Ambivalence in networked intimacy: Observations from gay men using mobile dating apps

Abstract

The increasing popularity of mobile dating apps in the past decade has transformed the ways in which gay men network with each other. Based on sociology and media studies literature, I contextualize this contemporary form of intimacy, which is known as networked intimacy, in relation to networked individualism and neoliberalism. Using a mixed-methods design with interviews (N = 7) and a survey (N = 245), this study explored how gay men experience intimacy on these platforms. Users reported ambivalence in establishing relationships, which is brought forth by the ambiguity of relationships, dominance of profiles, and over-abundance of connections on these apps. I conclude that these aspects of ambivalence are not at all exclusive to the private domain of gay men but are tightly intertwined with the neoliberal market and consumption practices.

Keywords

Ambivalence dating app gay men hookup app MSM neoliberalism networked individualism networked intimacy

Eddie joined the dating app Grindr in 2011. In 2012, he left this app and started using both Jack’d and Coffee Meets Bagel. He had always desired a stable partner. He was sure that his ultimate goal on these apps was a long-term relationship. He quit Grindr because he thought the app was too sex-oriented. On Jack’d, his profile stated, “LTR oriented :).” But this did not mean he was not open to casual sex. He admitted, “If you’re really hot, you proposition me for sex … Will I turn you down if you’re lying on my bed, waiting for me to hook up with you? Probably not.” Although dating apps allowed Eddie to see a wide array of profiles of different gay men, he had to be selective regarding whom he messaged or replied to. As he described the browsing process, “You see the picture first. Then, you can scroll down.” The photo, as part of a profile, became critical for Eddie to decide whether he would initiate a conversation on these apps. Moreover, being 5′10″, he only considered people who were 5′7″ or taller. His reason was, “Nothing. I just decided to set the line there, because I needed a line somewhere.” Given the large number of potential partners on the apps, setting a cut-off, as Eddie put it, was arbitrary yet necessary.

The flexibility in relational goals, focus on photos, and the use of filters are probably not unique to Eddie. Mobile dating apps are increasingly popular among Americans. Grindr, which was launched in 2009 targeting the gay population, has introduced a new way for gay men to meet each other (Gudeluna, 2012). Apps such as Tinder opened up the heterosexual market. According to the Pew Research Center, only 3% of adults in the United States had used a dating app on their smartphones in 2013, but the figure rose to 9% by 2015 (Smith, 2016; Smith and Duggan, 2013).

Researchers have looked at the emerging dating app culture from a production perspective (e.g. Murray and Ankerson, 2016), a self-presentation perspective (e.g. Chan, 2016; Fitzpatrick et al., 2015), and a usage perspective (e.g. Blackwell et al., 2015; Brubaker et al., 2016; Gudeluna, 2012; Miller, 2015; Van de Wiele and Tong, 2014). In this article, I also focus on the use of dating apps and examine how gay men experience intimacy and connections on these platforms.

A special issue of Feminist Media Studies contemplates and explores the relationship between “mobile” and “intimacy.” Hjorth and Lim (2012) regard mobile intimacy as the “overlaying of the material-geographic and electronic-social” (p. 478) that has reconfigured the private–public boundary. Recently, the Journal of Gender Studies published a special issue entitled “Mediated intimacy: bodies, technologies and relationships.” Attwood et al. (2017) point out that all forms of intimacy are by nature mediated because “they require a medium through which intimate relations can be established between the subject and the other” (p. 249). In this article, I follow Hobbs et al. (2017) to refer to the form of intimacy enabled by mobile dating apps as “networked intimacy” because this term connotes not only mobility and mediation but also the extensive connectivity supported by dating apps.

In the following, I first contextualize intimacy in relation to the larger social processes. I trace the two-step transformation of intimacy from the traditional society to industrial, pre-Internet society, and then from the industrial, pre-Internet society to network, digital society (Bauman, 2000; Beck and Beck-Gernsheim, 1995; Giddens, 1992). In this contextualization, I revisit the notion of “networked intimacy” by attending to networked individualism (Rainie and Wellman, 2012) and neoliberalism. Combining interview and survey data collected from gay, bisexual, and queer-identifying men, I show that the establishment of intimate relationships on mobile dating apps is characterized by the ambiguity of app-mediated relationships, dominance of profiles, and the over-abundance of potential connections. These three characteristics generate ambivalence to gay male app users.¹ In conclusion, I argue that such ambivalence is not exclusive to their private intimacy but rather reflects the neoliberal ethos in the contemporary public culture.

Intimacy and modernity

The notions of “love,” “sex,” and “intimacy” are interconnected. From a psychological approach, Sternberg (1986) suggests that intimacy, passion, and commitment/decision are the three components of any loving relationship. Various kinds of “love” result from the combination of the presence and absence of each component. Since the 1990s, sociologists have made more holistic claims about the nature of intimacy in industrial societies. They use the term “intimacy” as a shorthand for romantic and sexual relationships. Giddens (1991) points out that although the disembedding feature of the post-traditional society has brought us freedom, it has also created a sense of insecurity in everyday life that propels us to constantly and reflexively manage ourselves. This freedom to choose one’s own way of living has had implications for our intimate relationships. Giddens (1992) argues that the pure relationship model of intimacy has replaced the traditional, procreation-driven model of intimacy. With the decreasing pressure for women to give birth and the invention of contraceptive measures, the maintenance of intimate relationships has come to depend less on procreation. Building upon sexual and emotional equality, the pure relationship is purely supported by the rewards that it generates. An intimate relationship, in the form of the pure relationship, continues only so long as both parties derive satisfaction from it. Accordingly, commitment is not unconditional, but requires reciprocity.

In a similar vein, Beck and Beck-Gernsheim (1995) contend that in the risk society, the constant pressure to revise one’s personal biography based on education and work compels individuals to seek emotional support from love; therefore, love becomes unprecedentedly important. Nevertheless, the meaning of love has come to be defined less by traditional institutions such as religion, but more by the persons involved in the relationship, who “learned” about love from other sources such as the mass media (Illouz, 1997). Love is, therefore, inevitably chaotic (Beck and Beck-Gernsheim, 1995). This chaotic nature of love has further extended to family, which, under globalization, is no longer bounded by a single nationality, religion, culture, or ethnicity (Beck and Beck-Gernsheim, 2013).

In a nutshell, Giddens, Beck, and Beck-Gernsheim have contended that the transition from the traditional society to industrial society cultivates new forms of intimate relationships that differ from those in traditional society. If this is true, does it not mean that the transition from the industrial, pre-Internet society to network, digital society also cultivates an emerging form of intimacy? Bauman (2003), writing in the early Internet era, refers to online dating as “liquid love” par excellence—that is, a relational manifestation of the social condition that he terms “liquid modernity” (Bauman, 2000).² Bauman (2003) argues that consumption logic has become omnipresent and has been extended to love. Online dating platforms have become a perfect place where one can “shop around” without responsibilities, risks, and emotional pain: “Termination on demand—instantaneous without mess, no counting losses or regrets is the major advantage of internet dating” (p. 65). On the Internet, a relationship can be ended simply by logging off from the site or deleting the contact.

Networked intimacy revisited

What Bauman (2000, 2003) touches upon but does not fully unpack is the extent to which contemporary intimacy is fueled by the digital network and neoliberalism. The emerging form of intimacy in the 21st century can better be understood in relation to the form of individualism specific to the network society and sexual practices consistent with the neoliberal ethos.

Rainie and Wellman (2012) propose the concept of networked individualism to characterize the project of the self in the network society. They argue that individuals are detached from traditional communities and organizations but are re-embedded in multiple networks of relations. The networked individuals rely heavily on their diverse social networks and make use of information technologies to manage these diverse relationships. Networked individualism, as suggested by Rainie and Wellman, has emerged from the Triple Revolution: first, the social network revolution, in which people gain access to people beyond their ascribed social groups; second, the Internet revolution, in which people gain communicative power and mass information; and finally, the mobile revolution, in which people can access the Internet at any time. Intimacy mediated by mobile dating apps, therefore, is intimacy par excellence of network society.

Bauman (2003) argues that consumption logics—including efficiency, attractiveness, novelty, variety, practicality, instantaneity, and disposability—have permeated online dating. This is reflective of the neoliberal culture, where an individual is treated “as an active agent of decision and choice” (Isin and Wood, 1999: 147). Neoliberalism represents an intensification of the pressure for individuals to govern themselves. Apart from online dating, Hakim (2018) and O’Neill (2015), respectively, show that other contemporary sexual practices are consistent with neoliberal culture. Based on in-depth interviews with young British men, who suffered financially from the 2008 financial crisis, Hakim (2018) argues that their workout routines and sharing of their post-workout photos on social media are a response to neoliberal austerity. These men, spending hours in the gym everyday, recognized that their muscular bodies (i.e. spornosexual capital) barely created any material value; they kept doing this because “the joys of accumulating spornosexual capital are one of the few remaining for young men in Britain’s post-crisis austerity economy” (p. 9). O’Niell’s (2015) study on the London “seduction community”—where heterosexual men attend workshops to learn to solicit women for casual sex—illustrates how discourses of enterprise, consumerism, and competition are integrated into the training and practice of seduction. Within this community, negotiating casual sex with women is considered as a skill that can be learned by training; men hold detailed specifications about the appearances of the women; and the success is indicated by the number of women one has slept with.

In our current network, neoliberal society, mobile dating apps afford mobility, proximity, immediacy, authenticity, and visual dominance (Chan, 2017). Hobbs et al. (2017) examined how the affordances of dating apps influence users’ views of relationships and sexual practices. They found that mobile dating apps have constituted a “network of intimacy” that expands users’ social capital and increases their chances of finding a romantic relationship that is based on Gidden’s pure relationship model. Networked intimacy, to Hobbs and his colleagues, is about “flirting, courtship and the ongoing search for love and fulfilment via dating apps and smartphones” (p. 12).³ This study explored how a subset of dating app users—gay men—experience intimacy via mobile dating apps. Since the notion of “network intimacy” highlights the connectivity aspect, the following focuses on the establishment of relationships via dating apps rather than the development or maintenance of such relationships.

Methods and analysis

This was a mixed-methods study using an exploratory sequential design (Creswell and Clark, 2011). Such design “begins with and prioritizes the collection and analysis of qualitative data in the first phase,” followed by “a second, quantitative phase to test or generalize the initial findings” (p. 71). In this study, I used the quantitative phase to assess the generalizability of the data from the interviews across various populations.

Qualitative part

From March to April 2015, I conducted seven semi-structured interviews with users of gay male dating apps. Their ages ranged from 26 to 30 years, and all were living in the Los Angeles area. They all held a Bachelor’s degree. Five identified themselves as Chinese American, one as Korean American, and one as Vietnamese American. Five were using dating apps at the time of the interview, and two had stopped using dating apps about a month before the interview. The interviews lasted from 45 minutes to 2 hours and were recorded and transcribed. To examine their perceptions of romantic and sexual relationships and dating apps, I started the interviews by asking “What is your ideal romantic relationship?” and “What is your ideal sexual relationship or hookup?” Then, I asked, “Do you think these apps help you achieve your ideal romantic or sexual relationship that you just described?” Based on their answers, I probed into topics that my informants found interesting or salient.

I closely read the transcripts and performed inductive analysis based on a grounded theory approach (Glaser and Strauss, 1967). I used a two-cycle coding process (Miles et al., 2014). In the first cycle of coding, I used In Vivo coding, meaning that I extracted the exact words or phrases my informants used to serve as the first cycle codes. Examples of these codes include “hierarchy of apps,” “looking for/open to,” “it’s very superficial,” “a resume,” “eBay,” and “very frictionless.” The second cycle of coding began with organizing the first cycle codes. Codes from each transcript were constantly compared until some themes gradually emerged. For example, interview excerpts coded as “hierarchy of apps” and “looking for/open to” were grouped together under the theme of relationship goals. My informants tended to focus on how they established relationships with others via the apps rather than how they maintained the relationships with people whom they met via the apps. Three themes—ambiguity of relationships, dominance of profiles, and over-abundance of connections—were finally identified. I then reread the transcripts to verify whether the crucial experiences of my informants were captured by these themes.

Quantitative part

The qualitative phase described above was to derive insights that helped me make sense of the phenomenon. I make no claims that these seven Asian informants represent the experience of all gay men in the United States. Therefore, the purpose of the survey was to assess the prevalence of the experiences shared by my Asian American, college-educated, young adult informants (i.e. the three themes identified from the qualitative phase) in other gay, bisexual, and queer male communities of different races, ages, and education levels. I developed the survey protocol based on the In Vivo codes. For example, the word choice of the survey item “You are open to various relationship” was based on the language used by the interview’s informants. Respondents needed to be at least 18 years old; self-identified as gay, bisexual, or queer male; currently a dating app user; fluent in English; and currently living in the United States. The survey took around 5–10 minutes to complete. From November 2016 to March 2017, I posted a link to the survey on various online venues such as Reddit.com and lgbtchat.net. I used Mechanical Turk to recruit gay, bisexual, and queer-identifying male dating app users. I disseminated the survey via my personal social media account and through the research subject pool in my institute.

Among the 387 responses collected, 37 were removed because the respondents did not match the criteria. In total, 98 were incomplete (i.e. competing less than 70% of the survey). Furthermore, seven responses were removed because they were completed in less than 3 minutes. A final sample of 245 responses was retained. The respondents ranged from 19 to 68 years of age, with the median age of 30 years. Most (86.9%) identified themselves as gay, 12.2% as bisexual, and 0.8% as queer. The majority (70.2%) identified themselves as Caucasian, 6.1% as African American, 6.9% as Hispanic, 12.2% as Asian, 1.2% as Native American, 0.4% as Pacific Islanders, and 2.9% as mixed race. Around half (50.2%) of the sample were non-Bachelor’s degree holders, 38.0% were Bachelor’s degree holders, and 11.8% were graduate degree holders.

The respondents were given a 5-point scale (1 = strongly disagree to 5 = strongly agree) for most questions. In the following, I report the combined percentage of strongly agree and agree categories. I also provide the mean and standard deviation of each statement based on the 5-point scale. For each question in the survey, I assessed the variations within different age, racial, and educational groups. For age, I divided the sample into three groups: 18–26 years, the “app generation,” who came of age after Grindr was introduced (29.8% of the survey sample); 27–33 years, the “Internet generation,” who came of age before Grindr was introduced but after more than half of the national population had begun using the Internet (40.4% of the sample); and 34–68 years, the “Pre-Internet generation,” who came of age before the Internet use was the norm (29.8% of the sample). In terms of race, the small group size of Native American, Pacific Islander, and mixed-race respondents meant that they could not be included in the intergroup comparison. Therefore, I only compared the other four races. I also compared across the three education levels. I used χ² tests to assess the intergroup percentage difference of people who agreed with each question. Post hoc tests with Bonferroni correction were used to identify significant contrast pairs. In the following, I only report the results of χ² tests when statistically significant variations between groups were found.

Findings

Ambiguity of relationships

Earlier studies found that mobile dating app users use the apps for a variety of potential relationships (Miller, 2015; Van de Wiele and Tong, 2014). Eddie, whose story began this article, was clear that his ultimate goal was a serious, long-term partnership. Therefore, in selecting what apps to use, he discarded Grindr, which he found too sex-oriented, and opted for other apps. Like Eddie, some other informants perceived that different apps had different purposes. All of them agreed on the sexual emphasis of Grindr, but they had diverse opinions on other apps such as Jack’d, another popular mobile dating app in the gay communities. To Fred, Jack’d was for looking for serious romantic relationships; however, to Gabriel, Jack’d was also a hookup app. Chris elaborated,

I feel like there’s this hierarchy of sorts when it comes to [these apps]. … The hierarchy seems to be, if you have any sort of romantic intention, then use Jack’d. If you sort of are kidding with yourself and saying that you want to have something romantic but you really want to have sex, you’re going for Grindr.

This view—a differential view—considers sexual relationships and romantic relationships as being on a continuum, and each app serves a unique purpose. The survey data supported this view. Most respondents (73.9%) agreed that “there’s a hierarchy: some apps are for sex, while some are for more serious relationships” (M = 3.78, standard deviation [SD] = 1.00). A significant difference of agreement percentage was observed across race, χ² (3) = 9.16, p < .05. The post hoc pairwise comparison found that much fewer African American respondents (46.7% of their own group) agreed with this statement than Asian respondents (86.7%). Three-quarters of the Caucasian respondents (75.0%) and 64.7% of the Hispanic respondents agreed with the statement; however, neither the difference between them and the African American group nor the difference between them and the Asian group was statistically significant. The 181 respondents who agreed with this statement were further asked to identify which apps they thought were for sex and which were for serious relationships. Grindr, Tinder, and Scruff were the top three hookup apps as considered by these respondents, whereas OKCupid, Tinder, and Match.com were the top three apps for relationships. Note that Tinder appeared on both sides.

However, this app–goal relationship was not static. My informants’ actual use of the apps complicated this classification. Recalling that even though Eddie was looking for long-term relationships and that his bio on Jack’d said “LTR oriented :),” he was open to having casual sex with attractive men. Ben admitted using Scruff primarily for looking for sex, even though his bio stated that he was looking for serious relationships. Devon put “not here for hookups, looking for friends” in his bio; however, he said that this was “not totally true.” He elaborated, “It is, I think, generally agreed upon that every gay person knows what [‘looking for friends’] means. … Everybody knows, you don’t have to talk about it. You know, people just write it.”

In fact, fewer than half (44.1%) of the survey respondents agreed that they would do only what they had stated in their profile (M = 3.22, SD = 1.29). In an analysis of OKCupid users, Zytko et al. (2015) found that due to the social stigma against casual sex, people often hid their sexual motives. However, my interviews show that these ambiguous, or sometimes misleading, goals may be a tactic not only to eschew social stigma but also to capture potentiality. When asked whether he was looking for romantic or casual sexual relationships via dating apps, Chris was very reluctant to endorse the phrase “looking for”: “I think there’s a difference between looking and being open. ‘Looking’ feels like there’s a very proactive role that I would be engaging in. ‘Being open’ is a bit more passive. It’s more of like whatever happens, happens.”

Chris was not looking for a romantic or a sexual relationship, but was open to both. Along similar lines, Eddie was open to casual sex because he believed there was a possibility that “a casual [relationship] could become serious.” Ben also thought that dating apps opened up possibilities: “Yes, these apps are mostly hookup apps, but I am leaving the door open for the possibilities for getting to know somebody.” This mentality was also the norm among the survey respondents, with 73.9% of them agreeing that they were open to various relationships (M = 3.77, SD = 1.07). A significant difference of agreement percentage was observed across age, χ²(2) = 8.23, p < .05. More pre-Internet generation users (86.3%) agreed with this statement than the Internet generation (70.4%) or the app generation (67.1%).

In summary, dating app users see certain apps as having certain uses. This does not, however, mean they are only open to the type of relationship for which they think an app is intended. On an app that is known for sex, they are open to romance, and vice versa. The ambiguity in relational goals and the inconsistency between what they state in their profile and what they do can be interpreted as a tactic to maximize the potentiality of the relationships achievable on these apps.

Dominance of profiles

On the dating apps, a person is primarily assessed by his profile, which includes his photos, the basic personal information he has provided, and several lines of a textual bio. The initial assessment of a potential partner usually takes less than a minute. This assessment primarily relies on the key photo of the potential partner. In this sense, dating apps are unique in terms of their visual dominance. A good-looking face and six-pack abs are usually welcomed. As Fred puts it bluntly, “It’s very superficial, and if you don’t look like a certain type that people are looking for, then they don’t talk to you.”

When asked how they decided to initiate a conversation or reply to a message, all but one of my informants said they looked at the photos. For informants who were seeking casual sex, looking at body photos was not surprising. However, even for Gabriel, who aimed at long-term relationships, a nice photo was always enticing: “If their picture is good, that they are doing interesting things, then, I am open to chatting.” A “hot chest” could turn an unattractive profile into a potentially adorable one. Eddie recounted,

I will not click on someone if it’s just a shirtless picture, neck down, or they’re lying on their butt. That to me shows that they’re looking for a certain thing that might not be that serious, or they’re really into their body. … Sometimes, I’m like, “Wow. That person’s chest is really hot.” I’ll click on it, and then I might see a face picture. … If I see a face picture at that point, maybe I’ll message or not, once I enter the profile.

The survey data echoed with these qualitative statements. In commenting on profiles of other people that they saw on the apps, 73.1% agreed that profiles were very superficial (M = 3.89, SD = 0.93). Photos were the most important elements in others’ profiles to 66.1% of the respondents (M = 3.75, SD = 1.05).

If dating app users think others’ profiles are superficial, does that mean that they are not serious in crafting their own profile? This is not true. Ben was eager to build up his activist persona and displayed a photo that showed he was an activist. He had been volunteering in a lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, questioning (LGBTQ) organization in Los Angeles for a long time. He took his voluntary work extremely seriously. Not only did he convey his activist persona through the photo, but in his Scruff’s bio he also wrote, “A connected, passionate, loving, gay person of color being a leader in my vision for the world.” The bio, together with the image, presented to others his devoted social involvement. Fred and Gabriel, both recent college graduates, highlighted their career in their profiles. In particular, Gabriel called his profile “a resume” in the dating market. He paid great attention to his bio. When he found out that the phrase “tall for an Asian” was one of the most common phases Asians used on OKCupid, he immediately removed that line from his bio because he thought it was unoriginal.

The results of the survey also suggested users were serious in creating their profiles, even though they believed profiles in general were superficial. The survey found that 80.4% of the respondents agreed that they took creating their profile seriously (M = 4.17, SD = 0.95). More specifically, 89.0% agreed that they carefully picked photos for their profiles (M = 4.37, SD = 0.83), and 79.2% agreed that they spent considerable time in revising their bio (M = 4.00, SD = 1.05). A significant age difference of agreement percentage for the item concerning time spent was observed, χ²(2) = 6.57, p < .05. More pre-Internet generation users (89.0%) agreed with this statement than the app generation (72.6%). More than three-quarters (76.8%) of the Internet generation agreed with the statement, but its percentage was not significantly different from either the pre-Internet generation’s or the app generation’s.

Profiles on these apps are the connect point between users. The future interactions are predicated on the mutual appreciation of each other’s profile. The results imply a contradiction concerning profiles: while the dating app users in the study believe most profiles are not entirely useful—profiles are superficial, they also believe the profiles are not completely useless—they work hard to present their best image both visually and textually on the apps.

Over-abundance of connections

On dating apps, one can locate other gay men nearby. This is an attractive feature which my informants unanimously agreed on. Gabriel compared meeting people on dating apps with meeting people through other offline channels:

Sure, you can meet in person, or you can meet through a club, but online you just see a lot more; you see people you wouldn’t meet otherwise. … It’s like going to a local flea market and eBay, but there’s a lot more on eBay.

Compared to the offline route, dating apps offered gay men more possibilities—in terms of quantity and variety. A majority of the survey respondents (79.2%) agreed that they started using these apps because the apps helped them identity gay people nearby (M = 4.13, SD = 1.05); another 78.0% pointed out they could meet a variety of people on these platforms (M = 4.06, SD = 1.09).

However, the interviews revealed that this vast number of connections created problems. To handle this seemingly unlimited pool of potentials, my informants employed two tactics. The first tactic was the use of filters. By setting up certain criteria based, for example, on age, height, or race, the app users filtered out “undesirable” people.

Overall, around two-thirds (66.5%) of the survey respondents who agreed that they used functions provided by the apps to screen out undesirable people (M = 3.68, SD = 1.14). There was a significant difference across racial groups, χ²(3) = 9.33, p < .05. More Asian respondents (80.0%) agreed that they used filter functions than Hispanic respondents (41.2%). Fewer than three-quarters of the Caucasian respondents (69.8%) and around half (53.3%) of the African American respondents agreed with the statement; however, no statistical differences were found between them and the Asian respondents or between them and the Hispanic respondents. Age and distance were the two most used filter functions, with each of them being used, respectively, by 93.1% of the respondents. Race was used by 60.0% of the respondents as a filter, whereas 64.9% used weight and 48.6% used height.

Eddie’s interpretation of his use of filters deserves attention. Speaking of his decision to set the minimal cut-off for height at 5′7″, he said, “Sometimes I feel bad about it because it’s such an arbitrary distinction. What’s the difference between you being 5’6” and you being 5’7”? Nothing. I just decided to set the line there, because I needed a line somewhere.” Calling the cut-off “arbitrary” implies that setting the line there does not have a solid rationale. To Eddie, however, there was no better way to handle the abundance of people on the apps. Reliance on filters and, sometimes, an arbitrary line was better than having no limits.

The second tactic that app users used to manage the abundance of potential choice was to take advantage of the algorithms provided by dating apps. Gabriel relied on the match percentage offered by OKCupid. When a new user signs up for this app, he will be asked a series of questions. Based on the answers he and other users provide, the algorithm will calculate a match percentage for each pair of users.⁴ Gabriel held an extremely favorable view toward this algorithm:

When I go out on a date with people with whom we have a high match percentage, I find we have a lot of chemistry and it is a lot of fun. If someone is under 70% or 60%, I don’t even bother chatting.

Aaron mainly used the age and height filters on OKCupid. He also used the match percentage as a secondary indicator. “It kinda provides a ‘second chance’ for me to look more at someone whom I may have already disregarded because of their height or age.” To him, the matching algorithm did not dictate but supported his selection of potential partners.

The survey, however, showed that matching algorithms were not used as commonly as filters. Only 38.0% of the respondents agreed that they relied on these algorithms (M = 2.95, SD = 1.11). This is probably because not all dating apps come with this function. For example, neither Grindr nor Tinder offer the matching function.

Dating apps no doubt open up many potential partners to their users who, precisely because of this abundance, must come up with ways to make the number of potential partners manageable. They either manually set up a filter, which is sometimes arbitrary, or let the algorithms decide. Although the qualitative and quantitative data were not in line with each other in terms of which tactics were commonly used, both data suggest that a priori screening is integrated into the pursuit of relationships on dating apps.

Ambivalence in networked intimacy

Dating apps convert the intangible intimate potentiality into visible profiles. With their affordances that are predicated upon the popularity of smartphones, the convenience brought by global positioning systems, and the Web of interconnected social media systems, dating apps help gay men identify other gay men nearby. The results above demonstrate that this technology, which in the first place is believed to eliminate uncertainties, brings in another level of ambivalence.

Capturing potential

Part of the ambivalence comes from the ambiguity of relationships sought on these apps. Previous studies of dating apps, particularly those that followed the uses and gratification approach (Katz et al., 1974), have examined what kinds of relationships users seek on dating apps. The data I collected complicated this research direction. Consistent with Blackwell et al. (2015), both my qualitative and quantitative results indicated that the app users’ behaviors did not match their perception of these apps or what they stated in their profiles. I differentiated between “looking for” and “open to” relationships. My informants preferred the language of “open to.” In fact, apps such as Scruff use “open to” rather than “looking for” to categorize their users. “Open to” signals an openness to possibilities, in which a hookup might turn into a long-term relationship or a serious date may end up being a one-night-stand.

I agree with Zytko et al. (2015) that some users may hide their intention of sex-seeking due to social stigma; but I also suggest that this concealment is a tactic to capture potentiality. In comparing classical Western thought with its Chinese counterpart with regard to human actions, Jullien (2004) points out that Chinese efficacy does not follow the Western means-end relation. Reading through the work by ancient Chinese general Sun Tzu, Jullien finds that Chinese efficacy relies on “the potential of situation,” whereby one lets a situation develop and, once the potential accumulates to an opportune moment, it “reveals itself” (p. 42). Because of the different logics, Jullien argues that success in Western thought is conditional on the means-end alignment, whereas success in Chinese thought, coming out from the potential, is inevitable. I have no intention of essentializing Western and Chinese cultures. However, the analysis provided by Jullien offers a way for us to understand how app users maximize their potential. If app users do not have a rigid goal or expectation in mind, they will never fail. This similarity between app users’ strategy and Sun Tzu’s teaching is not accidental: the teaching of Sun Tzu has already been integrated into contemporary management and economic teaching and practices (e.g. Rarick, 1996; Wee, 2016). The mentality of “open to” is an extension of the neoliberal business strategy that emphasizes changes and flexibility.

Branding oneself

The second source of ambivalence comes from the dominance of profiles. The research has shown that app users rely on their profiles, even though they realize profiles are superficial. Gabriel compared the profile to a resume. In the process of crafting one’s “resume” on dating apps, users strategically present their best face to others. Ellison et al. (2012) propose the concept “profile as promise.” Their interview with dating site users asked how these people made sense of the discrepancy between an online profile and an offline self. People in general expected that an online profile was not a complete reflection of what someone was like offline. The profile is similar to a resume, which does not necessarily represent the self in the present. It serves as a promise to the online daters that a potential partner whom they will meet in the future will not differ radically from his or her online self-presentation.

Although there are gender ideologies and cultural factors behind self-presentation on online dating spaces (Chan, 2016; Koestner and Wheeler, 1988), underlying the crafting of one’s profile is the issue of self-branding. Castells (2010) contended that individual identity has been foregrounded in the various public-facing social movements, whereas Banet-Weiser (2012) argues that the culture of branding, as an extension of neoliberalism, has become a recurrent theme in every aspect of the private domain. In her critique of “lifecasting,” she contends that the self has become “a product, promoted and sold by individual entrepreneurs” (p. 76). In a similar vein, to catch others’ attention, dating app users must self-brand themselves. In this study, more than 80% of the survey respondents took creating their profile seriously. We have seen how Ben highlighted his activist persona and how Fred and Gabriel played up their careers. They worked hard to commodify themselves, similar to young men who go to the gym and post sexy selfies online (Hakim, 2018).

Comprehending without comprehension

Finally, I have shown that establishing intimate relationships on dating apps requires a priori selection of potential partners. It is ironic that people use dating apps because apps provide them with many options, yet they must then screen people out because there are too many options. To mitigate the problem of over-abundance, app users use both filters and algorithms. Some filters, like Eddie’s, are set at an arbitrary point. Algorithms work in ways that some users may not necessarily fully understand. These tactics are a shortcut to handle the sheer volume of information. Of course, screening out undesirable people is by no means unique to dating apps. As Chambers (2017) points out, in discussing networked intimacy on Facebook, contemporary forms of intimacy pre-date social media. In the offline dating scene, choosing a bar to go to effectively screens out people who are in other bars. This screening is symmetrical: if I don’t see this person, this person doesn’t see me either. But filters on dating apps are asymmetrical.⁵

Andrejevic (2013) points out that the contemporary way of organizing the massive amount of information available is to neglect the “symbolic” representation of the information and opt to go directly to the “truth” through the use of algorithms. No single individual or institution knows everything. Everyone is not totally informed. Relying on emotions rather than reasons and on correlation rather than causation, decisions can be made faster. Andrejevic calls this reliance on correlation the “post-comprehension” form of knowledge. Using filters is a way to decide whom one will not fall in love or have sex with before people meet each other. On dating apps such as OKCupid, the match percentage between two people is determined by comparing the answers they have provided. One can tell whether he matches or has chemistry with another man before they exchange a word. This a priori elimination of potential partners does not require the individual’s full comprehension. Although this may seem counterintuitive given the fact that people want possibilities, it shows how contemporary information is organized under the neoliberal market logic.

Triangulation of qualitative and quantitative data

As stated earlier, the survey was employed to assess the generalizability of the data gathered from the interviews. Survey respondents varied in terms of their race, age, and education level. Only some variations across race and age groups existed.

First, compared to African American respondents, a higher percentage of Asian respondents within their group agreed that some apps are for different purposes. Second, compared to Hispanic respondents, a higher percentage of Asian respondents within their group admitted using filters to screen out undesirable people. While further research is needed to explain these differences, a speculative explanation may relate these results to the sexual objectification of Asian men in White-dominated gay communities in the United States (Hoang, 2014). Asian gay men are aware of themselves being perceived as more effeminate or inferior (Poon and Ho, 2008). Because the racial composition of the users across different apps are different (see Chan, 2016; Fitzpatrick et al., 2015), the extent to which Asian gay men feel themselves being sexually objectified may also vary. Therefore, they may hold a stronger hierarchical view about dating apps. Also, because non-Asian users may express their prejudice against Asians in their written bios (e.g. “No Asians”), Asian users might be more likely to use filters to effectively eliminate the presence of these racist profiles.

Third, compared to younger respondents, a higher percentage of the older, pre-Internet respondents within their group agreed they were open to various relationships. This result reflects ageism, which is particularly severe within the gay communities (Simpson, 2013). The older generation of gay app users may have to embrace a greater flexibility in relationships given that their romantic and sexual choices are more limited than the younger generation. Fourth, more of them were also found to agree they spent time revising their written bios. This may be explained by their relative lack of experience in presenting oneself online, compared to the younger, app generation. Results from χ² tests showed that education had no relation with any of the items reported in this study.

In summary, only 4 of 13 items reported in this article were related to either age or race. This suggests, while some variations across demographic factors existed, that none of these factors had a systematic influence on the opinions on using dating apps to establish relationships. The quantitative data, therefore, support the qualitative data.

Conclusion

“LTR oriented” does not always mean “LTR only”; a well-crafted bio is needed but may not be read; too many potential partners is not always good. What I have presented here are some observations about networked intimacy of gay men. While these apps were designed to improve the personal lives of gay men, they also produced ambivalence, which is brought forth by the ambiguity of relationships, dominance of profiles, and over-abundance of connections at the point of establishing relationships. I have shown that such ambivalence is not at all exclusive to the private domain but is tightly intertwined with the neoliberal market and consumption practices. I acknowledge that what I found based on the interviews and the survey cannot represent dating app users at large. The future work can examine the experiences of users of different gender identities, sexual orientations, and cultural origins. Moreover, this study solely looks at the establishment of the relationships via dating apps. Researchers of contemporary intimacy also need to engage in longitudinal research to discover how networked intimacy is developed, maintained, and dissolved.

Footnotes

Funding

The author(s) received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.

Notes

Author biography

Lik Sam Chan is a PhD candidate at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California. He is interested in the transformation of intimacy in the network society. His current research addresses dating app culture in China. He received a BSSc in communication from the Chinese University of Hong Kong and his MA in cultural studies from Goldsmiths, University of London. Before joining the PhD program, he worked as a copywriter in Hong Kong.

References

Andrejevic

(2013) Infoglut: How Too Much Information Is Changing the Way We Think and Know. New York: Routledge.

Attwood

Hakim

Winch

(2017) Mediated intimacies: bodies, technologies and relationships. Journal of Gender Studies 26: 249–253.

Banet-Weiser

(2012) Authentic: The Politics of Ambivalence in a Brand Culture. New York: New York University Press.

Bauman

(2000) Liquid Modernity. Cambridge: Polity Press.

Bauman

(2003) Liquid Love: On the Frailty of Human Bonds. Cambridge: Polity Press.

Beck

Beck-Gernsheim

(1995) The Normal Chaos of Love. Cambridge: Polity Press.

Beck

Beck-Gernsheim

(2013) Distant Love: Personal Life in the Global Age. Cambridge: Polity Press.

Bhabha

(1994) The Location of Culture. London: Routledge.

Birditt

(2009) Ambivalence. In: Reis

Sprecher

(eds) Encyclopedia of Human Relationships vol. 1. Thousand Oaks, CA: SAGE, pp. 90–92.

10.

Blackwell

Birnholtz

Abbott

(2015) Seeing and being seen: co-situation and impression formation using Grindr, a location-aware gay dating app. New Media & Society 17: 1117–1136.

11.

Brubaker

Ananny

Crawford

(2016) Departing glances: a sociotechnical account of “leaving” Grindr. New Media & Society 18: 373–390.

12.

Castells

(2010) The Power of Identity. 2nd ed. Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell.

13.

Chambers

(2017) Networked intimacy: algorithmic friendship and scalable sociality. European Journal of Communication 32: 26–36.

14.

Chan

(2016) How sociocultural context matters in self-presentation: a comparison of U.S. and Chinese profiles on Jack’d, a mobile dating app for men who have sex with men. International Journal of Communication 10: 6040–6059.

15.

Chan

(2017) Who uses dating apps? Exploring the relationships among trust, sensation-seeking, smartphone use, and the intent to use dating apps based on the integrative model. Computers in Human Behavior 72: 246–258.

16.

Creswell

Clark

VLP

(2011) Designing and Conducting Mixed Methods Research. 2nd ed. Los Angeles, CA: SAGE.

17.

Ellison

Hancock

Toma

(2012) Profile as promise: a framework for conceptualizing veracity in online dating self-presentations. New Media & Society 14: 45–62.

18.

Farci

Rossi

Boccia Artieri

. (2017) Networked intimacy: intimacy and friendship among Italian Facebook users. Information Communication & Society 20: 784–801.

19.

Fitzpatrick

Birnholtz

Brubaker

(2015) Social and personal disclosure in a location-based real time dating app. In: Proceedings of the 48th annual Hawaii international conference on system sciences, Kauai, HI, 5–8 January, pp. 1983–1992. New York: IEEE.

20.

Giddens

(1991) Modernity and Self-Identity: Self and Society in the Late Modern Age. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press.

21.

Giddens

(1992) The Transformation of Intimacy: Sexuality, Love & Eroticism in Modern Societies. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press.

22.

Glaser

Strauss

(1967) The Discovery of Grounded Theory: Strategies for Qualitative Research. Hawthorne, CA: Aldine de Gruyter.

23.

Gudeluna

(2012) There’s an app for that: the uses and gratifications of online social networks for gay. Sexuality & Culture 16: 347–365.

24.

Hakim

(2018) “The Spornosexual”: the affective contradictions of male body-work in neoliberal digital culture. Journal of Gender Studies 27(2): 231–241.

25.

Hjorth

Lim

(2012) Mobile intimacy in an age of affective mobile media. Feminist Media Studies 12: 477–484.

26.

Hoang

(2014) A View from the Bottom: Asian American Masculinity and Sexual Representation. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.

27.

Hobbs

Owen

Gerber

(2017) Liquid love? Dating apps, sex, relationships and the digital transformation of intimacy. Journal of Sociology 53: 271–284.

28.

Illouz

(1997) Consuming the Romantic Utopia: Love and the Cultural Contradictions of Capitalism. Berkley, CA: University of California Press.

29.

Isin

Wood

(1999) Citizenship and Identity. London: SAGE.

30.

Jullien

(2004) A Treatise on Efficacy: Between Western and Chinese Thinking. Honolulu, HI: University of Hawaii Press.

31.

Katz

Blumler

Gurevitch

(1974) Utilization of mass communication by the individual. In: Blumler

Katz

(eds) The Uses of Mass Communications: Current Perspectives on Gratifications Research. Beverly Hills, CA: SAGE, pp. 19–32.

32.

Koestner

Wheeler

(1988) Self-presentation in personal advertisements: The influence of implicit notions of attraction and role expectations. Journal of Social and Personal Relationships 5: 149–160.

33.

Miles

Huberman

Saldaña

(2014) Qualitative Data Analysis: A Methods Sourcebook. 3rd ed. Thousand Oaks, CA: SAGE.

34.

Miller

(2015) “They’re the modern-day gay bar”: exploring the uses and gratifications of social networks for men who have sex with men. Computers in Human Behavior 51: 476–482.

35.

Murray

Ankerson

(2016) Lez takes time: designing lesbian contact in geosocial networking apps. Critical Studies in Media Communication 33: 53–69.

36.

O’Neill

(2015) The work of seduction: intimacy and subjectivity in the London “seduction community.” Sociological Research Online 20: 5.

37.

Poon

MKL

PTT

(2008) Negotiating social stigma among gay Asian men. Sexualities 11: 245–268.

38.

Rainie

Wellman

(2012) Networked: The New Social Operating System. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

39.

Rarick

(1996) Ancient Chinese advice for modern business strategists. SAM Advanced Management Journal 61: 38–43.

40.

Simpson

(2013) Alienation, ambivalence, agency: middle-aged gay men and ageism in Manchester’s gay village. Sexualities 16: 283–299.

41.

Smith

(2016) 15% of American adults have used online dating sites or mobile dating apps. Available at: http://www.pewinternet.org/2016/02/11/15-percent-of-american-adults-have-used-online-dating-sites-or-mobile-dating-apps/ (accessed 22 March 2017).

42.

Smith

Duggan

(2013) Online dating & relationships. Available at: http://www.pewinternet.org/2013/10/21/online-dating-relationships/ (accessed 22 March 2017).

43.

Sternberg

(1986) A triangular theory of love. Psychological Review 93: 119–135.

44.

Van de Wiele

Tong

(2014) Breaking boundaries: the uses and gratifications of Grindr. In: Proceedings of the 2014 ACM international joint conference on pervasive and ubiquitous computing, Seattle, WA, 13–17 September, pp. 619–630. New York: ACM.

45.

Wee

(2016) Think tank—beyond the five forces model and blue ocean strategy: an integrative perspective from Sun Zi Bingfa. Global Business and Organizational Excellence 36: 34–45.

46.

Zytko

Jones

Grandhi

(2015) The influence of social stigma on pursing casual encounters in dating apps. In: 18th ACM conference on computer supported cooperative work and social computing, Vancouver, BC, Canada, 14–18 March.