Being Trans on Grindr: Desire, Doubt, and Showing Up
For trans people like me, Grindr reflects not just the faces of potential connections but the stories I tell myself about my worth, my body, and what I deserve. Yet, Grindr also offers something rare: a platform that makes showing up feel possible, even when I’m not sure I’m ready. This is the story of one Grindr night—and everything it left behind.
I apologize after sex. “Sorry if I wasn’t what you were expecting,” “sorry if I got in my head,” and “it’s not you, it’s me” are all lines I’ve exhausted to no end. I can’t shake the feeling that my body is built differently than my hookup’s is, and he’s just putting up with it because he has to. He’s going to regret wasting his night on me, a trans girl, when he could’ve spent it with a cisgender person whose body is ‘normal.’
Grindr doesn’t promise easy, but it does promise options. Some nights, it’s a letdown. Other nights, it surprises you. A couple of weeks ago, my phone buzzed loud enough to make my friends look up in unison. “Another Grindr guy?” they asked, huddling around me.
“Well, open it. Is he cute?”
I do. They squeal. “An Australian guy? AND he’s hot? Girl, get on that.”
“Okay, okay. Let’s just make sure he’s not a chaser,” I say, feeling affirmed by their approval but doubtful that this guy could want anything more than to fulfill his trans-girl-hookup fantasy. Grindr has always been this mix of fear and possibility—a space that’s as unpredictable as it is necessary. It’s the only place where I feel both seen and unsure about what people see in me. It turns out that this guy actually wants to talk before sexting. Thank god. My doubt slips away as we spend hours sending long-winded messages about how proud we are to be queer.
Before I can blink, we’re on his grey sofa, and I feel the weight of needing to prove myself. If I kiss his arm enough, if I hold my breath so he doesn’t feel me exhale, maybe he’ll find my trans body pretty enough. Tonight, I have to make it about him.
Thirty minutes into our second date, he starts undressing me. Every article of clothing he removes reveals a secret I wanted to hide; my shirt softly falls to his hardwood floor and my wide ribcage is on full display. AMAB (assigned male at birth) people typically boast wider ribcages and broader shoulders than assigned-female people do. I brace myself for his reaction, as it’ll indicate how tonight will unfold. We’ve sexted on Grindr before, so I know he’s excited to be here with me, but my anxious thoughts become louder and my hands begin to shake. Here we go.
He unhooks my bra and says, “You’re so hot.” That’s his first lie of the night. There’s no way someone like him could be attracted to someone like me. Tomorrow he’ll be laughing with his friends about how small my breasts are, and I don’t blame him. I’m eyeing my phone from across the room like a lion stalks its prey from behind a bush — I want to text the bad-date codeword to my best friend so she can fabricate an excuse for me to leave. But I’m not actually having a bad time with him. There’s no legitimate reason to leave.
I follow his lead as he motions toward his bedroom. “Are you sure,” I think, surprised that he’d want to take our hookup further after seeing my body naked. Now he’s seen my narrow hips, too, and I’m bewildered by why he still finds me attractive. I become numb and just go with it, distracting myself by playing my favorite song in my head.
We complete our hookup on his bed, but he’s the only one who really finishes. I put my armor back on, get to my car and sigh in relief. Those 50 minutes felt like four hours.
I’m a trans person who’s diagnosed with gender dysphoria, which is defined as an uncomfortable misalignment between one’s identity and their assigned gender at birth. And tonight, I allowed a dysphoric episode to tarnish what was supposed to be a fun experience. Dysphoria feels like wrestling with an invisible bear — no one else can see its teeth growling at me, and the best way to fight it is by mentally checking out. Everything’s fine.
Dysphoria also causes me to place my cisgender sexual partner on a pedestal. I falsely associate his inability to see this seething bear with just being ‘too cool to care’ about the fact that it’s there. My partner is just happy to be hooking up with me, but I keep letting my physical insecurities and internalized transphobia get in my own way. I yearn for the ease of his experience.
Grindr doesn’t fix dysphoria, but it offers something else: a space where I decide how I want to be seen. Some days, it’s messy. Some days, it feels like progress. But it’s the only place that lets me practice showing up, even when it feels impossible.
Right now, I’m working on ways to fight my dysphoria bear without needing the armor of my clothes. I have to believe that my body is worthy of pleasure and that my sexual partner wants to give it to me. Grindr, which I’ve used for years now, is one of the best platforms for trans people to explore queer intimacy while steering clear of transphobia. And if Grindr has taught me anything, it’s this: showing up is hard, but staying hidden is harder.
