t translate feelings well, they are a language
I’ve never really learnt to speak.
We grow incandescent, and once you let your river 
flow down to the wrinkles of my navel, we grow apart.
You came three times in a row and I didn’t even notice.

On my way out, I melt with the fog, I fold one of my sleeves
In a naughty shape. The Overground’s card reader beeps me welcome.
Somehow, a weird feeling remains, 
All the windows I encounter looking down at me
Are dressed up in a smirk.

Monday 2 January 2017

MASC-U-RIM-ITY by Stephen Jackson

I didn't know quite what to expect.
I've imagined how I'd hoped it would be
but with pornography as inspiration 
my imagination may have spiralled into absurdity. 
Reality somehow retains originality.
I certainly was not expecting coffee and cake with a stranger.
I was expecting all strangers to be on time. Some never turned up.
Two were punctual, excluding myself, one was hosting and the other I'd met before.
A soldier.
But he didn't recognise me at first.
I'd grown a beard since.
I consciously ignored any awkwardness as I undressed.
With my face between his cheeks
my tongue reacquainted itself with his pleasure and my dick inside him, 
a handshake of sorts,
familiarity returned.
But in a strangers bed.
Who didn't wait for us to cum.
He wiped himself down, sprung off the bed and nonchalantly packed his gym bag.
He said we could continue somewhere else.
This was no time for a commercial break.
On the street, I felt confused
the soldier evaporated into the lazy summer Sunday afternoon.
The stranger who arrived late caught my attention and we recounted the details over cake and coffee.
My beard needed a wash.
I could wipe away cake crumbs with a napkin but it retained a particular scent. 
Not sugar and spice and all things nice 
nor whatever little boys are made of.
This smell is what men are made of:
a mature, intimate, addictive fragrance.
He went to meet his friends 
and I went to the gym.
Opportunity buzzed in my pocket
as I approached the turnstiles.
And my phone guided me to Elephant & Castle.
His flat was a little too tidy for any lasting friendship to bloom between us. 
This was purely help to unload.
Pleasure was impatient under the weight of foreplay's frustration.
He was slight enough for me to flip him over with one hand. 
I pulled his hips towards my face and dived, tongue first into his inviting crack.
After ten minutes hearing noises they usually make, he pulled away and said, 
"I'm really sorry, I don't think we're connecting."
He slipped on his underwear 
and raised his eyebrows as the waistband snapped against his youthful hips.
Perhaps to break the silence as I dressed.
Back on the tube to the gym.
I could smell two guys asses in my beard.
It didn't occur to me that other passengers might too.
I could smell two distinct flavours of masculinity.
I don't think other passengers made the same oldfactory observation.
I thought I needed to wash my beard
but deadlifting behind the squat rack
my line of vision inhaled the natural rise and tightening of shorts
as he lowered himself to the floor and
I wondered if another lick of this oldfactory puzzle would help answer 'what smell makes a man?'