IT IS WEEKS of witty rapport and loaded winky faces through Grindr chat bubbles before I am finally ready to meet my chosen stud. The app’s fast-food approach to sex generally leaves a bad taste in my mouth, but the glory of my Grindr guy’s tan and ripped body has now left me with, shall we say, an appetite.

I arrive in the suburbs fully prepared for a night of passion. Typical of the Grindr gestalt, I have thrown on the tightest fitted gray t-shirt I could find (you know the kind), then dabbed on my last few drops of Calvin Klein cologne. Done and done.

When my “date” opens the door and I give him the up-down, his self-described manly-man traits—including a chiseled chest you could sharpen knives on that I’d ogled in JPEG form—is, as is often the case in these situations, a tad … different. In this instance, a five-foot, lispy queen with a muffin top and a white-furred, red-sweater-wearing Yorkie at his feet. I don’t doubt his Arnold Schwarzenegger chest once existed, but that coffin was clearly nailed shut long before I showed up.

Of approximately 61,000 men on Grindr in Philadelphia, this is what I get? My libido deflates like a punctured balloon.

Two peppermint vodka concoctions and a bevy of Philadelphia insults later (he’s a former New Yorker who punctuates his criticisms with a quick, and unconvincing, “Not really, just kidding!”), we make our way from the kitchen into his lifeless living room. His precious royal-family-meets-Little Mermaid furniture makes me hesitant to sit down. Will he scream at me if I dare ruin it with the imprint of my butt cheeks?

So he sits at his desk, and I stand awkwardly, towering above him. We are two gay men, mid-conversation, now trying to figure out how to spend our time alone together. READ MORE