Spend five minutes scrolling through bear Instagram hashtags or dating app pics and you’ll see exactly what we mean. Instead of sultry duck faces or stoic model pouts, you get a parade of jovial, bearded faces beaming at the camera. This bear smile phenomenon is so real that social media has dubbed it “bear face,” akin to the infamous duck face of yesteryear – except this time it’s burly dudes cheesing for the camera. Not a standard “say cheese,” not a sultry model pout, the Bear Smile is a mash-up of grin, smirk, and cartoon “huh?” face.

Where the Smile Came From

Bear culture coalesced in late-1980s San Francisco. BEAR magazine launched first, in 1987, as Richard Bulger and Chris Nelson’s photocopied zine celebrating big, hairy men—an explicit break from the smooth, gym-clone ideal of the day.  Two years later the Lone Star Saloon opened (1989) and quickly became the scene’s bricks-and-mortar clubhouse, giving those readers a bar that matched the zine’s vibe.

Scholar Les K. Wright observes that bears “have embraced and manifested a paradoxical masculinity—tough on the outside, gentle, nurturing, warm, and cuddly within.”  That built-in warmth soon showed up in body language: early-’90s snapshots from the Lone Star catch burly patrons beaming wide for the camera. The now-iconic, half-smirk-half-grin didn’t spring from a single eureka moment; it evolved naturally as that inner softness leaked onto bearded faces, turning a once-intimidating boots-and-leather package into something disarming and playful—the bear smile.

Anatomy of a Trope

Look closely at a textbook bear selfie and you’ll spot three moving parts:

1. Eye crinkle. The confusion-squint.
2. Corner lift. One side of the mouth hikes higher than the other; that asymmetry queues flirtation without tipping into full earnestness.
3. Pressed-lip curve. Crucially, no teeth on display. The smile stays sealed, giving off warmth while sidestepping the big “say cheese” energy.

Stack those, and you get an expression that telegraphs friendliness while leaving room for playful chaos.

Masculinity, Soft-Centered

Part of the grin’s appeal is the tension it holds. Bears visually broadcast classic macho cues—body mass, lumberjack styling, a voice that could read bedtime stories through drywall. The smile punctures any intimidation those cues might create. Imagine a biker bar bouncer suddenly tossing you the same grin you get from a golden retriever who’s stolen your sock.

The Confidence (and Vulnerability) Behind the Grin

There’s also a layer of confidence (and a hint of vulnerability) in choosing to smile so unabashedly in a dating profile. Think about it: in a world of filtered thirst traps and carefully curated images, a genuine goofy smile stands out as real. It says the person is comfortable enough to have fun with their image, rather than hide behind brooding, “masc 4 masc” posturing. In the bear community, which prioritizes self-confidence, authenticity, and a sense of humor , a big grin is right on brand. By smiling, bears signal that they’re approachable and at ease with themselves – a subtle “I like who I am” that can be pretty attractive in its own right. At the same time, smiling for the camera can feel a bit vulnerable: you’re literally bare-ing (or bear-ing) a friendly emotion for all to see, rather than armoring up with a tough-guy stare. That willingness to be seen as joyful or playful (as opposed to strictly sexy or stoic) is endearing. It hints that behind the beard and brawn is someone who doesn’t mind letting their guard down. In queer-therapist-speak, one might even say it’s a tiny act of resistance against toxic masculinity – choosing openness over emotional walls. But in plain speak, it just looks damn nice.

A Recognizable (and Lovable) Trope

Within the bear community, the smile has practically become a part of the dress code, as essential as the beard or the flannel shirt. It’s a shared cultural touchstone, almost an inside joke that everyone’s in on. Bears see other bears doing it and feel a sense of kinship, maybe even a bit of gentle peer pressure to do it. Over time, this feedback loop cements the smile as a defining feature. It’s self-aware in the way many subcultural quirks are; the community knows it’s a “thing” and has fun with it (hence the memes and tutorials on how to perfect your bear grin). But it also sticks around because it resonates.

Yeah, it’s corny, but that’s exactly the magic. The bear smile refuses cool-kid detachment in favor of a knowing dad-joke grin. In a queer culture that can slip into curated aloofness, that little crooked, tooth-free curve is a sign for sincerity: big soft guy, zero pretense, step right up. Corniness, in this context, isn’t a flaw; it’s the strategy—an open invitation to drop your guard.

You don’t have to scour the internet to learn that trans and nonbinary people need our support more than ever, and by “our” I mean support from cis people in the LGBQ community. I know it can often feel like we can’t do anything substantial.  I know many of us feel overwhelmed and powerless right now, twiddling our thumbs while watching the news. But there are absolutely ways—both big and small—to support and uplift the trans community. 

To learn more about how cis gays/bi/queers can support the trans community, I reached out to Dean Spade, author of LOVE IN A FCKED-UP WORLD: How to Build Relationships, Hook Up, and Raise Hell Together, and transgender activist Ben Greene, creator of the Good Queer News newsletter. Here are their tips for better cis allyship. 

1. Disrupt and oppose transphobia in your immediate environment. 

“Every place we can fight against [transphobia] matters—protesting against anti-trans rallies, speakers, policies—and even just disagreeing in conversations with co-workers, friends, and family who are being influenced by anti-trans propaganda,” Spade said. Creating a culture of refusal is essential to preventing transphobia as a growing norm.

‍2. Challenge your friends when you hear transphobic jokes or comments.

“As a trusted friend, your intervention means much more than pushback coming from a stranger,” Greene said. Find a comfortable way to ask your friend to explain what they meant, or to share that you were surprised to hear they felt that way. “Sometimes people may be uncomfortable, annoyed, or unhappy with you challenging them, but remember: If you’re trying to be my ally and the stones thrown at me aren’t hitting you, you aren’t standing close enough,” Greene said. “We don’t show up because we want to be universally loved. We do it because we want to make a difference!”  

3. Defend queer and trans spaces. 

“Queer and trans bars, beaches and other spaces are facing more police harassment and vigilante violence,” Spade said. “Now is the time to think about how we can defend these spaces by making a stink about police harassment and preparing to defend ourselves and each other. Organizing and participating in queer and trans self-defense classes in your community now is important,” Spade added.

4. Lean into your strengths.

Often when folks look to “get involved” with the fight for queer rights, they tend to start from square one. The reality is, you already have skills, talents, passions, and hobbies, many of which can be put to use driving change. “Use project management skills to help a small nonprofit; use artistic skills to create art that moves people; use communication skills to testify at the state house; use cooking skills to feed folks coming home from a long rally,” Greene said. 

Sometimes, all you have is an hour. Maybe you just finished a sweaty gym session and are feeling the rush, or maybe you’re on your lunch break and are hungry for more than a quick sandwich. All that back-and-forth? Hard pass.

Right Now is Grindr’s new feature designed to get straight to the fun without endless filtering or prolonged chit-chat. We road-tested Right Now in Australia and Washington, D.C.; then we unleashed it in 15 major cities.

You loved it, so we leveled up. Today, Right Now is live everywhere Grindr is—190+ countries and territories. If you can open the app, you can tap into Right Now.

What Exactly Is ‘Right Now’?

The magic is that it gives users a new way to indicate their intention to connect "right now.”  Instead of scrolling the grid and guessing who’s down to meet ASAP, you pop into a dedicated new feed where people post exactly what they’re looking for... right now.

Each post stays live for only one hour, so you’ll see who’s currently active and available in that moment. Right Now helps find what you’re craving in real-time.

How It Works

1. Open Grindr.
2. Tap “Right Now.” You’ll see it in the main navigation, sidebar, or as a new button floating on the grid.
3. Browse or Post in the feed. You can choose to share a quick line and (if you’re feeling bold) a photo that lets others know exactly what you’re looking for. If you’re not ready to post, you can always browse the feed to see who is ready to meet. 
4. Connect with people who catch your eye—or reply to chats from others interested in you.

‍

Made for the Community, by the Community

Right Now didn’t just materialize out of thin air. It was born from your feedback—especially from folks who want immediate, no-nonsense meetups. Grindr users asked. So we built it. And we’re thrilled to see how it’s already making connections simpler, faster, and more immediate.

Coming Soon…

Not in one of the newly added cities? No sweat. We’re already planning the next wave of expansions, with more major cities rolling out in the coming months. So watch this space—or your Grindr app—for updates to be among the first to know when Right Now lands in your city.

Ready to Try It?

Open Grindr, tap the Right Now button and explore your city’s feed. You’ll be amazed how quickly sparks can fly when everyone’s on the same page. Whether you’ve got a short break or a free evening, Right Now offers the connections you’re craving—without the wait.

Your profile isn’t bad. It’s just… tired. It’s been through a lot. You still have that photo from 2022 where you’re blurry, backlit, and somehow wearing two jackets. Meanwhile, it’s 92° and someone’s getting railed six blocks from you because their stats are accurate and they bothered to show their face.

Now it’s summer. People are outside again. Wearing less. Messaging more. And your profile still says “new here.” You deserve better. And so do the people trying to tap you.

Start with the photos. They’re not working.

If your main pic is still a torso, we’ve got some work to do.

One summer photo. Or something even remotely summer-adjacent. That’s it. Face optional, but if you’re not gonna show it, make it work: good lighting, high quality, recent.

You don’t need to be shirtless. You don’t need to be in a harness. You just need to be clear. In focus. Maybe not twelve filters deep. A little tweaking is fine (we don’t judge), but keep it minimal. Just you.

And yes, Grindr lets you reorder your photos. Tap, hold, drag, release.

Update your tags.

You’re not still “exploring.” You explored. And good for you! You found things. Maybe you screamed. Maybe you cried. But you’re not the same. You are constantly evolving!

Go to Edit Profile → My Tags and give them a read. Cut the dead ones. Add a few that reflect who you are right now.

Need ideas?

• “Sober”? Add it.
• “Submissive”? Well yes, sir!
• “Into Voyeurism”? Welcome to Hollywood, baby.

If your tag still says “feet” and you’re rocking athletes foot from the summer heat, maybe let’s take it down in the meantime (and go get a cream, modern medicine is amazing).

Rewrite your bio. It needs work.

Bios don’t need to be clever. They need to sound like a person. Like you.

Try:

• “Visiting for a week. Horny.”
• “I’m into being ignored until someone spits in my mouth.”
• “Bad communicator. Good in bed.”

You don’t need a thesis. You just need a tone. And Grindr has a 255 character limit. That’s plenty of space. Go ahead, king. Use it.

Fix your stats. We’re ~always changing~ and that’s okay.

Height, weight, pronouns, role, relationship style—every single one of those is editable. You don’t have to explain anything, but you do have to stop pretending you’re 5’11” in Air Maxes.

And while we’re here: fill in your testing date. If your last test was during your so-called Brat summer last year, it’s time to get swabbed. And while you’re at it, considering activating Testing Reminders, checking out the Health Practices, Vaccinations, and Sexual Health FAQ tabs in the Health section of your profile.

Albums: Add them. Lock them. Share them with intention.

Private albums are there for a reason. Don’t make someone ask for photos you never planned to send. Don’t offer to “trade” if you don’t have anything worth trading. Sharing is caring, babes.

If you’re only comfortable sending nudes to people you vibe with first? Totally cool. But make sure to say that. Playing coy and disappearing gets old.

Stop writing your profile for the version of yourself you wish you were. Just be you, babe.

There is no shame in being whoever you want on Grindr. You are not “just looking for friends” if you’re jerking off before every tap. That’s hot! Be honest! No need to hide. Write your profile for the you that exists at 11:45pm on a Sunday, horny, tired, and not that interested in talking. That version is easier to connect with.

Oh, and check your punctuation. Check your emoji usage. Read it out loud to yourself.

Change one thing. Just one.

If nothing else, change one thing on your profile. One sentence. One photo. One tag. One stat.

Even if you’re not ready to be fully perceived, at least be somewhat current. You’re not in hibernation. You’re in heat. Act accordingly.

Final Word: Look alive. Summer’s watching.

You don’t need to be hotter. You’re already hot! You just need to look like you know what year it is. Grindr isn’t about looking a certain way—it’s about showing up. Showing yourself. Showing some kind of effort. The rest will come.

So clean your profile. Don’t wait until August. People want to meet you*.* And someone out there is refreshing their grid hoping you pop up.

Don’t make them settle for an outdated version of yourself.

Grindr’s back on the road. The Grindr Rides Again Tour 2025 is officially in motion, and yes, you’re on the list. It’s Pride Month, and we’re showing up with a fully loaded bus, a few too many clack fans, and enough surprises to make things interesting. Get ready for your very own pop-up Gayborhood parked in the middle of your city—free stuff flying, photo ops everywhere, and people you haven’t seen since last summer suddenly standing zero feet away.

So, what’s the tea?

The mission's simple: show up for our community. This is Grindr stepping out of the app and into real life—bringing the Gayborhood straight to your block. Every stop becomes a microcosm of queer connection, tailored to the vibes of that specific city. We’re pulling up with stuff you’ll grab, stuff you’ll post, and stuff you didn’t know you needed until it was in your hands. (And yeah, the fans are back.)

Each stop comes alive with hyperlocal flavor—queer artist installations, iconic local drag, limited-edition bumper stickers, and community energy you won’t find anywhere else. Whether it’s in the US or in Europe, we’re showing up in the heart of Gayborhoods worldwide.

Photo Booth

Come for the Gayborhood, leave with a better profile pic. Yes, our photo booth is back. With good lighting and the perfect angle baked right in, we want you to level up your profile and walk away with something frame-worthy—or at least scroll-worthy. So if you’ve been meaning to swap out that blurry gym selfie, now’s your chance.

Tour Stops & Dates

We’re not doing one city. Or one continent. This is a full-on U.S. and European takeover.

United States (East Coast, we see you):

Clear your schedule. Here’s the lineup:

• Washington D.C.: Crush Bar, Friday, June 6
• Ft. Lauderdale/Wilton Manors, FL: Wilton Manors Pride, Saturday, June 14
• Provincetown, MA: Provincetown Inn, Friday, June 20
• New York City, NY: NYC Pride, Sunday, June 29

Europe (Bonjour, Hola, Hallo):

Passport ready? Let’s go.

• London, UK: Kicking off at Mighty Hoopla, May 30–June 1
• Lisbon, Portugal: June 21
• Paris, France: June 28
• Madrid, Spain: July 5
• Barcelona, Spain: July 19
• Berlin, Germany: July 26

More Deets

• Get Interactive: Play around with new features like Right Now in real time.
• Photo Booth: Good lighting, better angles. You know what to do.
• Spin to Win: Subscriptions, AWAY bags, clack fans—it’s all up for grabs.
• The Claw Machine: U.S. stops might drop fans, lube, gift cards, or limited-edition t-shirts.

Shoutout to Our Partners

This tour’s brought to you with help from brands that actually get it.

• US Sponsors: ASTROGLIDE®, AWAY®, and PREPARATION H®.
• EU Sponsor: AWAY®

Don’t Be Shy, Follow the Journey

We’re everywhere. And we mean that.

• Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, and Grindr.com: Reels, recaps, and city-by-city eye candy.
• Twitter & YouTube Shorts: For behind-the-scenes and your favorite user-generated content
• In-App Alerts: Keep notifications on for stop-by-stop invites. You’ll want the heads-up.

See you on the road.

We’ll be out there—city to city, stop to stop—with a big bright bus that you literally could not miss even if you tried.

If you see us, come say hi. If you don’t, someone you know will.

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Grindr is all about making connections. More often than not, it works out beautifully.

But if you meet enough people over a long enough period of time, eventually you may run into the nightmare scenario: someone who seemed perfect on screen turns out to be not so perfect IRL.

Maybe they grew a scraggly beard—or 15 years older—since their last pic. (Next time, ask for a verified Taken on Grindr current photo, TM.) Or maybe they’re gorgeous, but their in-person energy is just… off.

Whatever the reason, you’re not feeling it — and that’s okay. It’s an uncomfortable situation, but it’s also something we all face at one time or another. So it’s in all our best interests to make respectful rejection a healthy, normal part of hook-up and dating culture.

So, how do you do it—how do you bail kindly? It depends on where this is all going down…

In public

You know that movie moment where the protagonist sees their love interest for the first time and time seems to slow down?

A bad first meetup is like the opposite of that: you spot someone you instantly know you’re not attracted to, only to watch them speed towards you like an oncoming train.

Luckily, if you made the decision to meet in public first—which I recommend—you have a pretty easy out. It may not be as fun an evening as you hoped, but all you have to do is be polite.

Grab your drink or coffee as planned. Talk. Be human. Once you’ve finished a round, don’t make a huge production of rejecting them—even if you’d previously implied there would be a part two to this meetup. Simply say, “Hey, it was great meeting you, but I think I’m going to head back home.” The implication should be clear, while letting everyone save face.

If they do press you for more— “I thought we were gonna hang”—that’s when you whip out the magic words we’re gonna be using a lot in this article:

“To be honest, I’m not feeling a connection.”

It’s not a fun thing to say to someone, exactly—but it is direct, clear, and impossible to argue with.

In private

In private, things get a little trickier.

A door swings open—either at your place or theirs — to reveal not a prince, but a frog. Do you still invite them into your castle? Do you dare venture into their swamp? (This metaphor came out meaner than intended.)

You could fall back on “I’m not feeling a connection”… but using those words immediately on sight can feel pretty brutal.

This one’s a judgment call. If you sense intentional deception or that their vibe goes beyond unappealing to, say, aggressive, that’s enough of a red flag that you shouldn’t worry about politeness. Just rip off the Band-Aid—“Hey, I’m sorry, I’m not feeling it”—and close the door, or walk away. Don’t give reasons, and definitely don’t accuse them of misleading you; anything beyond a firm personal statement just invites more interaction.

But if they seem nice and normal—and maybe you have enough IG mutuals to confirm they’re a functioning member of society—use an abbreviated version of the public playbook. Sacrifice a little of your evening and be kind. Offer them (or ask for) a non-alcoholic drink. Have a quick, friendly chat.

Then you can try a face-saving excuse—“I’m actually feeling tired, I’m gonna head to bed”—and if they don’t immediately take the hint, fall back on our magic words.

In flagrante

What if you actually were into it—to the point where you got into bed together—only for things to take a hard left turn?

To be clear, I don’t mean you were loving it until you suddenly and mysteriously lost interest. This is not a guide to being a Kum & Go—if they did their part, do yours.

I mean it’s real bad, and you’re genuinely uncomfortable.

Maybe they’re spitting on you without permission (as if anyone down for sexual contact must also enjoy roleplaying as a city sidewalk). Or maybe they’re speaking so softly and gesticulating so dramatically in bed you can’t shake the feeling you’re having sex with a mime. (Too specific?)

The number one rule here is: do not muddle through to be nice. Remember consent is an ongoing conversation, not a contract, and you’re allowed to change your mind at any time. If you don’t speak up, not only will you be miserable, but eventually your partner may catch on—and the late-stage realization that your hookup has been hating it the whole time is uniquely soul-crushing.

Shut things down quickly… while keeping in mind they’re in a uniquely vulnerable position. Turn to couples-therapist-approved “I” statements. If you can’t bring yourself to say “I’m not feeling a connection” at this point, instead say something like “I’m feeling off my game tonight” or “I’m in a weird headspace” and end with a simple: “Do you mind if we stop?”

Apologize, and if you really can’t help yourself, you can suggest trying again another time… even if you don’t mean it. The awkwardness of this moment will probably discourage a repeat visit anyway.

Ultimately, prevention is the best cure. You can usually avoid this kind of situation by being upfront about what you're looking for in the chat, digging into tags and profiles to make sure interests and kinks are aligned, and sharing verified photos. (Also, a good rule of thumb when deciding if you’re into someone online: assume they look more like their least attractive pic than their most, and then you can only be pleasantly surprised.)

But if a mismatch does happen, just remember nobody wants to be with someone who doesn’t want to be with them. So simply be kind and straightforward, and follow the golden rule: reject others how you’d want to be rejected.

Fashion’s biggest night, the Met Gala, sees untouchable celebrities parade up a blue staircase in designs touched by hundreds of hands. For better or worse, every step on the carpet is tailored to break the internet — and leave us wishing we could feel that custom, luxury fabric on our skin, too. At the top of the stairs, journalists shout for the opportunity to interview a cultural icon before they disappear into the night.

One journalist yells, “Will you protect the dolls?” at each celebrity,  with their camera ready to catch even just a one-word answer. It’s fascinating that a T-shirt, one of the most inexpensive and mass-produced clothing items in the world, is getting a shot in the spotlight next to these couture gowns — all because those words, “Protect The Dolls,” are printed onto it. Suddenly, the T-shirt I’m wearing on my couch right now feels like it could be special, too.

When Alex Consani, transgender model and cultural sensation, hears “Alex, as THE doll, do you feel protected?” she apprehensively responds, “Um, I would say so… I mean we’re here…” with a cordial, empty smile gracing her sculpted face. The truth is, in today’s America, trans women are not protected — our mere existence is threatened. All of the security guards, wealth, and fashion designers in the world can’t change the fact that trans people, as of the last 100 days, are denied access to gender-affirming care in 27 states.

Chappell Roan, the queer community’s newest cisgender princess, is also asked if she protects the dolls. She confirms enthusiastically, further highlighting the proud, vocal pro-LGBTQ+ stance our community admires her for, but her actions usually fall short of her words.

So what does it mean to “protect the dolls,” and what would be better than just wearing the words? For me, it looks like calling your lawmakers, even when it feels hopeless. It’s financially supporting trans creators, not just resharing our content. It’s making sure that when your workplace says “we support LGBTQ+ people,” trans people are actually safe and paid fairly behind the scenes. It’s exhausting having to shout for protection; I’d rather live in a world where that protection is just a given.

“Protect the dolls” is a valuable sentiment, and the fact that it’s trending in mainstream media shows how far we’ve come. But no matter how much I wish it could, wearing this T-shirt is one of the easiest ways to show support. It’s like posting a rainbow square during Pride month and calling it activism; it looks good on the surface and, sure, the thought is appreciated, but it doesn’t move the needle without action behind it. I want to see allies going beyond the T-shirt by donating, speaking up, and making real changes in their everyday lives, all of which can actually be done in five minutes or less: Try amplifying the dolls’ voices, educating yourself on the obstacles we face, or sharing a post from a trans creator. Send $5 to someone’s transition fund. Read a quick explainer on anti-trans legislation. Text your senator. Gently correct someone when they misgender someone else. These aren’t grand gestures, they’re habits. And they matter.

As I’m eating dinner in my blank white T-shirt, judging the Met Gala looks like Anna Wintour would at the top of the stairs, I think about how trans people are targeted more than any other faction of our LGBTQ+ community. While trans representation matters now more than ever, it can put us in harm’s way when it’s not done correctly. This International Day Against Homophobia, Biphobia, and Transphobia, I want some weight lifted off trans people’s shoulders. I want to hear more about homophobia and biphobia from my peers, too, and in a way that gives trans people a break for a moment. Same-sex marriage, for example, is threatened all across America right now.

Last month, surprise-guest Troye Sivan levitated from Charli XCX’s Coachella stage wearing a “Protect The Dolls” tee. The crowd went wild, unsurprisingly; his audience has a strong appetite for anything doll-related, as he staunchly supports the trans community using words and action. He makes supporting the dolls cool. Some trans people interpret his song “One Of Your Girls” as a trans anthem: The lyrics “I’ll be like one of your girls or your homies… I’ll keep it a secret, you get the key to my heart” can reflect the friction between trans women’s worthiness of love while being made to feel like an embarrassing secret. And the song’s music video showcases gender variance at its finest.

Seeing a gay man like Troye casually use his big moment as a political statement, without any performative fuss, felt like the proper use of the T-shirt. 

But that shirt can’t do the work alone, and neither can Troye, Chappell, Alex Consani, or any celebrity alone. “Protect The Dolls” has to mean more than a moment, a slogan, or a social caption. It has to look like voting in local elections. It has to sound like speaking up at dinner when your friend says something subtly harmful. It has to feel like real allyship when it’s inconvenient, unglamorous, or unacknowledged. If you're going to wear the shirt, mean it. Make sure your actions match the energy of the words you’re putting on your chest. And most of all, don’t just protect the dolls — build a world where we don’t need protecting in the first place.

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Let’s face it: growing up as a gay boy is hard. We live in a culture that sees us as sissies and pansies, less than real men. Most of us spent the majority of our adolescence hiding in the closet, and even the ones brave enough to come out as kids faced an onslaught of negativity. Shame is as universally part of the coming out experience as stealing your sister’s Tiger Beat magazine to jerk off to the latest teen heartthrob.

Whether you came of age in the ‘90s, the ‘00s, or the ‘10s, you no doubt felt some version of the same shame that’s permeated across generations of gays. But there’s something special about us gay boys: resilience. Despite being conditioned to hate everything about ourselves, that hardship actually unites us all. This journey through shame, in all its generational flavors, seems to be the crucible that creates the unexpected strength and brotherhood we eventually find.

June Is Pride Month… So, When Do We Talk About Shame?

As a tail-end Millennial growing up in the aughts, I had a tough time telling shame to shut up. While I did eventually come out, it wasn’t a one-and-done deal. It was a long process that took the better part of a decade. I first told friends when I was 17, but I was still deeply uncomfortable with it, even a little embarrassed. When I went to college, I was “out,” but very adamantly not “one of those” gays who dressed well and listened to Beyoncé. I exclusively hung out with straight people, and I prided myself on that. Whether or not anyone actually perceived me this way, I had convinced myself I was “straight-acting” and “normal.” Escaping the shame meant trying to escape the gayness itself, a classic rookie mistake.

In my mid-20s, I began to fully embrace being gay, making friends and going to gay bars and parties. Now, I can’t imagine wishing my life were any different. In many ways, my life is way better than that of my straight peers I so desperately wanted to be. They all complain about how hard it is to get laid, while I can hop on Grindr and find someone to fuck as easily as I can find a restaurant to order dinner. They complain about how hard it is to make friends as an adult. For me, it couldn’t be easier. I’ve gone to cities all over the world and instantly found community.

Gen X Marks the G Spot

Matthew and Lance are Gen X husbands I met visiting San Francisco last summer, embodying the same journey but with a whole separate set of scars. They discovered their sexuality as teenagers in the early ‘90s, when the AIDS epidemic was still in full swing — a layer of shame I never had to deal with. By the time I became sexually active, PrEP had made HIV preventable, and treatments for HIV and AIDS had advanced to the point where positive patients could still live long and prosper. When I was a kid, gays were viewed as sassy, effeminate punching bags. When they were kids, gays were viewed as dirty, diseased pariahs. That’s enough to keep anybody in the closet.

Due to the stigma, both were very hesitant to embrace their sexuality. Both of them began their coming out process in college, and it extended into their mid-20s, not unlike mine. Even though they didn’t have PrEP, some social progress made it easier for them to come to terms with themselves. Their journey underscores how even the deepest layers of era-specific shame can eventually be overcome.

“There was a lot going on culturally at that time, with shows like Will and Grace and Ellen DeGeneres,” Lance told me. “There was finally more representation in the media around the late ‘90s.”

Now, as they approach their 50s (although they identify as “age-fluid”), those days of shameful self-loathing are nothing but distant memories. “I’ve shed three or four different layers of skin since then,” Matthew said. “If someone gave me the choice to be straight and never have known my gay life, I’d say, ‘Fuck that! No thank you.’” With no socially-imposed “acceptable” structures in place, queers have the freedom to choose their own adventures in every aspect of their lives as they age. They can go down the domestic route and have kids, or they can keep having fun well into adulthood and host the afters on Folsom weekend -- which is how I met Matthew and Lance.

Born Out of the Closet? Maybe Not…

I was always under the impression that Generation Z, despite being only a few years younger than me, had a totally different coming out experience than I did. They came of age in an era with legal gay marriage and a culture that was more accepting than ever before. But that didn’t mean coming out was any easier.

24-year-old Nathan grew up in super-liberal Santa Cruz in a queer-affirming household, with a mother he described as “overly supportive.” He even told me a story about his parents buying him a ballerina outfit when he expressed interest in the dainty dancers as a kid. But when he became aware of his sexuality, he still had an all-too-familiar reaction. “My school was accepting, my family was accepting, my community was accepting, but there were several years when I was very ashamed, and I can’t necessarily pinpoint why,” he explained, suggesting perhaps it may not just be cultural, but biological.

Nathan’s confusion shows that shame doesn’t need a playground bully to get comfortable. You can be wrapped in the safest, rainbow‑dripped bubble and still breathe the air that keeps whispering straight is the default setting. Every movie poster, every off‑hand joke on TV, every wedding ad on Instagram nudges you toward that “normal.” So before you even have the language for it, a weird static builds up inside: I’m off. I’m wrong. Something’s crooked here, and it might be me.

That’s a shame born not from direct hate, but from simply being different in a world obsessed with matching sets. And it seeps in early, long before you can tack a label on your own feelings.

While he isn’t a club or circuit party person, Nathan’s self-discomfort evaporated after partaking in a favorite homosexual pastime: having sex with men. “Once I started regularly hooking up with guys, the shame dissipated,” he explained. “It was like, ‘Oh, this is what I’m supposed to be doing.’” It turned out that the thing society kept telling him was wrong couldn’t have possibly felt more right.

26-year-old Collin, of less accepting rural New Jersey, came out to their family at 13 and had their first boyfriend at 15. But that doesn’t mean his classmates were cheering. “I was openly queer, but I wasn’t being me,” they explained. “I would shrink myself because that was the easiest way to get through the day.” Shrinking meant policing their mannerisms, avoiding topics that felt 'too gay,' essentially trying to take up less space to avoid friction.

Now, Collin — a self-professed “old soul” — wholly embraces their community, preferring to meet people at gay bars and kink parties despite being part of the Grindr generation. Thanks to their community, Collin no longer feels the need to shrink. “I feel the best about myself that I ever have,” they said.

Being queer screws with your wiring no matter your zip code or birth year. The world hands you a template labeled “Normal,” and every time you try to fold yourself into it, something tears. That rip, small at first, keeps snagging on locker-room jokes, wedding invites, census forms. The snag is shame. You pick at it, pretend it isn’t there, but it keeps catching.

On the bright side, being gay is like being part of a fraternity with chapters and communities all over the world. No matter how old you are or where you grew up, there are millions of people who share your experience and have turned that darkness into light. We’ve all faced social pressure and our own doubts, but we end up finding people who get us and have our backs. After years of hazing, we have this uplifting, enduring brotherhood that our child selves could’ve only dreamed of.

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It’s a gay rite of passage. Growing up closeted and surrounded by female friends, someone — usually your mom — is eventually bound to ask: why don’t you date one of them?

There’s an easy answer, even if you don’t want to share it yet.

But later in life, once you’ve found your community and perhaps formed a tight-knit group of gay male friends, you might be asked the same question… and the answer might not be as obvious.

Because… why don’t you date one of them? One of those total catches you spend all your time with — who share your every interest and whose overlapping sexual histories suggest you’re all in the same league? You know, the ones you’re constantly commiserating with about your hopeless love lives?

Let’s break down the real reasons you’re not dating any of your highly eligible single friends — and whether or not you should reconsider.

Excuses, excuses

At first, the question might seem insulting, even ignorant — akin to your straight co-worker suggesting you’re perfect for the only other gay person they know. You’re not dating your friends because they’re your friends! Not all gay men are romantically compatible!

But that knee-jerk reaction might be a defense mechanism.

So I surveyed some friends, and once they were finished scoffing, I asked them to take a moment and really consider what stops them from dating our moots. Here’s what they said:

“We already dated and it didn’t work out.”

A shocking number of gay besties met on dating apps in the first place. When sparks didn’t fly, they became friends instead, and permanently closed the door to romance.

My take? All that means is things fizzled between two strangers, as they almost always do. And then those two strangers defied the odds and formed a lifelong bond anyway. In my mind, it’s all the more reason to reconsider dating — now that you know how compatible you truly are.

“I’m not attracted to / sexually compatible with them.”

If the thought of touching your friend physically repulses you, fine, that’s a strong reason to steer clear. But if they simply don’t set your loins on fire, good news — that just means you have a head start on most long-term couples.

Initial attraction is always fleeting, whereas sexual chemistry can be built — especially with someone you already trust. Even if you both prefer the same side of the bed, so to speak, a little experimentation can go a long way. And prioritizing sexual compatibility above all is a great way to end up with a virile, absolutely shredded maniac.

“I don’t want to risk our friendship.”

This is valid — in some cases. If we’re talking childhood besties who’ve seen each other through it all, it makes sense to tread carefully. I get not wanting to blow up a load-bearing relationship in your life by, er, bearing each other’s loads.

But if you’re declaring every new friend you meet instantly off-limits, that just means you’re prioritizing  finding new friendships over finding your perfect match. Or that what you’re really afraid of risking is the temporary sting of rejection.

Straight talk

Let’s say I’m right, and dating your gay best friend is a good idea. Why doesn’t it happen more often?

For this, let’s turn to the sacred texts of our heterosexual counterparts. From When Harry Met Sally to Friends with Benefits to The Lizzie McGuire Movie, romantic comedies have forever asked the question “can men and women be platonic friends?” and concluded: absolutely not.

But the common thread in all of them? A ticking clock: a race to the airport, a rushed wedding, the imminent conclusion of an extremely loosely supervised middle school field trip.

The same is true in real life: at least anecdotally speaking, it’s far more common for single straight friends to couple up as they approach 30, and race their biological clocks down the aisle. Think of the cliché: “If we’re still alone by X age, we’ll get married” — as in the other seminal classic, My Best Friend’s Wedding. (Some readers will be horrified to learn the “X age” in that film is 28.)

If two gay men made that pact, what would their deadline even be? With no biological imperative but increasing exhaustion, it’s easy to imagine that fateful day being kicked down the road for decades to come.

In conclusion

So why aren’t more gay best friends dating each other?

In some ways, I suspect they are. See, for many gay men, the most intimate relationships in their lives are with their best friends. They plan vacations, share secrets, squabble over meaningless details together. They even ritually go out on date nights which end in sex — just not with each other.

In other words, they become life partners… all while keeping their romantic options open, because they can. And there’s nothing wrong with that!

But if you’re someone who wants a life partner sooner than later, try this thought experiment: regardless of your current age, imagine you have one year left to pick a partner or end up forever alone. Would you keep rolling the dice on strangers — or might you give a second look to someone you already love and trust?

Don’t get me wrong: gay friendships are something to be treasured. Those connections run deep… which is exactly why they shouldn’t be taken for granted. Who knows? Maybe your go-to plus-one has been the one all along.

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San Juan, the capital of Puerto Rico and a tropical queer haven, isn’t about to let you have a dull moment. Whether you’re a sunburned first-timer thirsty for happy hour, a seasoned San Juan party pro, or just a beach bum who came for the views, this is your no-nonsense guide to the best of gay San Juan.

To cut through the tourist fluff, Grindr went straight to the source — asking real Boricua Grindr users where they eat, drink, dance, and misbehave. Below is our curated travel guide:

Favorite Queer-Friendly Restaurant or Food Spot

These are the places you start your night with mofongo and end it three rum punches deep. Come hungry, leave happy (and maybe with a new friend).

Cocina Abierta – Condado/Santurce (58 Calle Caribe)

Cocina Abierta’s open-kitchen concept serves up creative Puerto Rican-fusion dishes in a hip atmosphere where queer foodies and their crews feel right at home. Think fresh red snapper ceviche followed by truffle mac & cheese alcapurrias. Cocina Abierta is a fancy-ish dinner that somehow still feels like a house party.

📍On Calle Caribe in Condado, at the edge of Santurce’s art district. You’ll spot the chic outdoor patio and hungry homos by the bar.

🔥 Tip: Start with the ceviche and a tamarind mojito.

Lote 23 – Santurce (Ave. Ponce de León & Ave. Juan P. Duarte)

An open-air food park meets queer-friendly block party. Lote 23 is a colorful collection of food trucks and kiosks where you can sample everything from gourmet burgers to Asian-Caribbean bao buns. By day, you’ll find picnic tables, rainbow umbrellas, and local LGBTQ+ folks lunching on poke and empanadas. By night, the string lights come on, a DJ might spin funk or reggaetón, and it becomes the pregame hangout.

📍Heart of Santurce, at Parada 23. Look for the graffiti murals and a crowd of artsy locals chowing down under the stars.

🔥 Tip: Come with a crew and sample a bit of everything. Share BBQ pork buns and ceviche cups. Grab a Medalla beer from the bar and snag a picnic table.

Santaella – Santurce (219 Calle Canals, La Placita)

This chef-driven hotspot is equal parts upscale dining and sultry Latin ambiance. Tucked beside La Placita de Santurce, Santaella draws a chic local crowd. The interior is lush (literally, there’s a jungle-like indoor garden) and the menu reimagines Puerto Rican classics (cc: outrageously good fried cheese queso frito and tamarind-glazed ribs). It’s the perfect place to impress a date without looking like you’re trying too hard.

📍Right by La Placita’s nightlife hub in Santurce.

🔥 Tip: Reserve ahead for Friday night. Start with a watermelon mojito at the bar while you wait for your table. When that flan de queso dessert hits the table, you’ll have already been in heaven from your multiple courses.

Best LGBTQ+ Bar or Nightlife Spot

There’s “out all night,” and then there’s San Juan. These nightlife spots range from high-energy clubs to cheeky drag dens. Here are our users’ favorite non-negotiables for after-dark fun.

Toxic Nightclub – Santurce (613 Calle Condado)

Three floors. Neon lights. Reggaetón remixes for days. Toxic is the beating heart of San Juan’s gay club scene. It’s a multi-level queer playground where you can dance until 5am (and trust, people do). By 2am, it’s wall-to-wall bodies dancing to pop divas and dembow.

📍Santurce’s gay strip on Calle Condado – just follow the thump of bass and the trail of glitter. Line out front? You’re in the right place.

🔥 Tip: Arrive before 11pm for cheaper cover and a spot near the stage. The dress code is basically “less is more.” We’ll let you figure out what that means. Order a vodka limber (a boozy frozen treat) to cool off between dance floor make outs.

Kweens Klub – Santurce (1211 Ave. Fernández Juncos)

Dress to impress at this queer megaclub that’s relatively new on the scene but already legendary. Kweens Klub is where San Juan’s beautiful creatures gather for drag extravaganzas, theme parties, and an always-packed dance floor.

📍In the heart of Santurce’s club district, a short stumble from Toxic. Look for the neon crown logo and the line of folks in sequins and heels.

🔥 Tip: Check their Instagram for theme nights. Go all out with your outfit… sparkles, harness, six-inch heels, whatever. Find your way to the upstairs lounge if you need a breather; it’s perfect for chatting up that hottie you bumped into on the dance floor. Bring cash and make sure to tip the dancers—support the artists, babe!

Tía María’s Liquor Store – Santurce (326 Ave. De Diego)

Don’t let the name fool you. This ain’t your abuela’s liquor store. Tía María’s is an iconic dive bar and one of the oldest gay watering holes on the island. Unpolished, loud, and absolutely lovable, this is where you go to meet real locals. Cheap strong drinks? Sí. A mixed crowd of older gay guys, lesbians, drag queens, college kids, and maybe a stray tourist who got lost but is living for it? También.

📍Santurce, near Hospital Pavia. You might think you’re in the wrong spot, then you see a rainbow flag and a crowd smoking out front – that’s it.

🔥 Tip: Order a local Medalla beer (it’s like $2) or a rum and Coke (they pour heavy).

Must-Visit Cultural or Artistic Spot

Because even the wildest party animals need a break to feed their soul (and AC to recover from the heat). Take a breather and get cultured with these must-see spots:

Museo de Arte de Puerto Rico (MAPR) – Santurce (299 Ave. De Diego)

Yes, you’re in the Caribbean, and yes, you must do some art. MAPR is Puerto Rico’s premier art museum, complete with a gorgeous sculpture garden and koi pond – a perfect calm retreat when you’re sweating out last night’s cocktails. It’s quiet, it’s air-conditioned (hallelujah), and it’s surprisingly romantic walking through those galleries with your date or your new Grindr fling from last night. High culture, baby!

📍Santurce Arts District, a short ride from Condado.

🔥 Tip: Go in the afternoon when the sun is brutal outside to get that AC.

Museo de Arte Contemporáneo (MAC) – Santurce (Malecón St. at Pda. 18)

For a dash of edgy and experimental, MAC is the queer-friendly contemporary art hub you didn’t know you needed. Housed in a restored 1918 school building, this museum showcases modern art from Puerto Rico and Latin America. With provocative installations, video art, and exhibits, the vibe here is artsy and inclusive.

📍Santurce, by the stoplight at Parada 18. The building is an old Spanish-style beauty – you’ll know it when you see it.

🔥 Tip: Check their calendar for live events – they host film screenings, indie theater, even vogueing workshops sometimes.

Santurce Street Art (Calle Cerra and around)

Santurce’s murals are legendary – sprawling, colorful works by local and international artists that cover entire buildings. Wander down Calle Cerra and its side streets to find drag queens painted ten feet tall, abstract rainbow designs, and maybe even a mural advocating LGBTQ+ rights.

📍Start near Calle Cerra & Calle Juan P. Besosa in Santurce.

🔥 Tip: Go before sunset for the best lighting (and safety) to explore the murals.

Favorite Queer-Friendly Gym or Workout Spot

Get sweaty now, so you don’t have to turn the lights off later. San Juan locals are proud of their beach bods, so jump in at these queer-approved workout spots:

Ocean Park Beach Workout – Ocean Park

Your morning-after salvation is right here on the sand. You’ll see queer folks walking their dogs, doing yoga, or recovering from last night’s party with a quick swim. It’s chill, it’s free, and the scenery (waves and muscles) is first class.

📍Ocean Park Beach, by Calle Ocean Park and Calle Taft. Essentially the stretch of sand between Condado and Piñones.

🔥 Tip: Go around 7–8am for the coolest temps and prime hottie-spotting. Join a volleyball game if you’re feeling social – it’s a great way to meet cute locals (just ask “¿Puedo jugar?” with a smile).

“Muscle Factory” Gym – Condado (Ashford & Calle Vendig)

This is the cruisy gym of Condado legend. Officially a normal gym (actually a popular franchise gym these days), unofficially it’s where the pretty boys and gym rats of San Juan pump iron. Located right by the gay beach, this fitness center (dubbed “Muscle Factory” by locals) has all the equipment you need.

📍On Ashford Avenue at the corner of Calle Vendig, literally steps from the gay section of Condado Beach.

🔥 Tip: Afternoon (4-6pm) is peak “eye candy o’clock” here.

Parque Central de San Juan – Santurce/Miramar

Think of Parque Central as San Juan’s answer to Central Park—a sprawling urban park where you can run, bike, or even join a pickup basketball game with locals. This is the spot to burn off those extra cocktail calories in a legit athletic setting.

📍Between Santurce and Miramar, stretching along Ave. Fernández Juncos.

🔥 Tip: Sunset jog! The sky turns cotton-candy pink and the heat eases up. After your run, do a cool-down lap around the little lake and smile at the cute guy walking his labrador.

Hidden Gem or Lesser-Known Spot You Need to Check Out

Here’s where the real stories begin. Off-map, under-the-radar, and full of that special Puerto Rican magic.

El Local en Santurce – Santurce (1425 Ave. Fernández Juncos)

If dive bar, art space, and queer house party had a threesome, their love child would be El Local. This funky alternative bar is the heartbeat of Santurce’s underground LGBTQ+ scene. It’s unpretentious, a little gritty, and a lot welcoming.

📍On Ave. Fernández Juncos in Santurce, kind of between the clubs and the art district.

🔥 Tip: Martes de Karaoke (Tuesday karaoke) is a must if you’re in town – arrive early to snag a spot on the list and do a tequila shot for courage.

La Esquina de Polo – Santurce (1395 Calle San Rafael)

Tucked on an unassuming street in Santurce’s residential area lies La Esquina de Polo – a true dive bar legend and a cornerstone of San Juan’s local gayborhood. It’s easy to miss (just a little corner bar with neon beer signs) but inside it’s pure boricua queer flavor. Expect cheap beers, loud laughter, and a jukebox that flips from salsa to Madonna in a heartbeat.

📍In the “Santurce gay trifecta” near El Cojo and A Pedir de Boca lounge. Basically, it’s on a corner by Hospital Pavía Santurce. Look for a crowd of people chilling on the sidewalk.

🔥 Tip: This spot gets lively around midnight. Pop in after hitting the bigger bars; it’ll feel like an afterparty where you actually get to talk

Best Place for a Cruisy or Flirty Moment

You didn’t come to Puerto Rico to behave, did you? Whether it’s a casual eye-lock over coffee or some under-the-towel action in the steam room, these spots turn up the heat when you’re looking for a little extra fun:

Condado Beach “Cruising” Area – Condado (Calle Vendig & Ashford)

By day, it’s the popular gay beach where Speedos and sun-kissed skin rule. By late afternoon, the energy shifts from tanning to tantalizing. The small patch of Condado Beach at the end of Calle Vendig (right by that rainbow crosswalk) is locally known as a spot to see and be seen.

📍Atlantic Beach section of Condado, by the Atlantic Beach Hotel (now Tryst) and Calle Vendig.

🔥 Tip: Position your towel strategically near the crowd but not smack in the middle – accessible, yet with room to invite someone to join. Bring a portable speaker and play some Bad Bunny or Kylie. Instant conversation starter.

Xteamworks Gay Sauna – Santurce (1752 Ave. Fernández Juncos)

For the very open-minded traveler craving a more… hands-on experience, Xteamworks is San Juan’s sole gay bathhouse, and it’s ready to play. This multi-level men’s playground has all the essentials: lockers, private cabins, a steam room, dry sauna, dark maze, even slings (Google it, or better yet, experience it). Not for the shy, but if you want that memorable “only-in-Puerto-Rico” story (that you maybe only tell your closest friends), Xteamworks has you (un)covered.

📍Santurce, near the Hotel San Jorge. Follow Avenida Fernández Juncos past some auto shops until you find the discreet entrance marked by a small sign and perhaps a rainbow flag sticker. It’s a bit hidden – intentionally – so don’t be afraid to ring the bell and enter the rabbit hole.

🔥 Tip: Bring ID (they check, and you must be 18+). The busiest time is late night Friday and Saturday, post-club (2am and on). If you go then, expect a crowd and minimal conversation beyond “hola.”

La Sombrilla Rosa – Old San Juan (154 Calle San Sebastián)

Sometimes the sexiest moments are the simplest: a flirtatious glance across a bar, a clink of glasses, a knowing grin. La Sombrilla Rosa (“The Pink Umbrella”) is a quirky little gay lounge in Old San Juan that’s perfect for those breezy, flirty encounters.

📍In the heart of Old San Juan, along the famous Calle San Sebastián (the party street). It’s a small spot – look for pink decor and people literally spilling onto the sidewalk with their drinks.

🔥 Tip: Happy hour (usually early evening) is ideal for meeting folks before the OSJ nightlife frenzy kicks in. Order a passion fruit mojito and offer a cheers.

Final Thoughts

Puerto Rico is a slice of Caribbean queer paradise, a city where you can dance until dawn, sleep it off on the beach, soak in some culture, and do it all over again the next night. The locals are warm, the scenery is stunning, and the community knows how to have a good time. Pack your sunscreen, your sexiest swimsuit, and your open mind. Tip well. Smile often. And remember: lo que pasa en Puerto Rico… ends up as a story you’ll be telling for the rest of your life.

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Masturbation May is here—an entire month dedicated to petting the one-eyed snake. Now, some queer men celebrate masturbation year-round (keep up the good work, boys!). But others still have some hangups on masturbation. Sure, in 2025, most of us know that masturbation is normal, healthy, and won’t make you go blind. Still, many queer men have that lingering thought that “masturbation doesn’t count as sex,” and we feel this nebulous pressure that we should be doing more (i.e., anal). Or, we think masturbation is a last resort—something you settle for when you’re alone.

“Heteronormative definitions of sex, moral and religious teachings, cultural messaging, and queer erasure,” have all contributed to the stigma associated with solo and mutual masturbation, explained Dr. Lee Phillips, Ed.D., a psychotherapist and certified sex and couples therapist. “Acts like masturbation, oral sex, or mutual masturbation were devalued because they did not lead to procreation, reinforcing the idea that these acts were 'lesser,’” he said.

Then, of course, gays weren’t part of the broader cultural conversation around sex. Sure, we’ve made progress since I was in high school [redacted] years ago (where there was literally zero mention of anything “gay” in my sex ed class), but still, sex between two men isn’t a topic in mainstream conversation. Phillips sums it up when he says, “For many queer men, mutual masturbation has always been full expressions of sexuality, but dominant culture failed to validate that reality.”

But—and I cannot emphasize this enough—masturbation isn’t merely “better than nothing.” Many gay and bi men (and nonbinary cuties) genuinely prefer to mutually masturbate with a partner rather than have anal or oral sex. These men go under many names, “sides,” “bate bros,” and I’d even include “gooners” in this list—but they all have one thing in common: They’re prioritizing their pleasure and comfort over what they think they “should” be doing.

“It is insanely sexual and pleasurable to bate and edge either with other guys in person or on some sort of app/video,” Kyle, 38, said, when I asked him why he preferred mutual masturbation to oral or anal sex. “Listening to other guys moan or talk about stroking their cock is sometimes all I need to get rock hard.” Kyle added that when penetration or oral is involved, he overthinks things and goes soft. Being “Bate Bros” is just far less pressure.

Tyler, 31, went from being a bottom to a complete side. “Being a side is a freeing experience,” they said. For so long, they bottomed just to provide pleasures for others. “I wasn’t focusing on my own pleasure,” they said. When they’re mutually masturbating, they can. “To me, it’s enjoying the proximity, the bated breath, whispering to each other, sloppy make-out sessions, and pleasure without expectation. It’s an experience that I find isn’t about one person’s pleasure over the other,” Tyler says.

Cole, 36, echoed Tyler’s sentiment, noting that “the intimacy can be intense in a unique way because there is less of a power dynamic.” No Dom tops. No subby bottoms. Just two dudes, stroking while making aggressive eye contact. “It’s more egalitarian,” Cole said. “But I also enjoy the variety of sensations that can be made with penises and the hand or other parts of the body’s exterior.”

On top of the more psychological reasons to prefer mutually masturbating, there’s also the physical components. “Some men just don’t like giving oral because of the taste, or they don’t like [the feeling] of gagging,” said sex and relationship therapist Dr. Joe Kort, Ph.D., author of Side Guys: It’s Still Sex Even if You Don’t Have Intercourse. And I think anyone who’s ever bottomed knows it can be a pain in the ass (literally and metaphorically). Eating clean, douching, the pain that often accompanies anal—the gay community has normalized this, but when you take a moment to think about it: There’s a lot of effort that goes into bottoming!

Personally, I love bottoming, but I’m also lazy and don’t want to go through the rigmarole of preparing, so I often find myself swapping head or mutually masturbating because it can feel just as good without all the accompanying nonsense.

And thanks to Grindr, it’s never been easier to connect with other dudes who just want to jerk off together. For one, “side” is a position you can specify in your profile, and two, as Sterling, 32, said, “I love me some Grindr tags, baby! My most used tags are: bater, dirty, and gooner [insert tongue emoji here].”

So, this Masturbation May, feel free to jerk it yourself, or, if the mood strikes, find a bate bro and celebrate the season together!

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At some point, somewhere between the post-lockdown grooming glow-up and the slow, meme-heavy comeback of Top Gun, I looked around a gay bar and realized every person had the same thing on their face. I mean every face had a mustache.

By 2025, the mustache has become a kind of visual shorthand, a recognizable cue for a specific flavor of queerness that feels both referential and intentional. It signals style without shouting. It gestures toward masculinity and camp at the same time. It’s analog in a time when everything else feels airbrushed and filtered within an inch of its life.

And it’s everywhere.

But still—why the hell does everyone have a mustache?

Why Everyone Has a Mustache Right Now

Let’s start with the obvious: the mustache is a choice. No one wakes up with one by accident. You grow it, shape it, maintain it. You know it’ll be seen—not necessarily liked, but registered. In that sense, it’s less about beauty and more about readability. And sure, a beard or stubble requires maintenance too. But the mustache signals this kind of cunty punctuation mark—precise and a little smug.

It’s not about being sexy. It’s about being specific. In a moment when identity feels increasingly slippery—flattened by algorithms, smoothed out by AI—the mustache offers friction. It disrupts the feed just enough to suggest individuality.

Post-Pandemic Grooming and the Return of the Face

This didn’t appear out of nowhere. During lockdown, grooming became something #existential. We stopped performing for each other, and the rules fell apart. Some people let it all grow out. Others shaved everything off. For a while, we were just faces on screens, or behind masks.

But when the world reopened, we faced a new question: Who do I want to look like now?

The mustache became one answer. Less commitment than a beard, more presence than being clean-shaven. It offered just enough styling to feel deliberate, without tipping into costume. It was a low-stakes way to reclaim a face that had been blurred and backgrounded for years.

And then it spread. Not just virally, but optically. You saw three people you respected pull it off, and suddenly it wasn’t just viable—it was inevitable. And if those three people were also hot? Game over.

Mustache Mojo: Past Meets Present

Long before TikTok transition videos and post-pandemic glow-ups, queer culture was already busy turning the upper-lip into a statement piece: Tom of Finland’s hyper-macho illustrations in the ’50s and ’60s gave leather-bar clones a blueprint ; the late-’70s Castro clones mass-produced that look in tight Levi’s and unapologetic swagger; Freddie Mercury snuck the same thick Chevron onto arena stages in 1980, trolling mainstream fans while winking at the gays—“A lot of people are hating it — I don’t give a fuck, actually… it’s my mustache and I’m gonna keep it!” —and John Waters proved a penciled-on line of fuzz could be just as subversive as a full broom . Each era used the mustache to flip masculinity, eroticize authority, or camp it up—so today’s wave isn’t a revival so much as the latest remix of a long-running queer visual language, still flirting, still defiant, still loud even when it’s just sitting there

It Doesn’t Say Anything Specific—And That’s the Point

The mustache doesn’t articulate a single, stable meaning—and maybe that’s the point. It’s not like  nail polish or a clack fan. It’s quieter, more passive. It just sits there—literally on your face, yes, but also semiotically—allowing interpretation to fill the space it leaves open.

Other signals tend to declare something—“I’m masc,” “I’m femme,” “I listen to Ethel Cain.” But the mustache interrupts that clarity, especially in its link to the broader workwear trend: Carhartt jackets, heavy boots, a styled-down ruggedness that feels unusually present in the current queer visual field. What’s striking is how the mustache, as a fragment of that code, appears just as easily on femme-presenting people as on traditionally masc ones.

That movement between poles feels important. The mustache is neutral. It’s flexible. It complicates the read. It makes the viewer hesitate, recalibrate. And that ambiguity—structured, intentional, culturally legible—is exactly what gives it force.

Why It Works on Social Media

Part of why the mustache has stuck is also because of how it performs online. Visually, it adds contrast—structure, shape, a focal point. It gives the face angles. In a feed full of smoothed-over sameness, it cuts. It’s low-tech, high-impact.

You see the arc all the time on TikTok: full beard → clean shave → mustache reveal—usually timed to some remix of Sun Bleached Flies or a track called something like “angel.exe (spit in my mouth edit).” The comments follow a cringe but consistent pattern. Not about the facial hair. About what it represents: “this is main character behavior,” “u just unlocked ur villain arc,” “he looks like he journals in italics.” The subtext is fluency. Control. You know what you’re doing with your face.

Who Gets to Wear It, and What It Gets to Mean

Not all performances get the same applause. For some of us, the mustache is a trend, a curated throwback, a low-stakes signal. I say that as someone whose face fits enough of the defaults—white, cis—that I get to treat it like an accessory. A filter I grow. A little experiment.

But that’s not what it is for everyone. The same mustache, on someone else, doesn’t always read as style. On trans men, femmes, queer folks of color, it doesn’t always accessorize—it sometimes exposes. It gets filtered through bias the wearer didn’t choose. What reads as deliberate on me might register as unruly or “too much” on someone else. Some get to play with masculinity. Others are already punished by it.

So, I can grow it, post it, shave it off when I’m done. But not everyone gets to opt in and out so easily. Not everyone gets to be interpreted how they want on purpose.

Yes, All This for a Mustache

And that’s the complication, isn’t it? It’s never just about the mustache. It’s about how something so small can carry intent, ambiguity, and aesthetic weight. It shapes a face, cuts through a feed, gestures toward masculinity without locking you into it.

But not everyone wears that ambiguity on equal terms. Some try it on; others get read through it before they speak. Still, its ubiquity says something about queerness, legibility, and how even the smallest choices get interpreted.

So yes. All this for a mustache. Because the mustache is doing more than you think.